by Jayne Castel
Aye, and when I get out of here ye will be howling for yers.
The torchlight receded, the iron grate slammed shut, and Lachlann listened to the heavy thump of receding footsteps.
Inhaling deeply, he leaned forward and scooped up the bladder, bread, and cheese. As he did so, he accidently brushed against something furry. He yanked his hand back with a shudder. The rat.
Lachlann retreated to a corner of the cell and lowered himself down on the floor, his back resting against the cold, damp stone. Summer had ended, the long warm days giving way to the cooler months, but it felt as chill as January down here. Once winter did come, he wouldn't last long.
I’ll get free before then.
He’d been promising himself he’d escape from the moment they’d thrown him down here. He repeated the words to himself in a mantra whenever despair welled up within him—as it did now.
He couldn’t let himself believe this would be his end.
He was Morgan Fraser’s eldest, the heir to a vast tract of lands. Not only that, but he had three ruthless younger brothers who’d be happy to see him gone. He couldn’t bear the thought of Lucas inheriting what was rightfully his if he didn’t return.
None of them would come for him—none would try to rescue him from the Dunvegan dungeon.
If he was to get free, it would be by his own hand.
Lachlann unstoppered the bladder and took a long, measured gulp. The water was flat, stale, and slightly warm, but it tasted like nectar to his parched throat.
His thoughts shifted then to the reason he was here: the battle that had taken place in the Vale of Hamra Rinner, on the border of their lands. The Frasers and MacLeods had clashed violently. He’d seen Malcolm MacLeod, as fat and gouty as he was, stab his father. MacLeod had managed to get a blade under Morgan Fraser’s mail shirt.
A blow to the back of Lachlann’s skull had felled him an instant after he’d witnessed MacLeod strike his father down. Now he couldn’t be certain if his father was alive or not.
Lachlann took another tentative gulp of water. He had to be careful not to drink it all in one go. God only knew when they’d give him another.
The Fraser defeat at the Vale of Hamra Rinner was a bitter one. If his father had indeed survived, he’d be furious. MacLeod bested him at everything it seemed. He’d stolen Morgan Fraser’s wife and had now won back his lands.
But Lachlann knew his father well—he’d never let it go. If the Frasers were known for one thing it was their stubbornness. MacLeod had earned himself an enemy for life, and Morgan Fraser would never let the past lie.
Lachlann lowered the bladder and stoppered it carefully. He then took a bite of cheese. It had a rancid, soapy taste, but it was food. He chewed slowly, forcing himself to think on other things.
The sun setting on the slopes of Preshal More, the mountain just south of Talasgair, and turning it gold. The sound of the wind through the grass on the slopes before his father’s stronghold. The salty tang of the sea that filled his lungs as he walked along the wide strand before the Bay of Talasgair.
Home.
I’ll see it again, he promised himself as his jaw set in determination. I won’t let this place defeat me.
“We can’t let Adaira wed that man.” Rhona MacKinnon looped her arm through her husband’s and cast him a fierce look. “He’ll kill her.”
Taran met her gaze for a moment, his face troubled. They walked down the curving causeway from the castle, heading toward the gardens that lay south of the keep. It was their evening ritual these days, this stroll. However, Rhona couldn’t relax this evening, not when Adaira’s future was so precarious.
“I like this as little as ye,” Taran said after a pause. “But ye know what happens to those who defy yer father.”
Rhona drew in a sharp breath at Taran’s reminder.
She knew all too well. Rhona had defied her father at every turn for years, and in the end he’d forced her to wed. Things could have turned out badly indeed for her, but fortune had twisted in her favor.
“This is my doing,” she said bitterly. “Da wasn’t so inflexible in the past. I’ve made him this way … he won’t have any daughter stand up to him now.”
Taran didn’t reply, for they both knew it was the truth.
Aonghus Budge had been meant for Rhona, but she’d spurned him. After the support the chieftain had given the MacLeods of late, her father was determined to strengthen his relationship with the Budges of Islay. He’d not let Adaira stand in his way.
The couple walked in silence then, taking the path that cut south, and entering the gardens. Unlike the heavy confines of the keep, and the thick curtain walls that sometimes felt as if they hemmed Rhona in, the gardens were a place of refuge: a quiet space where she could breathe, where the scent of flowers soothed her.
The scent of the last of the summer roses enveloped Rhona and Taran. They walked amongst the riotous growth of rosemary, sage, and thyme, their boots crunching on the fine pebbles underfoot.
A damp sea breeze wafted across the garden, bringing with it a sharp, briny tang. The air was changing; the softness of summer was gone. But for now there was warmth enough in the sun for them to venture outdoors without a heavy mantle. Rhona inhaled the sharp crispness of autumn. In just over two months’ time, the solstice of Samhuinn would be upon them, and then they would begin the long winter.
Stopping next to a canopy of honey-suckle, Rhona turned to face her husband.
Taran met her eye and grimaced. “Something tells me I’m not going to like what ye are about to say.”
Rhona arched an eyebrow. “Ye are right about one thing, Taran,” she began, her voice low and determined. “If I confront Da about this, it’ll only enrage him. We can’t change his mind so we must go around him.” Taran’s brow furrowed, but Rhona continued doggedly. An idea had been growing in her mind all day; she’d not be thwarted. “We must help her escape Dunvegan.”
Adaira hurried into the gardens, one hand clamped over her mouth in an attempt to hold back the sobs that racked her.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her vision blurred, yet she knew the path to the gardens so well she could have traveled it blind-folded.
And she knew Rhona and Taran would be there.
She had to see them. They were the only souls in the keep who’d know how she felt.
Adaira entered the heart of the garden through an arch of trailing roses and spied her sister and brother-in-law up ahead. They were standing next to a canopy of honey-suckle—and they appeared to be arguing.
Rhona was talking quickly, waving her hands around for emphasis, while Taran stood before her, arms folded across his broad chest. His expression was thunderous as he barked out sharp replies.
Adaira slowed her pace. Despite her upset, and the panic she could barely contain, she was suddenly wary of intruding.
She was sorry to interrupt them, but she had no one else to turn to.
The crunch of her booted feet on gravel alerted Rhona and Taran to her arrival. They glanced up and stepped away from each other, their expressions almost guilty. Rhona turned her storm-grey eyes—so similar to their father’s—toward Adaira. The cross look on her face softened when she saw who interrupted them.
“Adi,” she greeted her. “What is it?”
Adaira stopped before them, and her defenses crumbled. She wanted to be brave, but everything had gotten too much. She covered her face with her hands and started to sob.
“I’ve … just come from … Da’s solar,” she managed in panicked gasps. “The wedding will be … in three days’ time.” Adaira drew in a ragged breath and scrubbed at her tears. The upset look on her sister’s face, and the concerned expression on Taran’s, made it difficult to keep calm. They both understood how grave this was.
“Aonghus Budge will remain here until the handfasting,” Adaira continued hoarsely, “and directly after the ceremony he and I will leave for Islay.”
Rhona drew in a sharp breath. She then
cast an imploring look at her husband. “We must help her.”
Taran stared back at his wife, his face taut. Long moments passed, before he muttered an oath and raked a hand through his short blond hair. Then he turned his attention to Adaira. “Yer sister has a plan,” he said roughly. “I think it’s madness, but she won’t be swayed.”
Adaira went still, her gaze shifting back to Rhona. “Ye do?” she asked hoarsely.
Rhona favored her with a determined look. “Aye. Taran doesn’t like it, but I think it’s the only way.”
Adaira swallowed, straightening her spine. Hope kindled in her breast for the first time since her father had announced her betrothal. “My choices are few right now,” she replied. “I’d like to hear it.”
Rhona cut a glance to her husband. Taran’s face was set in stern lines, his ice-blue eyes hard. Seeing she’d get no support from him on this, Rhona turned her attention fully upon her sister. “We’re going to get ye out through that passage in the dungeon.”
Adaira’s breathing hitched. She watched Taran’s expression grow grimmer still. Until today, he likely wouldn’t have known of the keep’s secret way out. Rhona and Adaira had spoken of the passage recently, for Adaira had suggested her sister use the escape route in the summer, just days before the games when Rhona would be forced to take a husband.
“But won’t Da’s men catch me?” Adaira asked, her pulse racing. The fragile hope shattered, and fear replaced it. She didn’t fancy being hunted.
“Not if someone went with ye,” Rhona replied. “A warrior … someone who knows how to fight, how to survive out in the wild.”
Adaira’s gaze flicked to Taran. Surely not?
“Taran can't go with ye,” Rhona said sharply. She’d seen the direction of her sister’s gaze. “Da would have him flayed alive for the betrayal.”
“Who then?” Adaira whispered, meeting Rhona’s eye once more.
Rhona drew in a deep breath, folding her arms across her breasts. “Ye know Da has a new prisoner locked in the dungeon?”
Adaira frowned. “Aye … Lachlann Fraser.” All of Dunvegan knew of the capture of Morgan Fraser’s first-born son.
“I plan to free him—his freedom for yers.”
This announcement rendered Adaira speechless.
Taran was scowling. He looked at his wife like she’d just lost her wits.
Rhona was the first to break the silence. “I know it’s a bold plan, but I’ve thought it through.”
Adaira found her tongue. “And ye believe Lachlann Fraser would help me?”
“Aye, his choices are even fewer than yers. Da will never let him out of that cell. He’ll be desperate.”
“Ye should never make an alliance with a desperate man,” Taran growled. “Ye will never be able to trust him.”
Rhona cast her husband a quelling look. “We will make him swear an oath.”
“And do ye think it’s wise to let our enemies learn of a secret entrance into the keep?”
Rhona tensed, a shadow passing over her face. “We’ll make him promise never to reveal it.”
Taran snorted. “Ye would take him at his word?”
“We have no choice.” Rhona put her hands on her hips and glowered at her husband. “Without our help he’ll never see daylight again. We have to hope that the man has some honor.” She turned her attention to Adaira then. “He must escort ye out of Dunvegan and take ye to our kin in Argyle—only then is he free to return home.”
Silence fell while Adaira digested her sister’s words. She understood Taran’s concerns. It was a bold, reckless, and incredibly risky plan. Yet if Lachlann Fraser agreed, it might just work. Adaira knew she’d never make it to Argyle without help.
Still, a heavy weight settled in the pit of her belly at the risk her sister was putting herself, and Taran, at by helping her.
“I can’t let ye do this,” she whispered, tears welling as despair rose within her once more. “What if Da discovers ye helped me?”
“He won’t,” Taran replied, his voice rough. Adaira met his gaze and saw his expression had changed. His face was still stern although there was a determined light in his eyes that reminded her of Rhona. “Not if we are clever and careful.”
Chapter Three
Just Three Drops
THE CUNNING WOMAN lived on the edge of the village of Dunvegan, in a hovel surrounded by brambles and hawthorn.
Rhona drew up her mare, Lasair, before the gate and swung down from the saddle. Glancing around, she wondered if anyone had seen her leave the keep to ride here, or if any villagers had spotted her along the way. She had a story ready for them if they had: she would say she’d visited the woman for help getting with child. She and Taran hadn’t been wed long, but many a wife was anxious for her womb to quicken.
Curling mist wreathed in from the loch this morning. It was Rhona’s ally, obscuring her from prying eyes. Even so, she was on edge. Dunvegan was a place where little went unnoticed and unseen. She’d deliberately taken the long way here, skirting the village, yet she still glanced around her, eyes straining as she peered into the mist.
Rhona tied Lasair to the rickety fence and let herself in through the gate. I can’t believe this mad plan is my idea.
But as mad as it was, she knew she had to do this.
She couldn’t stand by and let Adaira wed Budge.
The mist closed in around Rhona now, obscuring the white-washed, thatch-roofed cottages of the village. However, to the north, the keep loomed above the pillowy white blanket. Dunvegan Castle was a dove-grey fortress that appeared carven from the rocks on which it stood. Its curtain wall and craggy battlements stood out against the grey sky. The fortress had once been a prison for Rhona, and it now was for Adaira too.
She would help in any way she could.
Guilt arrowed through her then, for she didn’t like to involve Taran in her plans. Her father’s retribution would be terrible if he suspected Taran of helping Adaira escape.
Rhona hated putting her husband at risk. Yet she couldn’t do this without him—and there was no way he’d allow her to venture into the dungeon and release a prisoner. He’d insisted that part of the plan was to be his responsibility.
A wave of love, so fierce that it made her eyes mist, swept over Rhona. She’d never met a man like Taran MacKinnon: brave and strong, yet with a tenderness and protectiveness that took her breath away.
Rhona made her way up the narrow path to the front door of the hovel, passing a messy garden. As she walked, her eyes picked out a number of plants: woundwort, marigold, boneknit, mint, and chamomile. Herbs were the cunning woman’s trade. Locals often requested her help when a healer could not find a cure.
“Afternoon, Lady Rhona.” An old woman greeted her at the door. Small and lean, with a weathered face and thick white hair tied back into a severe bun, Bradana Buchanan knew all who lived at Dunvegan—from the high to the low.”
“Good day to ye, Bradana,” Rhona greeted her with a smile. “I’m in need of one of yer potions. Can I come in?”
The cunning woman nodded and stepped back so that Rhona could enter her hovel. A tidy space scented with the odor of dried herbs, and the more pungent odor of burning peat, greeted her. Surprised, Rhona straightened up. The garden was such a tangle she’d expected the interior of Bradana’s home to be in disarray as well. Instead, there wasn’t an item out of place. The dirt floor had been swept clean, fragrant bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters, and a plush fur hanging shielded the hovel’s sleeping space from view. A long worktable—where rows of bottles, a pestle and mortar, and earthen jars were neatly stacked—sat against the far wall.
A lump of peat burned in the hearth. Rhona warmed her hands before it; the mist had turned the day cold and damp.
“What sort of potion were ye after, lass?” Bradana asked. The old woman ran a speculative gaze over her. “Surely ye aren’t worried that yer womb won’t quicken? It’s too early for such worries.”
Rhona smiled. �
��Aye, there’s plenty of time for that,” she replied. “Although if anyone should ask, that’s why I visited ye.”
Bradana inclined her head, gaze narrowing. “What are ye wanting then?”
Rhona dragged in a breath. “I need a potion to put someone to sleep for a while.”
The cunning woman gave a brisk nod. “I can make ye a sleeping draught of valerian root.”
Rhona shook her head. “I need something much stronger than that … a potion that will put someone to sleep quickly and make them slumber a long while.” Bradana’s face tensed, and Rhona hurriedly added. “Nothing to cause harm.”
Bradana observed her for a few long moments, dark-blue eyes gleaming. “May I ask why ye need such a potion, Lady Rhona?”
Rhona chewed at her lower lip. “It’s best if ye don’t.”
The cunning woman gave Rhona a long look. “Lady Rhona,” she began quietly after a moment. “My poultices and potions are for the use of good, not ill.”
“And this is for good,” Rhona answered quickly. Panic rose as she realized the cunning woman thought she was planning something villainous. “I wish I could say more, but I’m sworn to secrecy. But please believe me when I say that this potion will save someone’s life. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
Bradana Buchanan continued to watch her. It was a probing look that made Rhona feel as if the woman could see right into her soul. Eventually, she huffed out a breath. “I have something,” she said. “However, ye must be wary of how ye use it.”
Rhona nodded, relieved. “I will, I promise.”
The cunning woman crossed to the table and picked up a small clay bottle. “This is a tincture of nightshade,” she said, holding up the bottle but not passing it to Rhona. “I keep it for those who have nerve trouble. One drop in a cup of wine will relax ye. Three drops will put someone into a deep, dreamless sleep. And ten drops will kill them.”
Bradana handed her the bottle. There was a steely look in her blue eyes, a warning. “Ye never received this from me, Lady Rhona, is that clear?”