by Caroline Lee
She wasn’t going to die today?
“The dungeon, then?” the unseen voice called out.
Andrew’s nod was more of a jerk. “Aye. A few days without food and water, and the lad will be ready to spill all his secrets, even before the Sutherland starts his interrogation. Tie him up.”
Interrogation.
A cold spike of fear punched through Saffy’s daze at the thought of being at the Sutherland Devil’s mercy. What kind of interrogation techniques would he use? He was rumored to be ruthless. And God help her if he found out she was a woman! His dead wives and many mistresses would likely attest to the fact the laird would treat a woman no differently than a man he suspected of betrayal.
The fear of being at his mercy had her heart pounding, and her breaths coming in pants. It was long moments before she realized her hands had been tied, her sword and knife taken, and she was being led behind Andrew’s horse.
Her head hung as she stumbled along, pinned on all sides by horses and Sutherland men. She might’ve made a bid for freedom, trying to tug the rope out of Andrew’s hands, but he had it wrapped tightly in his hand. And being so tired, she braced herself against the animal’s haunches more than once to keep from falling.
By the time she caught sight of the Sutherland keep, her stomach had long since given up growling. Large, gray, and imposing—like the Devil who commanded it, she was sure—it sat high and proud, with plenty of space beneath for the dungeons.
Those dungeons—and the promised interrogation—so occupied her mind, she barely noticed the jeers from the gathered clan when Andrew announced they’d captured a Lindsay spy. Someone threw mud at her, but she was too dirty and tired—mentally and physically—to do more than duck her head.
The chaos was so overwhelming, it was almost a relief to be thrown into a deep pit of stone below the kitchens.
Almost.
Her cell was large, and she was the only occupant. When Andrew slammed the door shut, she huddled on the pile of dirty straw where she’d fallen, and wished for the strength to beat on the door.
It might be hopeless, to demand her release, but at least it’d be better than giving up.
But instead, she sat there, her knees drawn up to her chin, staring at the heavy door, doing naught but breathing and shivering. Vaguely, she knew she was in shock, but it was long moments before she could control her panic enough to concentrate on her breathing, and even longer before she could relax into a cross-legged position.
Even that movement wore her out.
She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to consider her advantages…
A locked cell without food or water.
No’ an advantage.
A vengeful laird returning “in a few days”, according to Andrew.
Definitely no’ an advantage.
A bone-deep weariness, an aching thirst, and an empty belly.
Her eyes flew open in irritation.
Ye’re no’ verra good at this, Sapphire Sinclair.
A few days in this cell, starving, dying of thirst—
Stop!
She shoved herself to her feet, stumbling so hard she had to thrust out a hand to stop herself from falling over again. Of course, that might be a blessing if she knocked her head and managed to stop thinking such horrible thoughts.
She stood, panting, one palm flat against the stone beside her, forcing herself to concentrate on her surroundings to distract from her looming starvation. There were two windows high in the walls—well above her head—through which a dim twilight filtered.
I suppose I should be thankful I’m no’ in the dark.
That would be nice. She’d be able to see while she starved to death.
“God’s wounds, Saf,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head, and peering around the cell. Mayhap it had been a storage cellar at some point, and there was something useful for her.
In a depressingly short amount of time, she concluded her hope was in vain. Her cell was empty and bleak, complete with carvings from past prisoners.
Well, at least I willnae be bored.
It looked as if most of the carvings had been done by one hand, misspelled Latin phrases ranging from philosophical to lewd. But there was one…
She stumbled to the far wall. There, right in the middle, at head-height, was a deep carving of a sunburst, and a Latin phrase: I shine, not burn. Her fingers shook as they traced the lines in the quickly fading light. The sun had been carved across several stones which made up the wall, there was something ominous about it. Had the same prisoner carved this? How many days had he spent laboring over such a piece of art, and why? The phrase was oddly hopeful for someone confined to a dungeon cell…unless he’d been expecting to be burned at the stake?
Suddenly, she wanted nothing to do with such an image, hating it for reminding her of her doom. She would burn when the Sutherland returned.
That’s what the Devil did, after all. Burned souls in hell.
Shivering once more—although from genuine cold now, rather than fear—she kicked the straw into a flimsy pile and sank down onto it. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she rested her head against the stone and stared at the carvings around her.
Assets:
Ye’re where ye wanted to be.
She snorted, but couldn’t help the way her lips tugged upward. Aye, she was deep in the Sutherland holding, but not at all free to look for her family’s lost jewels.
Ye might finally get a good night’s sleep.
That was something to look forward to. If she was already in as much danger as she could possibly imagine, then mayhap her mind would finally let her rest?
Ye willnae be bored.
Oh, aye.
Think of it this way: Ye might starve to death before the Sutherland returns to interrogate ye.
As she closed her eyes in despair, tears of exhaustion leaking from under her lids, she had to admit the truth:
Sometimes she really hated her mind.
Chapter Three
Merrick’s mood was dark enough that his men had avoided him for the last two days.
Yesterday morning it had become clear they wouldn’t be able to hunt down Lindsay or his followers. Still, he pushed his men, especially Gavin, to find some sort of trace of the reivers.
Murray’s croft had been burned and his livestock slaughtered. Lindsay’s insult was that he hadn’t even bothered to steal the cattle. Any Highlander worth his salt had done his share of reiving from neighboring clans and understood the benefit of leaving the farm profitable enough to rob again. Aye, driving off cattle for their own gain would’ve been logical, but killing them was pure evil.
The crofter and his family were alive, thank God, and Merrick had left two of his men to help salvage what they could, then help Murphy’s family return to the keep for protection. If these raids kept up, Merrick might have to consider moving more families to the safety of the village, even if the planting season was high and they’d miss valuable time in the fields.
Despite his earlier claims, Gavin had been unable to track Lindsay’s men beyond the valley cairn. Their tracks didn’t emerge anywhere the Sutherlands could find, which meant the wily bastard had escaped again.
When he’d accepted the inevitable, Merrick led his band of warriors back toward the keep, and pushed them hard.
Now, seeing his home looming above the village, he breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving Lindsay hadn’t manage to attack during his absence. The bairns were safe. His people were safe.
And his mood was still foul.
As they thundered into the courtyard, stable lads came running to take their animals. Some of his warriors had peeled off from the column on their way in, checking on their own homes and families. Those left either lived in the barracks or would make their way home on their own time.
For Merrick’s part, he was already thinking about a hearty meal. He might’ve been livid at their failure, but he could no longer deny his hunger. The last meal had
been oat cakes eaten on horseback, and he wondered what the cook, Corra, was preparing for supper.
“Father!”
Despite his mood, Merrick felt his heart lighten at the sight of Mary hurtling down the front steps toward him. Just as she’d done since she was a little girl, she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and burrowing her face into his chest.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” she murmured.
He was rank, and he knew it, but his daughter didn’t seem to mind the smell of horse, sweat, and irritation. So, he shifted his sword and wrapped one arm around her. “Aye, it’ll take more than a wee scourge like Lindsay to bring this auld man low.”
“Ye’re no’ so auld!”
Mary chuckled as she straightened to grin up at him, and the sight caused his voice to stick in his throat. She looked so much like her mother when she smiled, and the memory was always bittersweet. Anna had been gone for—what?—nigh fifteen years now. He remembered little of her, except her smile, her zest for life, and the way he’d loved her.
But he had Mary and Willie, at least, to remind him of her.
How had the lad grown so much in the last year? Willie was a bastard, like his sister, but as his oldest son, he had power. So when Lindsay’s raids had become more than a mere nuisance, Merrick had sent him to the MacDonnell to foster. And despite the danger, he missed the lad, just as he knew Mary and the rest of them missed him.
“Da?” Mary poked him in the side. “Ye look lost.”
He shook his head, but knew his scowl was exaggerated when he glared at her. “A laird has many things on his mind, wee one.”
Under his arm, she shrugged. “I take it yer hunt did nae go well?”
“Ye leave the warriors to worry about such things.” He turned them both toward the steps, ready for a wash and some food. “How did things fare here in our absence?” He meant How did Andrew do, but he wouldn’t ask his daughter’s opinion of the lad so openly.
Apparently, he hadn’t needed to. Mary beamed up at him, even as she lifted her skirts in one hand to climb the steps. “Andrew protected us all! He’s such a fine warrior, Father, braw and smart and ever so handsome and—”
He cut her off, not wanting to hear his daughter list the lad’s other features. “I’m glad ye’re all safe. Any new bairns?”
Mary giggled as he pulled open the thick oak doors. “Nay, no’ this time.”
He pretended to sigh. “Mayhap next time.”
Her laughter brought a smile to his face as well. It had been a joke between them. It was no secret how irritated he’d been when little Isobel had shown up several years ago. Beck had been barely four, and already running wilder than Nell could manage. Mayhap that’s why Isobel’s mother had waited to deliver the babe until Merrick had been away from the keep.
When he’d returned and been presented with a new daughter, his first words had been a snapped, “God’s wounds, another one?”
But holding the wee cherub, staring down into serious brown eyes, he’d known the truth: he’d accept her, just as he’d accepted every other of his illegitimate children who’d made their way to him.
Devil he may be, but he knew his duty.
The tradition had risen then, of asking Mary about new bairns when he returned to the keep. It’d been right after Hogmany—his visit to the Sinclairs to arrange that failed marriage alliance, in fact—when he’d returned to the news of baby Emma’s arrival. The wee bairn’s mother had died soon after delivery, and Mary herself had named the tiny thing.
His sarcasm had made Mary chuckle, and he basked in the sound.
The great hall seemed no different than when he’d left. He released his hold on her shoulder and stepped back, peering into the corners. “Beck didnae burn anything down while I was gone?”
“Nay, Father,” Mary giggled. “And Maggie only smuggled in one chicken to place under Adelaide’s bed. ’Tis a record, I think.”
“And the little ones?”
“Hale and hearty,” Mary said. “Emma will be crawling any day now.”
“God help us,” he muttered. But he had to admit, there was something so hopeful in watching a babe learn her way in the world. “The lessons have been going well?”
“Oh, aye!” As Mary launched into a description of her teachings, Merrick was content to just watch. He remembered her birth, when Anna had handed him the screaming infant. He’d been so unsure, and even his own father had urged him to set his bastard aside, as he himself had done many times. But when Mary had quieted and stared up at Merrick, he’d known. He’d known this child was his blood, his future.
The last seventeen years had passed in a blink, but had also seemed to drag on. How was it possible she was already a woman grown? A lass with a talent for keeping the bairns in line, a talent for teaching them what they needed to know. She’d be married soon enough, and making him a grandfather, although the thought soured his mood.
Irritated once more, he scrubbed his hands over his face and down his neck. Mary was seventeen. When had he gotten so old?
“Where’s Andrew?” he asked gruffly.
“He’s patrolling. He said that was what ye’d want him to do, to ensure our safety. I’ll fetch him.” She turned toward the door, then whirled back suddenly. “Oh! I forgot! He caught a spy!”
His senses sharpened, and Merrick took a step toward her. “Explain,” he snapped.
She bobbed her head eagerly. “Andrew was patrolling and caught a Lowlander! He’s in the dungeon right now!”
Merrick’s hands tightened to fists by his side. “Gavin!” he roared. His second must’ve been standing out on the landing, because the man was at Mary’s side in moments. “Fetch Andrew,” Merrick commanded. “I want his report immediately.”
Gavin slammed his fist into his chest and bowed before leaving. Mary hurried after him, probably intent on searching for her beau as well. Even the thought of his wee daughter interested in Andrew couldn’t detract from Merrick’s coiled anticipation.
He was torn between stalking to the dungeons himself and hearing the lad’s report. He’d give Andrew a short time to appear, before taking the task himself. In the meantime, Merrick accepted the bread, cheese, and ale a servant offered.
He hadn’t even finished the first flagon when Gavin returned, Andrew in tow. The lad was eager to tell of his success, and Merrick was impressed with his actions.
“Ye’re sure this spy is a Lindsay?”
Andrew nodded. “He’s dressed in Lowlander fashion, milord, and was on yer land, headed for the keep. Who else would he be?”
It was hard to deny. Merrick was ready to meet this spy. “Gavin?”
His second nodded and hurried for the kitchens, obviously intent on making up for his failure to track Lindsay’s men. He must’ve gathered men to search for Andrew, because more and more Sutherland warriors had trickled in during the lad’s story, as well as servants and workers. Now, Merrick listened to their murmurs and whispers as they waited for the spy to be brought in.
And he shared their anticipation. A Lindsay! If Merrick really held a Lindsay, one of his bastard brother’s men, here in the keep, he held power. Not just to negotiate, but to learn what Lindsay’s plans were beyond “make life miserable for the Sutherlands and their laird.”
He felt himself grinning, and didn’t bother to hide it.
Gavin returned quickly, and Merrick almost thought him alone. But his second stepped through the stone doorway and pulled a figure behind him, and Merrick realized why he hadn’t seen the spy.
It was a lad. A lad younger than Andrew, younger even than Willie.
Merrick swallowed down a spike of anger at his brother for using a lad this young. John Lindsay had proven he wasn’t above such tactics, and Merrick couldn’t afford to let pity blind him. Instead, he studied the shrunken figure dispassionately.
Gavin hadn’t bothered to do aught more than tying the lad’s hands, and it was clear why. Hunched as he was, small as he was, he offe
red no danger to the looming wall of Highlanders surrounding him.
Andrew had been right; the lad was clearly dressed in Lowlander fashion. His breeches were torn, and the linen on his sleeves was filthy—from the dungeon or before? Although he wore no colors, it was likely he was a Lindsay, or at least allied with them.
“What’s yer name?” Merrick barked.
When the lad didn’t answer, Gavin gave him a shake by the upper arm, then pushed him forward. He stumbled closer to Merrick, and stood with his head bowed and his tied arms hanging limp before him.
Merrick didn’t like being ignored. “I willnae ask again,” he growled.
Finally, the lad lifted his head to stare dazedly at Merrick, who wondered if maybe he’d suffered a head injury to explain the confusion in his gaze. The lad looked half-dead with his gaunt cheeks and that light hair hanging lank around his face.
Merrick spoke to Andrew without dropping his glare from the spy. “When was the last time he was fed?”
From the corner of his eye, he saw his former squire shrug. “We captured him the day after ye left.”
Three days the lad had been in the dungeons. Three days without food? Had he been given water? If not, that might explain why the lad was now eying the flagon of ale on the table behind Merrick.
He might have the reputation of a Devil, but he’d learned long ago that justice should be a swift mercy. Torturing this spy would serve him poorly.
So he did as he said he would not. “Lad?” he prompted again, trying to gentle his voice. “What is yer name?”
The boy dragged his attention back to Merrick. God’s wounds, but he looked weak. His legs were wobbling, he was leaning too far forward, and his eyes were cloudy. Was the lad ill?
Merrick took a step closer, intent only on catching him if he fell over, but the lad jerked as if he’d been struck. His tongue dragged out across his cracked lips.