by Elise Ramsay
“Well, well, well, what’s this we have here? Name yourself, drunk.” Tormod loomed over him from atop his great horse.
“I am not drunk!” proclaimed the man, somewhat unsteadily. “I,” he went on mock-proudly, “am Rory Kincaid!”
Tormod gazed on in some amazement. He had not heard much of Rory Kincaid over the years. Way back, he had been the ever present bosom pal of his cousin, Lachlan. They had attended the tournaments at Mackinnon Castle, both showing off what they thought were superior skills. Even then, Tormod had found that the very sight of the two men had irked him.
“Well, looks like that your dear Chief no longer looks after you as well as he once did!” Tormod kept his tone as neutral as he could, not yet knowing how to best use this encounter to his advantage.
“Look after me? I have never needed Lachlan Kincaid to look after me, not once yet in my entire life!” The drunken Rory appeared ridiculous to him, sitting there, drunk upon his very dignity.
“Ack, good man. In fact, I think I remember seeing you fight at the tournaments, twenty-odd years back. You did well, I think. Better even that old Lachlan himself.” Rory looked up at him with faded, watering eyes. Tormod could glean no hint of recognition in the face of this waste of a man. They had met many times over before the feud had begun. Rory had changed almost beyond all recognition, but had Tormod also? Perhaps it was the extreme drunkenness which had rendered him unrecognizable to Rory? As the sun began to set, a plan formed in Tormod’s twisted mind. It could work and would be magnificent, but it would rely heavily upon his remaining indistinct.
An involuntary twitch from the girl brought him out of his reverie. Seeing his attention fall fully upon her once more, he saw the renewed spark of fear in those flashing green eyes. He knew he would have to leave her now. To stay any longer whilst she enticed him so would be to risk his plan. Shoving her roughly away from him, Tormod turned quickly and stalked out of the room.
Nairn had scampered silently along the corridors, listening and searching and then listening some more. Where had that awful laugh come from? She changed direction more than once and, finally becoming frustrated with herself, Nairn thought about giving up. It was late, and she had lost hope of finding the right room.
Suddenly, a loud scream rang out. Just one; sharp and pain-filled. Dear God, what was he doing?
Nairn realized that her wanderings had brought her closer than she had thought to the site of whatever cruel deed her husband was performing. Rounding the dark corridor into what she knew was a seldom used part of the castle, her heart rate quickened, despite her new found bravery. Still, she plowed on, knowing all the while how proud Lachlan would have been of her, had he been her husband.
There it was, finally. The door was just so slightly ajar that she could peep through and into the room if she wanted. Without any further thought or a plan of any kind, Nairn crept up to the door. As she neared it, she could hear her husband’s deep, rough voice, telling someone to scream again. Nairn shuddered, knowing exactly what the victim in that room would be feeling. Edging ever closer, she looked in. She could see the broad, fat back of Tormod, and could see that he was leaning in towards a young lassie. Oh, and she was young, perhaps just seventeen or eighteen years, even younger than she herself had been when Tormod had first taken her. The lassie was pale and beautiful, despite looking utterly terrified. Tormod held her hair in his hand, and the lass had inclined her head towards him somewhat, to take the pressure off her scalp.
Nairn had just hated having her hair pulled. It always seemed to her such a cruel thing for a man to do; admire a woman’s crowning glory one moment, then drag her along by those same beautiful tresses the next. Lachlan, she knew, would never have done a thing like that.
So, what was Nairn to do? She knew she could not leave this poor child to suffer the fate she herself had suffered. Yet, how in the world would she be able to get Tormod away from her? He was far too big and strong, and she knew that she had never once been able to stop him hurting her when he had a mind to do so. Just as she was considering her less than appealing options, Tormod let go of the lass and pushed her away from him. With horror, she realized he was turning to leave, and she had nowhere to hide.
Chapter 9
Nairn’s only chance was to silently flee deeper into the unused part of the castle and hope and pray that Tormod would turn back the way she had come. She knew that the noise of him closing and locking the door of the room would shield her steps for only a few seconds, then she would have to stop still and wait. If he turned one way, he would never discover her; if he turned the other, she could not hide.
Nairn held her breath and willed her heart to still. It was beating so loud she was sure he would hear it as the key turned in the lock. Seconds passed, and she wished to exhale but could not risk him hearing. Gritting her teeth, she felt as if her lungs would burst but waited. At last, she heard the sound of his heavy tread fading, and with a long, slow exhale, she realized that the footsteps were falling away from her. Still, she kept quiet, taking long slow breaths for several minutes before she turned and headed back to the door. On reaching it, she knelt and peered through the large keyhole. Inside she could see that the auburn hair lass had sunk to her knees and was shaking violently.
A howl of anguish shattered the silence and sent spikes of alarm through Nairn’s body. She started against the door, her heart still hammering as she looked in on the wee lassie. Seeing her so alone and terrified was like looking in a mirror, and it was more than Nairn could take. Gently she pushed at the door, against all common sense, hoping that the rough, thick wood would somehow yield to her weak persuasion.
In spite of her lack of physical strength, the wood gave a cracking sound, as if it were protesting at being so roughly handled, and Nairn felt fear bubble inside her. If she were not careful, she herself would crack, and she knew she had to keep it together. The lass suddenly stopped crying, and Nairn looked again through the keyhole. The lass was looking about her, then she rose and began to walk towards the door. Nairn shrank back a little, almost as if she could be seen. The lass stopped just inches from the door.
“Who is there?” she asked in a throaty whisper.
Nairn froze. She wondered what she should do. If she declared herself, perhaps the lass would accidentally give her away and be the ruining of them both. However, she had watched the lass, slumped and weeping, and had recognized her young self. How different might life have been for her had someone stopped and helped? Had someone stopped and at least spoken to her, had acknowledged her pain.
“My name is Nairn. I am going to save you,” she whispered back, immediately sorry that she had given the lass her name. She had left herself wide open to danger, well, more danger.
“Oh thank you, thank you, Nairn, so much.” The lassie’s voice betrayed her, and Nairn could hear the sob in it. The lass was so grateful because Nairn had said she would save her. Save her, with no idea how she would achieve it. How cruel of her to raise the lassie’s hopes; better she had said nothing at all. Nairn made no reply. The lass was moving again, and Nairn knew that she was also kneeling, pressing her eye to the other side of the keyhole. In the dying flicker of flames from the fireplace in the small room, the lassie’s eye could be seen. Nairn wondered briefly at how green it looked. The eye searched for, and then found, her own.
“Can you let me out of here?” she whispered, fast and low.
“No, not yet. I don’t have the key.”
“But, you can get it?” There was hope in the voice that made Nairn’s heartbreak.
“I will try my very best. What is your name Lassie?” Nairn hoped to deflect her from asking yet more questions she had no answer for.
“I am Isobel Gillies.”
“And, how do you come to be here, Isobel?” Nairn did not recognize the name. Where can she have come from?
“I was taken. I was out for a walk and some awful thug beat me about the head and dragged me here on a horse.”
“Tormod?” Nairn said, almost absently, as she tried to picture the fat lump throwing a full-grown Lassie over the pommel.
“No, I don’t think so, the man was younger, I think, and he smelled different.” So, Isobel knew exactly who Tormod was. She must be connected to them somehow.
“Where have you come from, Isobel? Are you far from home?”
“Not really. I am from the Clan Kincaid and live on a farm on the Kincaid lands. So, I suppose you think me your enemy, the same as Tormod clearly does.” The hope she had heard before in Isobel’s voice was ebbing away.
“No, no. We are not enemies. We are more alike than you know. I have suffered my whole life at the hands of that man.” Nairn’s voice broke. It was the first time in twenty-five years that she had been able to speak of her pain. Never before had she spoken it aloud, and the tears began to course down her face. That beast, Tormod, had not touched this girl yet, and nor would he. It was then that Nairn made a decision, and it surprised her. She would keep this girl safe even if she had to give her own life to make it so. Isobel Gillies represented to her the only release of grief she had ever found.
“I will find a way to get you out of here.” She coughed a little through her tears.
“Are you alright, Nairn? Are you... Tormod’s wife?”
“Yes, I am that. I wish to God Almighty it wasn’t true, but it is. But please do not fear me, I shall never betray you. I will do what I can, to get you home to the safety of Kincaid.”
“Perhaps you can find Gunn? Maybe tell him where I am?” Isobel asked her voice filled with hope.
Nairn had no idea who Gunn was. Her mind had begun to drift once more, and she envisaged the twenty-year-old Lachlan striding through the halls and corridors at Sinclair, fighting with his bare hands and seeing off all comers, just as he had at the tournament. She smiled at his image; he would come for her after all.
“Nairn?”
Lachlan would come for her, and she would be free of Tormod forever.
“Nairn? Are you still there?”
Nairn snapped back into reality. “Yes, child, I’m here. Listen, I will do what I can to find the key and come back here. Hopefully, by the time I have done that, Lachlan will be here.”
“Lachlan?” Isobel sounded a little confused.
“Just beware not to let on you’ve spoken with me. We must be secret now, Isobel. You have patience, lassie, and we will both get out of here. Be brave. You are not alone anymore, you just remember that.”
“Alright. Thank you, Nairn. But hurry, please. Don’t forget to tell Gunn.”
A little bemused, Nairn tiptoed away from the door, and back the route she had come. She had to get that key. Once she had it, Lachlan would surely come.
Chapter 10
Gunn and Duncan arrived within sight of Sinclair Castle long after midnight. The ride had taken longer than he had anticipated, and his frustration and agitation were threatening to burst right through the walls of his chest.
Duncan, who was proving to be something of a natural, had extinguished his own torch before Gunn had sought to mention it. Both men stood side by side at their vantage point, looking out over the castle. The wall torches burned brightly enough for them to be able to make out a very strong defense of night watchmen, scattered liberally around the castle.
So, Tormod feared night attacks, did he? Gunn wondered how many other Clans had suffered in some way at Sinclair’s hands. A man who defended himself thus had a great many reasons to fear for his life.
Regardless, there was no way Gunn and Duncan would get anywhere near the walls unseen, never mind getting into the castle itself. He needed to calm himself, to think, but at that moment, all he could do was imagine his beautiful Isobel, afraid and alone, a prisoner, deep within the walls of this evil castle. Once more, he castigated himself for failing to recognize the purity of her intent. She had loved and wanted him, as he had loved and wanted her. Why had he not seen it, and why had he not made her his? Perhaps then, he could have kept her safe; dissuaded her from her over-long ramblings through the countryside alone. He smiled to himself, imagining how a spirited woman like Isobel might react to restrictions. He knew full well how she would react, and it was that strength of will of hers, always just bubbling below the surface, that had made him love her as he did. She was like a colt, ready to bolt away from you, or even kick out if she didn’t like what she heard. So many men would steer clear of such a spirit. All he could do was love her and wish he could break down the walls of her prison and free her. He was clenching his fists, aware that Duncan was eyeing him.
“Gunn, we cannot get past them. We cannot get in there.” Gunn could hear the mixture of resignation and panic fighting for control of Duncan.
“We wait and we watch.” Gunn sounded so much calmer than he really was. He did, however, know his words to be right. They needed to get a very fast handle on the routine of the guards. If they changed over in the night, he needed to be ready to strike; but with what?
Gunn was now deeply wishing he had paused long enough to realize that he should have spent an extra hour rounding up his men. He might well need them now, and it seemed that he did have time, after all. His only hope now was that Sinclair dropped his guard at daybreak and was only a-feared of attacks at night. He stood sharply and turned to face Duncan.
“I need you to go back...” He held up his hand as Duncan, predictably, tried to protest.
“I need you to go back, first to round up as many of the trackers as possible, but then make your way back to the castle. You must immediately seek an audience with the Chief and tell him everything. Follow any and all orders he gives you, Duncan. Swear it to me, now.” Seeing the younger man wavering, Gunn knew he would have to be firm. He could not imagine how Duncan must feel to know his sister was but yards away from him, a prisoner somewhere in that castle, but to be ordered to leave. He knew that he himself would not have been ordered, by anyone on earth, to clear away and leave Isobel alone in there.
“Duncan, please. I am relying on your actions now, as surely as Isobel is.” He had hit his mark. Duncan nodded at him and silently mounted his horse. Turning it quickly, he rode off without a word, into the night.
Gunn watched him disappear; it was all down to him now. He would save his lass, or die trying.
Rory belched loudly, waking himself up. How long had he been asleep? It was hard to remember when you didn’t rightly know what day it was. Something was wrong, he could hear all sorts of commotion occurring down in the keep somewhere and wondered vaguely what could be going on. Scratching himself and belching once more, he realized that he was sobering up. He must have been dead out for some good, long while for that to be happening. As he tried to move, his head spun, and he felt queasy and extremely jaded. He really needed another drink to take the edge off it. With effort, he clawed his way to his feet, grabbing at the very stones in the wall of his chamber to assist him. Pain sliced through his skull as his head throbbed in protest at the quick movement. The pain was bad and unexpected, he could not remember the last time he had been sober enough to feel it. Scouting about the room, Rory could find nothing but empty bottles and an empty, upturned goblet. He had nothing. Feeling, even more unsteady, he looked down to see his hands trembling. With an effort of will, he tried to stop the movement. The fact that he couldn't made Rory feel a little afraid.
What on earth had he become?
One moment, he’d been a twenty-three-year-old man, keen and lively; perhaps a little too lively with the lassies. Nonetheless, he had been somewhat admired, loved like a brother by his cousin, and had skills and a physique to be proud of. Looking at his shaking hands, he now knew that what he lacked was each and every one of the qualities and privileges he had previously held. His cousin no longer loved him as he once had. This he knew for certain, for the love had dissolved into shame and a kind of loyalty-driven pity. Was it really his cousin he hated so? Or was it himself?
God Almighty, sobering up is not a good th
ing!
Rory flopped back down onto the bed, his bloated body making it groan like a living thing. He felt too ill to rise and find some more drink, so he would just have to lay there until the sickness passed. He would also have to put up with his own, sober thoughts. Rory laughed mirthlessly to himself, thinking that he much preferred the drunken addled thoughts. They were far easier to accept. The drunken thoughts blamed only others for his perceived misfortunes, never himself. His drunken thoughts were so much kinder to him, and perhaps that was why he so preferred that state of being.
He rolled over and again the bed groaned.
“Ach, shut yer face!” he told it.
Something began to gnaw away at him. A conversation with somebody, but who? The shouts and bustling from down the stairs were becoming louder and more excited, and he wondered what the hell was happening. However, whatever it was, there was naught he could do about it, he felt too ill, too unsteady. He needed looking after. Looking after?
“Well, I should say that your dear Chief no longer looks after you as well as he once did!”
Someone had said that to him, but who? He knew he’d got himself annoyed about it, he’d objected to being told his cousin had looked after him when he had looked after himself very well. Well, he had, hadn’t he? He had not, and well he knew it. Damned sober brain!
The man’s face was occurring to him now, and it looked familiar. He was a big, fat, stinking sort of a man and ugly, too. Looking down at his own bloated figure, he imagined he, too, smelled pretty ripe, although he himself could not smell it. What else had they talked about? Rory knew that the root of this vague unease he felt, as he was sobering, could be found in the rest of that conversation.
Rory knew, somehow, that he had let his Clan down. Not just his Clan, his own kin. What had he done or said in that brief interview? He was resting against a tree and very deep in his cups, which was why he was having so much trouble making sense of the flashes of conversation that were coming back to him now.