kin.”
Confusion crossed the face of the older retainer. He reached up and scratched the side of his gray beard while contemplating her words. He held up his hand to silence one of the others who had grumbled over her words, and the man snapped his lips shut instantly, proving age was respected even in the Highlands.
A tiny hint of civilized behavior where she’d always heard there was nothing but savageness.
“Kindly do not berate me for disrespecting my noble uncle.” She turned her back on him and tried not to let him hear her sigh. Somber was the kindest word she could think of to describe the room. “But I hardly think his plans for me… decent. Even if it is my place to obey him.”
Bleak was a better word, but if her spirits sank any lower, she feared she’d give in to the urge to pity herself. She shouldn’t even be talking to the retainer but couldn’t seem to halt the words. Fear was trying to rise up and strangle her, fear of being alone and forgotten inside this stone room. How long would it be before she believed being murdered would be preferable to her fate of incarceration?
“I’ll get one of the lasses to fetch up some supper for ye. A good meal will cheer ye up a bit. No need to be so discontent.”
Clarrisa turned around to stare at the older Chisholms retainer. “That would be most welcome.”
He nodded. “Aye, well, seeing as how ye are nae unleashing yer temper on me… ’tis the decent thing to do. Even if ye are English.”
Highlander pride. It rang clear and solid in his voice.
She smiled as the door shut, enjoying the sound of his voice ringing in her ears. Her enjoyment faded as silence surrounded her. A small bed was built into the corner of the chamber. The bench she sat on was the only seat. Off in another corner was a small but serviceable table whose top was scarred with cuts and ink. No inkwell was in sight, nor parchment, but such items would be kept locked away, for they were expensive. Had someone enjoyed their labor inside the room? A secretary maybe, one given a room inside the castle as a mark of his position within the laird’s household. She stood and walked to the table, gently running her hand across the surface, pausing at one ink stain. What a strange contrast to what the chamber was for her.
She sighed, wandering in one circle and then another.
***
“The lass is mine to take to yer uncle.” Broen spoke quietly, but Faolan heard the edge to his tone.
“The threat she brings to Scotland is shared by many. She’s secure here. If ye take her out, someone might take her from ye.”
Broen stared straight into his fellow laird’s eyes. “Do ye think I would have bothered to ride across land held by royalists, or that I’d order me men to take such a risk, if there was nae a damned good reason? Do nae insult me, man. She’s my prize, taken for the benefit of us all—but mine, nonetheless. Ye had the chance to join me, but do nae insult me ability to get one lass across the ground between yer land and mine.”
Faolan lifted his mug but never swallowed any of the cider. The man was making a show of drinking with his men while ensuring his wits remained sharp. Faolan glanced at his own mug, still three-quarters full of cider, before standing. There was a gleam of knowledge in his eyes when he looked at Broen, one Broen returned. Being laird now that his father was gone meant keeping one step ahead of half the clans surrounding his. He and Faolan had been inseparable as boys, but as men, they had to keep their clans’ interests foremost in their thoughts. Suspicion was knotting his gut, because there was something in Faolan’s eyes that was just as hard as his own determination to have Clarrisa remain his prize.
That idea rubbed his temper in a way that stunned him. The irritation went deeper than pride, and he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit it.
Faolan raised his mug. “I’ve enjoyed yer company, lads, but Laird MacNicols and I have
Confusion crossed the face of the older retainer. He reached up and scratched the side of his gray beard while contemplating her words. He held up his hand to silence one of the others who had grumbled over her words, and the man snapped his lips shut instantly, proving age was respected even in the Highlands.
A tiny hint of civilized behavior where she’d always heard there was nothing but savageness.
“Kindly do not berate me for disrespecting my noble uncle.” She turned her back on him and tried not to let him hear her sigh. Somber was the kindest word she could think of to describe the room. “But I hardly think his plans for me… decent. Even if it is my place to obey him.”
Bleak was a better word, but if her spirits sank any lower, she feared she’d give in to the urge to pity herself. She shouldn’t even be talking to the retainer but couldn’t seem to halt the words. Fear was trying to rise up and strangle her, fear of being alone and forgotten inside this stone room. How long would it be before she believed being murdered would be preferable to her fate of incarceration?
“I’ll get one of the lasses to fetch up some supper for ye. A good meal will cheer ye up a bit. No need to be so discontent.”
Clarrisa turned around to stare at the older Chisholms retainer. “That would be most welcome.”
He nodded. “Aye, well, seeing as how ye are nae unleashing yer temper on me… ’tis the decent thing to do. Even if ye are English.”
Highlander pride. It rang clear and solid in his voice.
She smiled as the door shut, enjoying the sound of his voice ringing in her ears. Her enjoyment faded as silence surrounded her. A small bed was built into the corner of the chamber. The bench she sat on was the only seat. Off in another corner was a small but serviceable table whose top was scarred with cuts and ink. No inkwell was in sight, nor parchment, but such items would be kept locked away, for they were expensive. Had someone enjoyed their labor inside the room? A secretary maybe, one given a room inside the castle as a mark of his position within the laird’s household. She stood and walked to the table, gently running her hand across the surface, pausing at one ink stain. What a strange contrast to what the chamber was for her.
She sighed, wandering in one circle and then another.
***
“The lass is mine to take to yer uncle.” Broen spoke quietly, but Faolan heard the edge to his tone.
“The threat she brings to Scotland is shared by many. She’s secure here. If ye take her out, someone might take her from ye.”
Broen stared straight into his fellow laird’s eyes. “Do ye think I would have bothered to ride across land held by royalists, or that I’d order me men to take such a risk, if there was nae a damned good reason? Do nae insult me, man. She’s my prize, taken for the benefit of us all—but mine, nonetheless. Ye had the chance to join me, but do nae insult me ability to get one lass across the ground between yer land and mine.”
Faolan lifted his mug but never swallowed any of the cider. The man was making a show of drinking with his men while ensuring his wits remained sharp. Faolan glanced at his own mug, still three-quarters full of cider, before standing. There was a gleam of knowledge in his eyes when he looked at Broen, one Broen returned. Being laird now that his father was gone meant keeping one step ahead of half the clans surrounding his. He and Faolan had been inseparable as boys, but as men, they had to keep their clans’ interests foremost in their thoughts. Suspicion was knotting his gut, because there was something in Faolan’s eyes that was just as hard as his own determination to have Clarrisa remain his prize.
That idea rubbed his temper in a way that stunned him. The irritation went deeper than pride, and he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit it.
Faolan raised his mug. “I’ve enjoyed yer company, lads, but Laird MacNicols and I have
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