Heart of Ashes (Hearts of the Highlands Book 1)

by Paula Quinn

  He turned his horse to face his men. “To the castle!”

  They followed him to the fortress on the hill, its keep and high, seemingly deserted battlements set against the backdrop of darkening clouds.

  They approached the curtain wall slowly. If anyone were inside, they had to already know the Scots were here, yet Cain and his men met no opposition. There were no traps attached to the stone archways leading into the inner bailey, no guards patrolling the walls. Like the village, the castle appeared to be deserted.

  A few of his men muttered things about ghosts and crossed themselves. Even Father Timothy seemed uneasy.

  They climbed an outside staircase next to a short, stone walkway that led to the high, square keep. They came to a set of heavy doors and on Cain’s command, they burst through them and into the keep’s great hall. They immediately made formation, shields up, axes and short-swords held before them at the ready.

  Cain looked around. The walls were bare of tapestries. Tallow candles were impaled on tall, vertical spikes and held in loops secured to the walls. Bowls of oil lamps were suspended in rings and from stands, and a hearth was built against a hooded wall. None of it was lit. Dismantled trestle tables were stacked in the rushes.

  The fresh rushes.

  No ghosts here. Senses piqued, Cain broke up the men into four groups to search the entire castle, including the small towers, and secure it.

  “If anyone is found,” he commanded while Amish lit their torches, “bring them to me.”

  “D’ye mind if me and the men bring him back in more than one piece?” his second asked. The men behind him nodded and chimed in about what they wanted to do to the man who killed their comrades.

  “Bring anyone ye find to me alive and able to answer my questions,” Cain warned them. “If anyone ye find is guilty of killin’ our men, ye can all have him and bury him in as many pieces as ye like. Until I speak with them, ye will lay a hand on no one. Is that understood?”

  The men all nodded and had a look at their shields or around at the bare walls—anywhere but at the raw strength in his gaze. They knew he would let justice be carried out for their fallen friends. He would face a ghost to do it.

  With nothing more to say, and even less time to lose, Cain set off toward the northern end of the keep with his group.

  If their forest assailant lived in this keep, chances were there would be a sign of him. Like the fresh rushes. He wanted to catch the bastard. Nothing would stop him.

  Rooms connected to other rooms through narrow archways and short stairwells. Each bed in every room they entered was nearly stripped bare. Dust had settled on empty chests and trunks and basins were dry. There was not a sign of anyone to be found.

  Save for the last chamber they entered. It was the main solar, where the lord of the castle usually slept. The quarters were divided by a wood partition into a bed chamber and a sitting room. The bed was one of the finest Cain had seen and certainly nothing he had ever slept in before. Carved wood with four posters, it was set high off the floor, with hangings draped from a frame suspended from the ceiling beams. Like the others, almost every linen and item of clothing was gone. But there was no dust on the furniture and atop a tall, polished wooden chest was a hair comb.

  Cain held it up and uncurled a long, dark hair from its alabaster teeth.

  He looked at the hair and held the comb up to his nose. The faint scent of some kind of flower filled his nostrils.

  “Father,” he said in a low voice and looked up from the hair. “Did d’Argentan have a sister?”

  Deep in the belly of the keep, in the dungeon where once were held enemies of the king, a small door concealed in the wall began to move. It had been moved many times before.

  A silver head peeped into the dungeon. “My lady?” Sir Richard whispered, exiting the small doorway. “My lady, where the hell are you?”

  Chapter Three

  Cain stood on the high battlement wall of Lismoor Castle, formerly owned by the d’Argentans. Now, it had been claimed by Cain for King Robert. He spread his gaze over the strath to the village drenched in the golden light of the setting sun. Was their enemy hiding in one of the houses? He should have burned them all down. He still might.

  The search of the keep and the surrounding area had turned up little. The assailant had not been found. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be. But tomorrow was a new day. Cain wouldn’t have his men wandering about in the dark and stepping into a trap—or whatever else the culprit had waiting out there.

  Where was he? Who was he? Was he even a he at all? It couldn’t be a lass who had waged war on his men today—running and leaping through the trees, almost killing him.

  Father Timothy didn’t know of any women related to the deceased previous owner.

  Cain shook his head at himself. What was he thinking? A lass. He was a fool. An exhausted one. That was why he was allowing his thoughts to ponder madness. He laughed softly into the cool, heather-scented breeze.

  How long had it been since he’d even spoken to a woman? Six months? Over a year since he’d lain with one. Hell, he didn’t have a permanent bed. Most nights, he slept beneath the stars close to where he would be fighting the next day. He’d given up comfort and desire for familiarity.

  He closed his eyes as the haunting echoes of men crying out in death returned yet again to plague him.

  He was seven years old during the battle of Falkirk, when Edward I and his troops defeated the Scots, led by William Wallace. He watched the slaughter of his countrymen as the Scot’s bowmen and finally the schiltrons, armed with their shields and long pikes, were killed. When he had to walk among the dead and dying and drive a post into the bloodstained ground to mark an English body that needed retrieving, he vowed to avenge his kin and his countrymen someday.

  And he had. He’d killed thousands of English since that day, including the men he had lived with for eight long years. His homestead in Invergarry was once again his. Berwick was back in the hands of the Scots where it belonged. He’d helped Robert win his wars. He’d taken back his home and killed the men who had taken it from him. Was it enough? Enough for watching them kill his father…and later, his mother? For seeing them carry away his wee brother Nicholas? For watching Torin run before they took him as well? He longed to be free of the English, free of the shackles, though they were made of memories and not iron.

  Was it enough for all the years of beatings and being ordered about? Of defying an enemy army with just a priest at his side?

  “Commander?”

  Cain turned at the sound of Amish’s voice. His second was holding an old man by the collar. An old man Cain did not know.

  “Who is this?” he asked softly, turning to fully face them. He knew immediately this couldn’t be the one who fled through the trees today. The man was older than Father Timothy.

  Cain didn’t reach for his axe. If the stranger made a move, he’d be dead before he drew his next breath.

  “He is—”

  “I am Richard,” the old man said, straightening his shoulders and gathering his mettle, “the steward of Lismoor.”

  Amish yanked the man by the collar to silence him. “He was found exitin’ the dungeon.”

  Cain raised a curious brow. “There is a dungeon?” He crooked his mouth at the steward when Amish nodded. “Perfect.”

  He pushed off the wall and closed the gap between them. The man looked up at him with faded, guarded, blue eyes. The mettle he’d gathered moments ago shrank until he finally looked away.

  “Richard, the steward of Lismoor,” Cain said in a deep, deadly voice. “Ye will spend the night in the dungeon. In the morn, ye will be handed over to my men to do with as they please. After that, whatever remains of ye will be scattered aboot the village—or ye can sleep in a bed tonight and yer life will be spared.” He rested his hand on the steward’s shoulder and led him to the edge of the wall. “All ye have to do is tell me what I wish to know.”

  “I will tell you what I c
an, Sir.”

  “And also what ye canna.” Cain tossed him a smile tinged with malice and led him around the perimeter of the wall. Richard wasn’t the man he was looking for but, perhaps, the assailant was out there watching the castle, seeing a man he knew in the hands of his enemy. Perhaps, he might try to do something about it.

  “Whose steward are ye?” he asked.

  “Sir Giles d’Argentan’s, Sir.”

  “He is dead. Is he not?” Cain asked, walking him around and looking out over the land.

  “He is. Everyone has left, save me.”

  Cain turned to face him, his brow arched in doubt. “Everyone?”

  Richard did not blink. “Aye, everyone.”

  Cain’s smirk grew wider. “Then ’twas ye in the trees this morn?”

  A faint glint of fear mixed with anger shot through the steward’s eyes. He knew something.

  “No. ’Twas not me,” he told Cain in a remarkably steady voice. “’Twas Alexander de Bar, my lord’s cousin. He came here after Bannockburn. He took care of the villagers. They accepted him as their lord and did as he asked in exchange for his protection.”

  “What did he ask them to do?”

  The old man glanced toward the village. He likely didn’t realize that regret and guilt were shadowing his eyes.

  Mayhap he did because he blinked back to his stoic expression. “He asked them to help him construct traps, and then he asked them to leave.”

  “And his guard?”

  “He had no guard, Sir.”

  Cain listened while the steward told him about this cousin of the d’Argentans who had taken over Lismoor with Edward’s consent, and his passion for revenge against the Scots.

  When the old man was done, Cain knew many things about de Bar and one thing about the steward. He wasn’t being truthful. Richard wanted him to believe he was so loyal to the d’Argentans that he’d remained on at Lismoor to see to everything after his lord was killed. Judging by the ease with which he spilled everything he knew about de Bar, Richard held no loyalty to him—so why was he so afflicted that he had to struggle to keep his composure? It was as if he were protecting someone else. But who? Who else could have done this if not de Bar?

  Cain didn’t have much to go on save a sweetly fragranced comb and a long hair, both found in the main solar in the keep. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He refused to believe a lass had anything to do with such a savage day.

  He heard a sound behind him and turned to see Father Timothy stepping out onto the battlements.

  “One more question before I decide what to do with ye in the morn,” Cain told the steward. “Does de Bar have a wife? A sister?”

  Richard’s weathered face visibly paled. “No, my lord. There are no women here.”

  Cain drew out a short sigh and motioned to Amish. “To the dungeon then.”

  He waited until his second came close to the wall before he handed Richard over so that if anyone was watching from the village or the forest, they might see their loyal friend in danger. It was a long shot, but the steward was protecting someone—a lass?

  Cain lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck, a habit born from waking on the cold ground, and dismissed the ridiculous idea of a lass once and for all.

  Whether de Bar or someone else, Cain hoped the culprit was just as loyal and this might lure him out.

  He watched Father Timothy stop Amish and his prisoner to speak to them and then finally come forth.

  “Try to get a confession oot of him later,” Cain said and turned back toward the darkening landscape.

  “His confession goes from me to God and no one else,” the priest said stubbornly.

  Cain flashed him an impatient scowl but he didn’t press it. He knew about the rules of Father Timothy’s service, for the priest had taught him much from the Holy Book and had hoped Cain would someday swear his life to God.

  But when Cain finally left the Bruce’s service, he wasn’t going to swear to anyone else. He would live out his life alone, back in the Highlands, free of the English, free of everyone.

  “Duncan saw to yer wound then?” the priest asked, narrowing his eyes on Cain’s cheek.

  “Aye, ’tis nothin’ of concern.”

  “Come,” Father Timothy urged. “We’ll speak of all this at the table. I am hungry.”

  Aye, they all were, but wary of falling into a trap, Amish and his hunters had returned with only a few fowl and half a dozen hares. “’Twill not be enough.”

  “Thankfully,” the priest informed him, “Duncan discovered a few casks of flour and oats and young William has been bakin’ bread. I told ye ’twas a good idea to bring him—what is it? Why are ye—where are ye hurryin’ off to?”

  “To the hall,” Cain called out. “Our enemy is clever, Father. The grain Duncan found is likely poisoned.”

  Father Timothy made a quick sign of the cross and then followed Cain to the great hall.

  The aroma of roasted hare and freshly-baked bread made Cain’s mouth water as he strode into the hall. The men were settling into their seats. It didn’t appear as if anyone had eaten yet.

  “Men!” he shouted, commanding their attention.

  Someone’s grumbling belly echoed in the silence.

  “Take yer bread from yer trencher and put it aside. Dinna put it to yer lips. It may be poisoned.”

  He squared his jaw at the murmurs of frustration and disappointment in their eyes. They were hungry. He would find a way to see them fed.

  “And the wine we found?” William asked.

  Cain stared at him for a moment, remembering the lad was likely barely a score years old. They didn’t know for certain. They had picked him up in Berwick two months ago, after he’d escaped his English master. He’d been badly beaten and hadn’t had much to say. Father Timothy took him under his wing, as he had Cain.

  Cain didn’t blame young Will for not suspecting anything nefarious. The lad knew nothing of war, only its aftermath. But the others…he raked his gaze over them. “Dinna drink the damned wine until I know fer certain that ’tis not poisoned.”

  “How will ye know?” someone called out.

  He told them about the steward, keeping it brief, then scooped up a hunk of bread from the table, along with a cup of wine and left the great hall.

  Chapter Four

  Aleysia crawled on her hands and knees through the narrow tunnel, praying as she went that her dear Richard was still alive. If he wasn’t, she would find a way to kill them all.

  She’d been too far away earlier to shoot her arrow at the bastard commander while he dragged Sir Richard around the battlement wall. He’d wanted her to see, perhaps draw her out into the open.

  But she went underground.

  The tunnel wasn’t overly long, about thirty feet, beginning behind the castle at the edge of the forest and leading to the dungeon. She’d had it built in case all else failed and she was thrown into the small iron prison. This was her escape route.

  The entire length of the tunnel was reinforced with wood planks around the sides and overhead to help prevent collapse. There was no light, for it was nearly impossible to crawl on one hand while holding a torch in the other. Equally difficult was a cloak, no matter how short, so she’d left hers behind.

  She didn’t mind the pitch black or the cramped space. She’d made herself get accustomed to it by entering it every day the moment it was finished.

  She wasn’t afraid. She’d stopped being afraid a few months after she learned about her brother and the terror of the wild Scots coming for Lismoor and killing everyone had settled over her. And then she had done something about it.

  The last four years changed who she was. She’d come to Lismoor as a lady. Now she was a warrior.

  When she came to her destination, she pressed her ear to the thin, wooden door painted to look like the stone wall of the dungeon.

  Silence returned.

  Was Richard inside? She couldn’t wait a moment longer and pushed on t
he door.

  Cautiously, she entered the dungeon, looking for a guard on duty as she moved. She found one beneath the only source of light, in a chair by the doorway. He looked to be in a deep sleep, which didn’t surprise her. It was long after midnight. She glanced quickly at the cell but could not see inside. Her knight had to be there or a guard would not have been posted.

  The enormity of what she had to do hit her and though her breath turned to mist in the cool air, she broke out in a sweat. Could she kill a man while he slept? Shove her dagger into his throat? Dear God…she couldn’t hesitate now. She had to save Richard.

  She licked her dry lips and lifted her dagger. Something near the guard’s belly caught her eye as she moved forward—the torchlight flashing against metal. An arrow tip. The rest of the shaft was inside him.

  What? This was one of the men she’d shot with her arrows. He…he was already dead! Her heart drummed so hard she feared she might die right here with him. She took a step back and hit a wall. Of hard muscle. She spun around but before she completed the turn, strong fingers closed around hers and squeezed her dagger free.

  Once he’d eliminated the threat of her weapon, he spun her around the rest of the way to face him and yanked her arms behind her back. He held both her wrists in one of his large hands and pressed her against him.

  “A lass.”

  His voice was like ancient thunder reverberating through her blood. His breath, caught slightly on a thread of hesitation and urgency, was warm along her cheek.

  She made the mistake of looking up. Torchlight flickered across the cool, sapphire surface of his eyes as they roved over her features. His hair was dark and long, worn pulled back at the temples in the style of the savages she’d heard about. Despite the rugged beauty of his visage bathed in the golden light, he was a Scot—bold, arrogant, and untamed.

  “Your keen perception is startling,” she bit out, fighting to keep her teeth from chattering. It was one thing to practice. Nothing had truly prepared her for being captured by her enemy, for finding terror and warmth in the circle of his indomitable embrace.