by Ruth Langan
“While you stand there admiring yourself, the morning swiftly passes. Come, woman,” Dillon said gruffly, offering his arm. “There is no time to squander on such frivolous vanities.”
Deliberately ignoring him, she swept past and waited at the door until he opened it. Standing just outside the door was the youth, Rupert.
“Good morrow, Rupert,” Dillon called cheerfully. “I see you are armed and ready for your duty as guard of the prisoner.”
“Aye.” The lad beamed his pride at such an important position.
Leonora noted that the remnants of their late-night battle had been swept away. All traces of the shards of glass and puddles of ale had been removed.
As Leonora started past Dillon, he caught her by the wrist, stopping her in midstride.
“You will walk beside me.” He released her, as though the mere touch of her burned him. “Or you can walk behind me in chains, with Rupert to guard you.”
“I would prefer the lad’s company to yours.”
“And you shall have your wish as soon as we have completed our meal.”
The two were still glowering at each other when they entered the great hall. Immediately, the hounds swarmed around them, leaping at Dillon, eager to be petted. In their excitement, tails switching, tongues lolling, they shoved Leonora aside.
“Nay. Sit.”
At Dillon’s simple command, they crouched at his feet.
He took Leonora by the elbow and led her toward a cluster of people. At a snap of his fingers, the hounds followed meekly, as did Rupert.
Leonora looked around with interest, curious to learn all she could about these Scots savages and how they lived.
The hall was similar in size to the one in her father’s castle, with blackened fireplaces at each end, and rows of scarred wooden tables to accommodate the great numbers of people who took their meals here. But that was where the similarities ended. There was no raised platform for the lord’s table. Apparently, Dillon Campbell did not set himself apart as leader, but ate with his soldiers. There was no musician’s gallery to offer entertainment. There were no elegant tapestries hanging from the walls, nor aromatic reeds on the floor to give off their fresh fragrance.
As she approached, Leonora felt the curious stares from the people who were studying her with avid interest.
Dillon paused. “This is the Lady Leonora Waltham.” To Leonora he said, “You have already met my sister, Flame.”
Leonora noted the young woman’s angry glare and nodded stiffly.
“This is my friend, Camus Ferguson.”
The stout young man stared at her with open curiosity before bowing slightly and saying, “My lady.”
Dillon dropped an arm around a gray-bearded priest. “This is Father Anselm.” Though the introduction was brief, Leonora could hear the note of affection in those few words.
“Father Anselm.”
“I suppose welcome is not the proper greeting, my dear, since you are here against your will. But I wish you a pleasant stay in our land, and a safe return to your home.”
“Thank you, Father.” Perhaps, because his was the only smile she had seen since her arrival in this country, she returned it.
“This is Graeme Lamont,” Dillon said, indicating a handsome young man who stood beside the priest.
The young man insolently looked her up and down, then said to Dillon, “You chose your captive wisely, my friend. If I were going to flee England, I would choose such a traveling companion.” Seeing the closed looks on the faces of the others, he threw back his head and laughed before adding, “At least the nights would pass in reasonable comfort.”
Dillon’s words were spoken softly. “I will remind you that the woman is to be treated with respect, Graeme. While she is in Kinloch House, let no one speak a word against her.”
At once, Graeme’s smile faded. A sly look flitted across his features.
Dillon led Leonora to a table and invited the others to join them. “Come. Let us break our fast.”
As soon as Dillon was seated, wenches began serving the meal. There were bowls of gruel, as well as trays of freshly baked biscuits and slabs of cold meat, all washed down with goblets of ale and mead.
As on the night before, Leonora had to force herself to swallow a hard biscuit and several bites of tough meat, which she washed down with a swallow of ale. The rest of the meat she tossed to the dogs, who lay in wait for scraps beneath the table. They were soon crowded around her lap, hungry for more.
Flame, seated on her brother’s right, looked up from her meal. “Will we be preparing for attack, Dillon?”
“Aye. I will send riders to the nearby towns and villages, and ask them to keep watch for English soldiers. If any are spotted, the women and children will be brought to my keep for safety. I will expect you to work with Mistress MacCallum in preparing food and shelter.”
The girl’s face fell. “Food and shelter,” she scoffed. “That is the work of scullery wenches. I would work with the villagers, honing blades and preparing weapons. Or lead an army of hunters to provide game.”
“All work is noble,” Dillon said with a smile. “And Mistress MacCallum may have the spirit, but lacks the strength to prepare for such an invasion of villagers by herself. She needs your assistance, Flame.”
The girl sulked. “Why was I born female? The men have all the adventures, and women are forced to cower behind locked doors, tending sniveling bairns.”
“Aye,” Dillon said softly. “Why indeed? Had you been born a lad, you could have been languishing in an English dungeon now, instead of having the luxury of complaining about your duties.”
The girl stared down at the table, properly chastised. Her lower lip quivered. “Forgive me, Dillon. I did not mean to sound ungrateful.”
“I know, lass.” He placed a big hand over hers and squeezed. “But for now, everything we do, we do for Sutton and Shaw. Their lives depend upon us. And even the lowliest scullery maid performs heroic deeds.”
Leonora watched as brother and sister clasped hands.
“Camus and Graeme have agreed to scour the countryside for men willing to fight,” Dillon announced to the others.
“By the time we return,” Camus said, “we will have an army big enough to take on all of England.”
Leonora noted that the serving wenches smiled and hugged the two men, filling their plates and seeing to it that their goblets were never empty. Camus and Graeme were treated like heroes, though, as yet, they had done nothing. She clenched her teeth and pressed her hands together in her lap. The room had suddenly taken on a festive air, as though the thought of going to war with the English was no more than a romp through a meadow.
Dillon glanced at her. “You are not hungry?”
“Nay.”
“I see. It is all this talk of war with your people.”
She lifted her chin. “I do not fear war. If that is what it takes to rescue me, I welcome it. Besides, it is well known that our English soldiers far outnumber your Highlanders.”
He saw through her attempt to boost her own sagging spirits, and refused to allow her to bait him. “I will not have you returned to your father weak and ill.” Signaling to a servant with a tray of food, he removed several more slabs of meat and placed them in front of her with a terse command. “Eat.”
Gritting her teeth she whispered, “This food is not fit to eat.”
Seeing the animals pressing in around her, he muttered, “The hounds, it would seem, do not agree with you.”
“Aye. It is fit for dogs. Though only those with sharp teeth can manage to chew it.” She dropped the meat and the dogs fell over each other in their haste to snap it up.
His eyes narrowed. “Do as you please, woman. But there will be no more food until our midday meal. Perhaps if you are forced to go hungry, you will appreciate our hospitality.”
She gave a short laugh. “Even hunger will not make this food more palatable. As for your hospitality, I have had a taste of it. I suspect
your brothers fare better in my father’s dungeons.”
She saw him wince with pain before he composed himself. “Rupert,” he called.
At once the lad bounded to his feet, as eager as any puppy to please his laird.
“Take the lady back to my chambers. See that she does not leave until I return.”
“Aye,” the boy whispered hoarsely. He took hold of Leonora’s arm and turned away from the table.
“And Rupert…”
The lad halted and turned.
“Do not let the lady out of your sight for any reason. Be warned. She is most clever.”
The lad’s head bobbed up and down, as if to emphasize the seriousness of his responsibility. “The lady will not escape me.”
With his hand clasped firmly around her wrist, he turned and led her away.
Chapter Ten
Standing on the balcony of Dillon’s chambers, Leonora watched the courtyard below as Camus Ferguson and Graeme Lamont approached their waiting horses. While Camus joked with the stablemen, Graeme hauled a young serving wench into his arms and kissed her soundly. She tried to break free but her struggles only seemed to inflame his ardor. With a cruel laugh, Graeme squeezed her breasts, then tossed her aside. The wench’s cries brought a frown from Camus, who spoke sharply to his friend before pulling himself into the saddle. As Graeme mounted his steed, he happened to glance upward and caught sight of Leonora on the balcony. A sneer twisted his lips. With an exaggerated bow in her direction, he urged his horse into a run until he overtook Camus at the crest of a hill. The two friends shouted something unintelligible, then went their separate ways in search of soldiers for the anticipated battle with the English.
A short time later, Leonora observed Dillon as he prepared to ride toward the village. He mounted his horse in the courtyard, calling instructions to Mistress MacCallum and Stanton, the stable master, as he did. Before setting off, he glanced up at the balcony. Though he did not acknowledge her presence, she knew that he had seen her. His smile fled. His spine stiffened. He rode away without another glance in her direction.
Flame, dressed in the garb of a stableboy, raced across the courtyard and pulled herself into the saddle. Horse and rider left in a cloud of dust and followed a trail across a high meadow. Dillon’s sister, Leonora mused, seemed always in a hurry. Leonora wondered how the lass had managed to persuade her brother to allow her to ride, thus avoiding the household chores, which she seemed to detest. Perhaps the lass was doing this without her brother’s permission. Leonora smiled. That would seem more in keeping with Flame’s character. Strong-willed and impetuous.
After the clatter of so many horses, a silence seemed to settle over the castle, leaving Leonora feeling alone and bereft.
By midmorning, the sound of footfalls echoed along the hallways outside the door, as maidservants bustled about, seeing to their chores. In the courtyard below, workmen could be seen going about their work. In the distant fields, peasants tended their crops.
Everyone had something to do. Even the lad who stood silently by the door, watching her, had a duty to perform.
What twisted irony, Leonora thought. How many times had she wished she could step back from the hundreds of chores necessary to keep her father’s households running smoothly? Since her mother’s death, she had been overwhelmed with so many responsibilities. And now, she was distraught because this enforced idleness required of her naught but to sit and wait. Wait for what? War? Rescue? Death at the hands of her captor? Nay, she thought fiercely. She must not sit and wait. She must act if she hoped to escape this prison. But how?
She paced the length of the sitting chamber, back and forth. Each time, she would pause by the balcony, and stare off into the distance. Somewhere across those green hills was England. Father. Home. Freedom.
In her mind she worked out elaborate ways to escape. The most obvious way would be to distract her young guard and slip away. A bold plan took shape. Turning to young Rupert, she announced imperiously, “I have need of something to occupy my idle fingers. I could do some embroidery, if you would supply me with cloth and needle and thread.”
The poor lad had been given no such orders, and hesitated a moment before answering. “You will remain here,” he said in his strange whisper.
As soon as he strode from the room, she hid herself beneath the sleeping pallet. When she heard his footsteps return, she lay as still as death, praying he would not hear her unsteady breathing.
“My lady,” came his cry of alarm.
She heard his booted feet stride from sitting chamber to sleeping chamber and back. With a muttered oath, he dashed from the room, calling to the guard. Leonora waited until the sound of their footsteps receded, then she slid from her hiding place and dashed from the room.
Because she had no knowledge of Kinloch House, she knew not where she was headed. She knew only that any room was preferable to the chambers in which she had been held prisoner.
Hearing footsteps, she stepped inside a small closet and cowered beneath a pile of furs. In the hallway she could hear raised voices and hurried footfalls as the servants fanned out and began searching.
“She has not yet left Kinloch House,” announced Rupert’s voice very near her, “or the guards would have seen her. Send for the laird. No one is to rest until the prisoner is found.”
Leonora sank deeper into the furs and remained as still as a doe in the forest when confronted by danger. By the time the morning had fled, she was sound asleep.
Leonora awoke to the sound of muffled voices. The door to the closet was yanked open. Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she prayed that she would not be found out. With heart pounding, she waited. Suddenly, the furs were torn away. Her eyes blinked open. And she found herself staring into Dillon’s angry, narrowed eyes. Without a word, he hauled her from the closet and dragged her toward his chambers. Once inside, he bellowed for Rupert. The lad stood, cowering and quivering, in abject misery.
“Forgive me, my laird,” he whispered. “The lady asked for needle and thread.”
“And if she had requested a sword, lad?” Dillon’s tone was flat as he struggled with his temper. “What would you have done?”
Rupert studied the floor.
Turning to Leonora, Dillon said, “You have what you requested.” He pointed to the brightly colored threads and needles atop a pile of cloth. “You have also sealed your fate, woman. You will not leave my chambers again.”
He turned and stalked out, leaving her alone with her guard.
For days afterward, everyone in Kinloch House walked softly around the laird, whose mood was black indeed.
For Leonora, the days passed in an agony of waiting. These chambers, and this silent youth who guarded her, became her whole world. Had it not been for the little she could observe from Dillon’s balcony, she would have felt completely isolated. Except for her embroidery, she had nothing to do but brood and scheme.
The evenings were no better. A tray of food, consisting mainly of bread, meat and gruel, was brought to Dillon’s chambers. While her youthful guard was permitted to go below to sup, another guard would take his place. When the door opened, she spied two more armed guards in the hallway. Another guard stood watch in the courtyard below the balcony. Dillon Campbell, it seemed, was leaving nothing to chance. He was not about to lose his prized pawn in this deadly game.
The nights were the worst. She slept in all her clothes, with the fur throws bundled around her for an extra measure of modesty. Oddly, Dillon rarely returned to his chambers until late into the night. And though she always pretended to be asleep, she was forced to listen to the whispering night sounds as he moved about the room, removing his clothes, snuffing out the candles, stoking the fire. When he crawled into the pallet beside her, she was forced to hold her breath, lest he discover that she was awake. The thought of his hard, muscled body lying next to her was enough to make her heart race and her blood chill. Sleep often eluded her until the first streaks of dawn light painted the horiz
on.
The hours of sleeplessness began to take their toll, and she found her energy fading and her nerves strung tautly.
In the mornings, Dillon always managed to be dressed and gone before she awoke, as though avoiding any contact with her. For that she was most grateful.
“I would have a word with you.” Father Anselm caught up with Dillon as he paced along the darkened path of the garden. It occurred to the old priest that the laird spent a great deal of time these nights pacing the garden path. Could it be that Dillon was avoiding his own chambers? And the female who resided within them?
He studied the firm profile. Aye. The highly principled lad who had reached manhood under the tutelage of the monks would not lightly give in to the temptation of an English lass. It would be, to a man like Dillon Campbell, an admission of weakness. As laird he had to hold himself to a higher standard than others.
The priest looked at him with new respect. Dillon had never taken the easy road.
“Aye, Father. What is it?” Dillon paused and waited while the robed monk caught his breath.
“’Tis the lady.”
Dillon’s brows knit together in a frown. “What about the lady?”
“All of Kinloch House whispers about her confinement in your chambers. Do you think the lass should endure bread and gruel as part of her punishment?”
“Would you have me treat her like royalty?”
“Nay.” The priest placed his hand on Dillon’s sleeve. He could feel the knot of tension beneath his touch. “But I would ask a favor.”
Dillon waited.
“I would visit the lady.”
“Beware your change of allegiance, Father. Do you visit the lady as friend and comforter?” Dillon’s tone was low with anger. “Or do you intend to smuggle in meat and ale, and offer her a weapon with which to defend herself against her cruel captor?”