Sorcha knew it to be true. Though, of course, not even uisge had been able to put her to sleep after discovering the lies her clansmen had told. She feared she could drink the entire contents of the jug and still lie awake, tormented. She thanked Alec for the jug, and settled herself near Liusaidh…
In dreams and in memory, Padruig Caimbeul loomed larger than life. To the youth Aidan dún Scoti had been, the man was fearsome with his long, red-speckled beard and blood-thirsty sword. But the man who sat before him now was a sickly toad, wearing three chins and a belly protruding past the arms of his chair. His wife’s estranged father was overlord of Caisteal Inbhir Nis, bequeathed to him by his sire, and confirmed by David mac Mhaoil Chaluim, as payment for his part in the conspiracy to murder Aidan—a scheme that, evidenced by Aidan’s presence in the man’s hall, had failed. And yet, for all the gold Padruig weaseled from David for his perfidy, he’d merely bought himself an early grave. He was half dead already, judging by the greasy pallor of his skin.
Nevertheless, his court itself was resplendent, with gilded tapestries and carved woodwork about the dais. There were no rushes upon the floors. The granite stone was polished to a sheen. Columns, unlike any Aidan had ever seen, marched along the periphery, straight up to the lord’s seat on the dais. It was a stage befitting a petty king. Between them stood liveried guards, men who stood by, never once looking at anyone but Aidan. But none of this was intended to impress Padruig’s current guests. To the contrary, Aidan had the feeling Padruig would lock them away in a cell and throw away the key if it would not earn him David’s wrath. For all that he had been a minion of David’s, more and more, it seemed that David was distancing himself from dishonorable men—a fact that, while fortuitous for Scotia, did not recommend David as Aidan’s one-true king.
The party of five, including Padruig’s own daughter, stood surrounded by guards, all bearing silver tipped lances. Aidan realized the very instant he confessed the purpose of their visit that he had faced the man in vain. Not only did Padruig not know where Sorcha was, he’d clearly had no clue he was her sire. More’s the pity, for if Aidan could have lived another twenty years without ever seeing Padruig’s face again, he would have died a happier man.
Padruig wiggled a short, fat, greasy finger at Aidan. “You mean to tell me I have a daughter?”
He let the question hang in the air, unanswered, because Aidan had already said as much, and he would not be goaded into repeating himself.
“I have a daughter and you never saw fit to let me know?” He screwed his face. “’Tis no wonder they call you savages; you have so little couth.”
Aidan clenched his fist over the man’s arrogance. He sat up there in his golden chair, high atop his dais, speaking to Aidan as though he were a lowly grunt—and this, after having raped and abused Aidan’s mother. And then he dared to question why Aidan would fail to reveal Sorcha’s parentage?
Filthy swine.
“In case ye dinna recall, ye have another daughter you were perfectly willing to put to death. Why would anyone entrust you with another?”
Of course, Aidan was speaking about Lìli, who had been sent to Dubhtolargg to murder Aidan in his bed—a fact her Da would no doubt deny. But Aidan had Lìli’s word for it, and despite whose blood ran through her veins, he trusted his wife without fail.
“I see,” Padruig said, skewering Aidan with his uncanny violet gaze. “And would ye care to enlighten me as to your meaning?” He plucked a plum from a tray beside his chair, savoring it slowly, peering down his nose at Aidan. He made a show of every bite, letting the juice drip nastily down his chins. Aidan waited to speak, restraining his temper, until finally he could wait no longer.
“Are you, or are you not, holding my sister?”
“Sorcha?”
“Aye.”
“What a charming name,” Padruig said, still enjoying his fat plum. “Does she shine as brightly as her name? In that filthy tongue o’ yours, doesn’t it mean something like, bright, radiant light? Something of that sort. How curious that she stole away under the light of that strange new star. Don’t you find it fascinating?”
Something in the man’s demeanor told Aidan he was already scheming over the news. He turned to address the woman seated beside him—presumably Lìli’s mother, although the lady seemed to have no words for her long-lost daughter—who was standing quietly behind Aidan. There were no queries about their grandchildren, not even a furtive smile. As luck would have it, Lìli had yet to speak, and Aidan hoped she would not, because unarmed or nay, he would strangle Padruig where he sat if the man so much as dared to abuse the woman he loved. It was for that reason alone he’d not wanted Lìli to come. But clearly, for all her bluster, when faced with her father, Lìli had decided to remain silent. Aidan wondered if she’d come, hoping that her reunion with her mother could be bittersweet—a tearful acceptance of their estrangement, a bit of regret for all that had passed. There was nothing.
Padruig spoke in a heated whisper to the woman seated beside him, and then he turned again to face the unwelcome entourage, peering around Aidan to address his daughter. “I see you there, Lìleas. Come forward to greet your lady mother. I know we taught you better manners.” When Lìli did not show herself at once, he added, “Or, mayhap you have become naught but a savage, like the one you wed?”
Trembling, Lìli stepped up, beside Aidan, reaching for his hand. He gave the support she requested, unconcerned with what her father might think of his gesture. If he doubted Aidan’s strength, he could try it for himself. He was no longer that hapless youth who, at one time, had had no recourse against the man who’d slain his Da. “Is this true?” her father asked. “Is Sorcha mine?”
Lìli lifted her chin. “Yeah, sir… she is my sister.”
Padruig guffawed. And then he laughed some more—clearly amused. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, now… ’tis too bad for you, my dear, as I feared to leave you aught, lest you give it all to that hill Scot beside you. Now, it seems I dinna have to.” He smiled grotesquely. “Perhaps your little sister will be a bit more… malleable? And if she’s as fiery as her lady mother… mayhap she will fetch a lovely price?”
Aidan’s face burned. “You will not find my sister malleable,” he said through clenched teeth. “And if ye dinna hold her, we are finished and we will take our leave.”
Padruig’s eyes narrowed. “You know, whelp, I should have killed you when you were but a scrawny lad. Alas, I dinna.”
Aidan squeezed Lìli’s hand. “You may try me now.”
Once again, Padruig laughed. “Bold words from an unarmed guest. Tell me, king of the hill Scots, what would prevent me from cutting you down, right where you stand? I would be well within my rights to do so.” He waved a hand to indicate the entirety of his court, all his guards. “After all, I would say you threatened me here today, and no man present would deny it.”
Aidan grit his teeth. “I doubt you could extricate yourself from that chair in time to save your life.”
“Why you—” Padruig rose from his seat, far more quickly than Aidan would have supposed.
He’d best not goad the man while he had Lìli beside him, but it was all he could do to control his temper. “To answer your question,” Aidan interrupted, “I should warn you I’ve not come alone.”
“So, I have seen, miscreant. And yet, while you may have David’s accompaniment here, today, tell me, dún Scoti, who is out there guarding my little Sorcha?” He waved a hand so to signify the firmament above. “She is my own bright star. And if anything should happen to my daughter I would hold you personally responsible.”
Aidan clenched his teeth, unwilling to show the man how much the question troubled him. It was true. He’d come with an army, but Sorcha was still out there, alone, undefended. And now, the worst was true: her da, the devil also knew.
“Away with ye now,” Padruig said, seating himself once again, and waving his hand in dismissal. “Please rest assured I will spare no expens
e in searching for my child. I will turn every stone…” He affected an air of concern. “And I will find and reunite with my dearest darling, and—”
“Father,” Lìli begged.
“Shut your gob, wench!” Padruig exploded, standing once again. “You forfeited my name—and all I possess—on the day you bed that filthy hill Scot. Mark me, Daughter, I willna make the same mistake with your new sister. God has seen fit to bless me with a new opportunity and I will find my daughter, and I will make sure she brings me heirs—even if I have to bed the girl myself!”
Infuriated by the threat, Aidan lunged at the dais. He was blocked at once by the lances of Padruig’s men. They crisscrossed before him, effectively restraining him, and Lìli refused to release his hand, reminding him of her presence. Neither would he do Sorcha any favors if he martyred himself on Padruig’s gold-tip lances.
“Aidan!” Lìli cried.
Padruig laughed hideously.
“Let us go,” Lìli whispered. “Now! He is merely taunting you.” But then, when Aidan made to leave, she cast a longing glance back, toward the woman who was seated beside her father, and when that woman turned away, she made a terrible choking sound. Aidan’s heart broke for his sweet wife. And, lest she give her father the satisfaction of seeing her tears, he led her out the door. Alas, though, he would have lingered to soothe her feelings, but in the short time since the portcullis was lowered, it rose again and six men on horseback flew out, through the gates.
“They’re going after Sorcha,” Aidan said, and he knew it in his bones.
With all that he’d won, Padruig Caimbeul’s legacy was lost without an heir. Aidan realized he must find Sorcha before Padruig’s men did. He gave his wife a swift kiss on the lips, he told her he loved her, and then sent her home with guards. He then took the remainder of his men, and those Jaime Steorling and David mac Mhaoil Chaluim had provided, and turned his eyes to the west.
Chapter 4
Sorcha awoke to a dry mouth.
It felt as though she had swallowed wads of cloth. Her head hurt and she feared opening her eyes to the bright sunlight—at least she believed it must be sunlight.
The last thing she recalled was climbing aboard that vessel. From the instant they’d set sail, they’d encountered a tempest. The ship rocked and rolled, rocked and rolled…
But, nay… it must be the uisge.
Her eyes flew open with the sudden realization that it was her head spinning, not the cot she lay upon.
She was in a strange room, sparsely furnished, like a gaol cell, with nothing but cobwebs adorning the walls, and little to provide warmth. The bed itself was large enough for three grown men, and one glance about the room revealed a naked stranger—a man as burly as the ship’s captain, with hair as golden. He looked like a bear, seated in his chair across the room, arms crossed and his eyes closed, resting his bare shoulders against the wall. Even in slumber, his face was set in hard lines, and Sorcha thought for a moment he must be her gaoler, but then it took her a groggy moment to put the two together: strange, naked man, rumpled bed—and she gasped and scrambled out from the bed. Straightaway, she plucked up the covers to see if she could spy blood, but found only clean bedding.
She did not feel abused. Surely, if a man that size had dared to violate her, she was certain she would know it. Confused, Sorcha dropped the covers, and turned to face the naked stranger with her hands on her hips. “Who are you?” she demanded.
The behemoth opened his eyes—brilliant blue eyes that peered in her direction, only slightly askance. Sorcha had the immediate urge to wave a hand before his nose.
“Who are you?” he countered. “And, more to the point, what are you doing in my bed?”
But, of course, Sorcha wasn’t in his bed any longer, but she didn’t feel the immediate need to point that out. Surely, he could see for himself. “What do you mean who am I?”
“I dinna mince words, lass.”
“Where is Alec?” Sorcha demanded. It was Alec she most wanted to see right now—the one who’d duped her.
“It figures,” he said, disgusted.
“What figures?” Sorcha remained confused. What was more, she had the feeling she was nowhere near the Isle of Skye. “Where am I?” she asked, this time with far more pique. Someone must answer for Alec’s duplicity.
“In my chamber,” he said, as though Sorcha must be an eegit.
She glared back at him. “And, where, pray tell, would that be?”
“Dunrònaigh Keep.”
As though she had any clue where that was! Breathe, Sorcha commanded herself. Breathe. It was entirely possible there was a reasonable explanation for everything. Simply because her kinsmen had betrayed her didn’t mean every person she met was so predisposed. “Verra well, then, tell me… perchance, is Dunrònaigh Keep on the Isle of Skye?”
“Nay,” the man said, as he stood abruptly, naked as the day he was born, unabashed to show the world his todger. “And if’n ye’re done with my bed, perhaps ye’ll leave me to rest?”
As though she could! But if he wasn’t her gaoler, then they must be locked in together.
He made his way unerringly across the room, toward the bed he’d claimed was his own, and Sorcha dashed out of his way, surprised when he didn’t turn to ogle her as she fled. In her narrow escape, she nearly tripped over her sleeve. Forsooth—what in Cailleach’s name was she was wearing?
A bride’s gown? Long and flowing, with long, wide sleeves that dragged the ground, it was ice blue, and intricately sewn. Who had changed her? And more importantly, why had they dressed her in such an elaborate vestment? And, by the by, if she wasn’t on the Isle of Skye, where was she? “You’re going to sleep?” Sorcha asked, incensed, once he settled himself beneath the covers.
He turned over on one shoulder to face the wall. “Unless ye’ve something better to propose?” But he nevertheless made no move to act upon his veiled threat.
“I would scratch out your eyes,” Sorcha warned.
“It would be a moot point,” he replied.
Because he didn’t want her? Or because he’d already had her? Either way, Sorcha found herself growing enraged. What bollocks is this? Where had Alec brought her?
Trading places with the stranger, Sorcha sat upon his chair, trying to make sense of what was happening. After a long moment, the nude man began to snore, and loudly at that.
Her brother Aidan would have told her to never trust strangers, but she had been so determined to pursue Una she hadn’t even considered the possibility of foul play. Did she think herself unsusceptible to the perils that might befall a woman alone? Had she been so arrogant to believe no harm would ever find her?
She was a Guardian—a chosen one—but that did not mean she could not bleed. And, nevertheless, given all her faculties, Sorcha was no hapless maiden. She had not been raised to cow to fear.
She tried to recall as much as she could, but she couldn’t get past the uisge. The man called Alec had given her the jug, and of course, Sorcha had accepted it, having little cause to believe it was aught more than what he’d claimed it to be. After all, why would he lie? Sorcha was already giving him everything she had of value. And she hadn’t for an instant intended to drink more than she should.
There was no other explanation. The uisge must have been drogued.
Come to think of it, he’d given her passage all-too-easily…
Had this “Alec” dropped her off at some undisclosed location and then made off with her horse? Had he sold her to some greasy, lonely laird? Or worse… did the boat go down at sea, and mayhap Sorcha had been borne ashore, a lone survivor on some forgotten isle?
Forsooth. She experienced her first true moment of fear as she remembered Liusaidh. But nay! She must pray her mare was alive and well.
Alas, she would have asked all these questions and more, but the sleeping giant’s snores filled the room, clearly having so easily dismissed her.
The longer Sorcha sat, waiting for him to awake, t
he angrier she became. How dare they lock her away in a tower like some prisoner! And if, in truth, she was a prisoner, who was this man? A prisoner, as well? Certainly, someone had absconded with his clothes, because, there was no sign of any anywhere in the room—nor even her own. And, by the by, neither did she see her keek stane or the grimoire—the only two things she could never bear to part with—not if she ever meant to reunite with Una.
Anger made her restless. Determined to have her answers, once and for all, Sorcha arose from the chair and marched over to the bed, shaking the rude man by his shoulder.
Without a bit of shame, he turned about, flinging one bare leg outside his covers, and laying a foot on the floor. He flung one arm over his eyes, as though to shield them from the light, but he didn’t bother to cover his todger—impressive, by the by. “Who are you?” Sorcha snapped. When he didn’t answer, she shook him again by the shoulder. “Halloo?”
“Ach, lass. Ha’e ye no pity? I sat in that bluidy chair all night long, waiting for my turn. Now, the least ye can do is show a bit o’ gratitude and allow me to rest.”
Gratitude?
Sorcha was only grateful he’d had enough couth to leave her be, but that didn’t explain what she was doing in his bed, or who he was. And neither did it explain why she was locked away in a tower, dressed in some short woman’s gown. “I dinna ken,” Sorcha said.
“That makes two of us,” the man replied. “However, if you’re done now, please shut your gob and let me rest.”
How rude!
Sorcha backed away from the bed, never in her life having been spoken to so impolitely, and she sat again in the room’s only chair, next to the only door.
Should she bang on it?
Who would come?
Nay, first she must determine what had happened, so she could better know what to expect. If she roused the entire household from their slumber, what then?
The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2) Page 4