Firstly, she tried to loosen the bolts on the shutters with the edge of her spoon, but they were too big and she was not strong enough to either lever or twist them. Eventually she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Sleep was the best thing she could have done, because Lyall came to her in the night.
* * *
He came in and lay down beside her as she was lying on a thick feather mattress that was blissfully soft and covered in a warm wool blanket. Her head was resting on two fat silk pillows. She was wearing a white linen nightgown trimmed with lace, and she smelled of lavender oil, fresh and clean as a new morning. Her hands, body, and hair were clean and her mouth felt fresh for the first time in days—she must have been bathed, she realized, but she did not remember it.
She had been asleep, but she opened her eyes to look straight into Lyall’s gray-green ones, which were smiling at her lovingly.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ve been missing you. Where have you been?”
“Away,” she smiled. “I tried to reach you, but I could not. But now I am back, and I will never go away again.”
“I hope not,” he whispered, and kissed her. It began as a soft and sweet kiss, but as their tongues touched and tangled it became something more passionate and exciting. He smelled of the warm indefinable scent of a man, and she was about to surrender to him—
* * *
Suddenly the room was flooded with light as the guards opened the door to bring in what passed for her meal. She no longer felt hungry, though, since her stomach had shrunk after two days with hardly any food.
Once again she asked for water to wash, and once again she was refused. She sat down in the straw and began to cry tears of utter hopelessness.
She thought it might be easier to kill herself than endure this misery any longer, but Jock had left her no means to do so. She thought of Lyall; he must be frantic with worry by now, and it was this thought that stiffened her resolve and gave her the will to attempt another escape.
She could see nothing, and was loth to light a candle, but she groped her way to the wall and felt rough, gritty texture of stone under her fingers. She searched until she found the junction between the earth floor and the rock, then she began to dig. It was a well-built structure and after hours of digging she knew that it would take days to make any real progress. She had not even reached the foundation yet. She took a morsel of bread and a sip of water, then began again. Jock McCauley was not going to beat her.
Jock had decided to give Ailith one more chance to change her mind.
She must be desperate now, he thought. She will surrender to me this time.
He called Findlay to him.
“Yes, M'Laird?” the poor creature asked eagerly. He was smiling, as usual, pathetically easy to please. His hair was growing too long and hanging over his eyes, and Jock felt a stab of irritation as he looked at him.
“I need you to get me a bathtub and take it to the place you took the mattress before,” he ordered. “Do you remember where it is?”
“Aye, M'Laird,” Findlay answered. “I dae.”
“Go,” Jock said dismissively. “And cut your hair!”
Ailith had succeeded in digging a hole about eighteen inches wide and six inches deep, but she could feel that she was still nowhere near the lower edge of the stones. The effort was draining her energy, and her food was not enough to compensate, so she was losing weight. It was her fourth day in captivity.
She estimated that it was around time for her food to be brought in, so she covered up her diggings with her cloak and waited.
She jumped when she saw Jock come in, smiling pleasantly.
“How are you, Ailith?” he asked, pointedly keeping his distance from her.
She stood up and crossed her arms over herself as if for protection. “As you see me,” she replied indifferently.
“Can I change your mind about marrying me?” he asked.
“No.” The word hit the air like the crack of a whip. “Nothing you can say will change my mind.”
“What about this?” Jock beckoned to one of his guards, who brought in a tray that was laden with food. It was all cold, but no less delicious for that. There was a carafe of wine, cold chicken, pork pie, hazelnuts, fresh bread and butter, an apple, and a wedge of cheese. It was too much for her, but the message had been sent. Marry me and you will eat.
Ailith’s mouth watered, but she said nothing.
“Come and look,” Jock said, beckoning her to the door. He stood well back as she got closer, holding a handkerchief over his nose.
Outside, Ailith saw a huge iron pot on a roaring fire. Steam was rising from it, and as she watched, two of the guards tipped its contents into a tin bath and added cold water. She felt like diving into it there and then to wash off the crust of grime that had adhered to her skin, but with a great effort she made herself stand rooted to the spot.
Her lip curled as she looked Jock up and down. “You really think you will buy me with a plate of food and a hot bath?” Her voice was dripping with scorn. “Think again, M'Laird. As I said before, I would rather starve!’’
Jock stared at her. She was filthy, her distinctive strawberry-blonde hair was lank and greasy, but somehow she still managed to look beautiful. He knew that for Ailith, dirt was almost as bad as hunger, and he was relying on both to bring her to her senses.
She turned her back on him and walked back into the cottage, then sat down on the mattress. She heard the door close, then picked up her spoon again. Her knuckles had been rubbed raw from the rough earth and were constantly bleeding, but she put it to the back of her mind and kept Lyall’s face in front of her. Every spoonful of soil meant that she was a little step closer to him, and she was fueled not only by her hatred of Jock, but by her love of Lyall.
She heard Jock’s horses ride away and decided to risk the light of a candle to see what progress she had made. She lowered the light into the hole she had dug, and just as she did so, a little clod of earth moved to admit a tiny chink of daylight. She sucked in a joyful breath, and buckled down to her task with renewed vigor.
.
11
The Meeting
Lyall had never imagined it was possible to suffer like this. Even when May was dying, he had been able to somehow get on with the everyday business of life, but now he was paralyzed with grief.
She cannot be dead, he thought over and over again, but he refused to believe that she had run away either, and there seemed to be no other explanation. If Jock was keeping her she could still be alive, but he was such a twisted character that he could have killed her just so that no other man could have her.
Lyall tossed down another glass of whisky then went up to the turrets, and was surprised to see Fenella there. She was standing still and crying quietly, with tears leaking slowly down her cheeks, but when she saw her brother, she ran into his arms.
“Where is she, Lyall?” she sobbed wildly. “Where is Ailie? I need to know!”
“I do too,” Lyall replied, kissing her hair. “I am sure she has not run away from us, darling. Please try to think on the bright side. Think how happy we will be when she comes back!” He was trying to sound encouraging but he knew that he would have to persuade himself first before being able to able to convince Fenella. “Come on. Have Jessie draw a bath for you and go to bed. You have not been sleeping or eating properly.”
Fenella nodded. “And I will pray, Lyall,” she said earnestly. “I will pray that God sees fit to give her back to us.”
“I will too,” he assured her. He sighed deeply, went outside, and began to pace up and down the courtyard. Sunset was just beginning, but the sky, which had been overcast all day, had cleared, leaving only a few wispy tendrils of clouds floating across a deep orange background that was shading gently through light green to teal blue. The first of the stars had come peeking out, and it was glorious, but Lyall hardly noticed it. He could only think of Ailith.
Presently, one of the guar
ds came to him bearing a piece of parchment, which he handed to Lyall. The seal was McCauley’s, and Lyall wondered why Jock should be sending him another message. This must be about Ailith!
He had never prayed so hard in his life as he did when he ripped the letter open, but as he began to read, his eyes widened in disbelief. The letter was about Ailith, but it was not from Jock.
Laird Stevenson
Pardon the lateness of the hour, but this is a very important matter that requires your immediate attention. Please do not ignore this, since it concerns Ailith Galloway, your sweetheart. I am an acquaintance of Laird McCauley and I can tell you where he is keeping her. You may not trust me, and I cannot blame you for that, but can you take the chance? Please meet me at the signpost that points towards Inverlieth, Kinlochan, and Inverness, and please maintain the utmost secrecy. I will be alone and unarmed.
A friend
“Who brought this?” he asked the guard. “Is he still here?”
“Naw, M'Laird, he ran as if the deil hisself was chasin’ him,” he replied. “A’ I can tell ye is that he wis a tall man, I couldnae see his face. It wis dark an’ he had a hood ower his heid.”
Lyall stood gazing at the letter for a full two minutes, weighing his options carefully. Why was the writer using the McCauley crest? Why the secrecy? How did Lyall know if he could trust him? It might be an ambush. On the other hand, what if he really did know where Ailith was? Was it worth putting his life in danger?
He looked up at the stairs to Fenella’s bedroom. If anything happened to him she would be crushed. On the other hand, now that he knew that his darling was alive, how could he leave her to whatever abominable fate Jock McCauley had in store for her?
The decision was made. He penned a letter for Fenella telling her to wait and not to worry if possible. He was glad she was bathing, since it gave him an opportunity to leave without fuss.
The place the writer had mentioned was about half a mile away from the castle, at a distinctive junction where three roads met and formed a Y shape. It was out in the open, which surprised him, but it was almost dark and Lyall could barely see the hooded figure who had just turned to look at him.
He stopped his horse a hundred yards away and ventured no closer.
The two figures looked at each other over the short distance, but neither wanted to be the first to make a move. Finally, Lyall, his heart banging furiously in his chest, took a step forward, and so did the other man. After five steps they halted.
“You know my name!” Lyall called. “What is yours?”
At that, the man began to walk towards him at a normal pace, but Lyall laid his hand on the hilt of the dagger he was carrying. He never trusted people who said they were unarmed, because most of the time they were lying, and he had no wish to take chances at this critical moment. The man stopped five paces away from him and stood still, then he pushed back his hood. There was only a sliver of a moon, and Lyall could not make out the stranger’s features, but he recognized his distinctive voice, since he had heard it many times before.
“I am Findlay MacBlain,” he replied, and there was a smile in his voice.
“Not Daft Finn?” Lyall asked incredulously.
“The very same,” McBlain laughed.
“But I thought you were—” Lyle began.
“Backward? Simple?” McBlain asked. Lyall could not see his face, but he sounded amused. “Good. I am glad to hear it, because that is what I want everyone to think, especially the Laird.”
“Never mind all that now!” Lyall said impatiently. “You told me you knew where Ailith was. I need to know.”
“Wait a minute.” Findlay took Lyall’s arm and began to lead him to a nearby stand of trees. “I have a fire laid, and there are many things I have to tell you.”
They sat down under fir trees where Findlay had laid a fire of the trees’ fallen boughs. “There is nothing we can do until morning, M'Laird,” he said calmly. “I will tell you where she is, but we can do nothing tonight.”
He set fire to the wood with his tinderbox, and as the wood caught fire he could see the other man’s face more clearly. It was a handsome, rugged face, and looked extremely attractive without the vacant expression or constant silly smile on it. He had swept his hair back to keep its long fringe out of his eyes, and he was not dressed in his usual secondhand rags, but in normal working man’s clothing of a linen shirt and hose, with a homespun woolen cloak on top. He produced a little flask and two small goblets and poured them a tot of whisky each.
“Sláinte mhath,” he said, and tossed the whisky back.
Lyall looked at him with a threatening scowl. His desperation was giving way to anger. “Are you going to tell me where she is?” he asked. “Or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”
“You can try!” Findlay laughed, then his face grew serious. “She is in the cottage by Braefoot Burn, guarded by four heavily armed men in the employ of Laird McCauley.”
“Is she being taken care of? Is she well?” he asked in desperation. “Please tell me!”
“I can only tell you where she is,” he replied sadly. “I have no information on her welfare.”
“How did you find out where she was?” Lyall asked curiously.
Findlay sighed. “One day last week he asked me to take a bucket, a mattress, and a blanket to the cottage,” he replied. “He often uses me for mindless errands like that so I thought nothing of it. I put the items in the cottage and left, then I forgot about it. It was only when you came asking for Mistress Ailith that it occurred to me that it might be she who was in there, so I sneaked out of the castle around midday to see what they were up to, and I saw them pass some food to her through the door. She looked a little dirty, but seemed fine otherwise.”
“Dirty?” Lyall groaned, and ran his fingers backwards through his hair in agitation. “She hates being dirty. She must be suffering so much. I have to get her out of there. What are they feeding her?”
Findlay did not have the heart to tell Lyall about the pitiful amount of food he had seen, so he simply shrugged. “I could not see properly, Lyall. I am sorry.”
“Well, if he wants to marry her I suppose he is keeping her well fed.” Lyall sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “Do you think she is safe from the guards?”
Findlay frowned. “In what way?” he asked, then, realizing Lyall’s meaning, he smiled. “Men like Jock want virgin brides,” he pointed out. “If any of those guards lay a finger on her, it will be the last thing he ever does, my friend. Have no fear on that score.”
Lyall nodded. “That makes sense,” he agreed. He looked at the other man’s grim, handsome face and saw there the same anger that he suspected was on his own countenance. Findlay was certainly bearing a grudge of some weight against Jock, but Lyall was not sure that he wanted to pry into a subject that might be hurtful to him.
However, Findlay wanted to talk. He looked at Lyall keenly and said, “I expect you are wondering why I hate him so much?”
“I was, but I did not wish to intrude upon your private affairs,” he replied.
Findlay nodded, and sat for a while in silence, which Lyall did not interrupt. He seemed to be collecting himself before saying something that was painful to him. At last he spoke. “Do you know what it is like to lose what you hold dear?” he asked bitterly.
“No, thankfully I do not,” Lyall replied. “I lost my mother, but I still have my sister and Ailith—at least I hope so.” His voice broke for a moment before he recovered and spoke again. “I have my castle and my wealth, but I would sacrifice every possession I had if it meant saving Ailith. What has Jock done to you?”
Findlay slapped one fist into the palm of the other in a gesture of utter rage. “He took away the brother I loved, and my mother died of a broken heart, and…” Findlay paused for a second and wondered far away.
“And he ripped my family apart.” He said clenching his teeth.
“I have sworn that I will make him pay, but be
fore I do, I want to utterly ruin him.” He poured another measure of whisky into the little goblets, but this time he did not make a toast.
The pain he saw in his eyes was familiar. “If you would rather not speak about this, I understand,” Lyall said softly.
Findlay shook his head. “No,” he replied grimly, “it is time I talked to someone who might understand how I feel, and I have a notion that you are that person.”
“Then tell me,” Lyall encouraged grimly, “because I am the one man who may be able to help you get revenge.”
12
Six Years Earlier
“Findlay!” Ranald cried, striding towards his younger brother. “For God’s sake leave that horse alone or I will use this on you!” He was carrying a horsewhip and he brandished it threateningly as he spoke. Findlay kissed the beautiful velvet nose and stepped back, although he knew that Ranald would never have carried out his threat. The two brothers were devoted to each other, although in way of boys that age, neither would ever have admitted it.
Their kinship was unmistakable. They could have been twins apart from the fact that Ranald was four inches taller and had left behind his treble voice. Findlay at sixteen was a late developer and was still going through the awkward, voice-breaking stage of his adolescence. It embarrassed him beyond measure when his deep manly voice suddenly broke into a humiliating squeak.
They both had black shiny hair and dark blue eyes, and any observer could see that Findlay was going to have the same sturdy physique as his brother. Findlay hero-worshiped Ranald, especially when pretty girls paid him attention and let him kiss their hands. Ranald used to practice kissing his own hand just to see what it felt like, but somehow he knew it was not quite the same. Kissing the thicker skin of a not-quite man’s skin was not the same as the soft skin of a girl. Neither did it provoke a dazzling dimpled smile from the recipient.
Highlander’s Devious Ally (Scottish Medieval Historical Romance) Page 7