Read Online Once Upon a Plaid by Mia Marlowe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mia Marlowe
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side and set off to explore the lower regions of the castle. In a deserted portion of the souterrain, he’d discovered a bricked-over passage. After pulling out enough of the crumbling mortar and bricks to slither through, he’d followed a set of uneven stairs to the top of a secret tower. It was flush up against the newer square tower that held the family quarters, and served to buttress that structure, but it was much shorter and smaller.
The room at the top of the tower wasn’t big enough to fit a bed. Nab could scarcely lie down without his head touching one wall and his feet another. He guessed it had once served as a lookout of sorts, but judging from the thick layer of dust, he figured it had been abandoned for far longer than living memory.
“Odds bodkins, a secret place,” he’d said to himself. “And it’s all mine.”
Whenever the taunting laughter that earned him his daily bread became too much to bear, Nab slipped away to his own little hidey-hole. After discovering the place, he’d spent several weeks furnishing it with threadbare, cast-off rugs and a small chest whose latch was broken. No one missed them.
Nab was a hopeless magpie. Bits of twine, fishing hooks, and oddly shaped rocks that reminded him of the scaly back of the waterhorse he’d once seen all found their way into his secret cache.
How to stay warm was a problem. The small fireplace in the tower room had collapsed in on itself and, in any case, to light a fire might alert others to the chamber’s existence. Nab made do with wrapping a thick blanket around his shoulders.
Despite the eternal chill leeching from the stone walls, the tower room’s good points outweighed the bad. Its window overlooked the loch and wasn’t visible from any point on land.
Usually Nab read there by the light of a tallow candle through the dark watches of the night, but now he couldn’t seem to make his eyes focus on the leather-bound volume of Le Morte d’Arthur . After hanging upside down in the great hall, his face still burned and he felt all hot and jittery inside.
He stood and limped to the window. It was a wonder his leg hadn’t been yanked out of the socket. His hip joint pained him something fierce.
But Nab had a good imagination and picturing Ranulf MacNaught dangling over the loch from the tower window with a rope looped around his ankle cheered him tremendously. It was a long drop to the water.
The earl’s men had taunted him unmercifully about the helpless little sounds he’d made while he hung upside down in the great hall. Nab wondered what sort of noises Ranulf would make if someone sawed on the rope with his boot knife ever so slowly. . . .
“Nab!” A hissing whisper echoed up the spiral steps.
Someone had found him. He scuttled away from the window and plopped back down on the rugs, hugging the blanket around him. Had they heard his wicked thoughts about Ranulf? He hadn’t thought them very loudly.
“Are ye there?” the voice came again.
“Nay, I’m here,” he called back. “Ye’re there.”
“Quiet, ninny. D’ye want the rest of them to find ye?”
He recognized the voice now. It belonged to Dorcas. She was either the serving girl or the upstairs maid. Nab had trouble keeping track of her since she could never be counted upon to turn up where he expected. He liked things and people to be tidy and in their place. Dorcas should stay where she belonged.
He thought the same about Lady Katherine.
Which was why he had to help William find a way to take his lady wife home. Those two belonged together, whether they realized it or not.
But he couldn’t think about that now. A soft swish of kid soles told him Dorcas was coming up the stairs. His stairs. The secret ones.
Nab grasped the scepter Will had given him and twisted his hands around the cold metal, wishing Dorcas would turn around and go back down. William had told him the rod was a thing of power, but Nab felt none coming from it. If the scepter had a bit
The room at the top of the tower wasn’t big enough to fit a bed. Nab could scarcely lie down without his head touching one wall and his feet another. He guessed it had once served as a lookout of sorts, but judging from the thick layer of dust, he figured it had been abandoned for far longer than living memory.
“Odds bodkins, a secret place,” he’d said to himself. “And it’s all mine.”
Whenever the taunting laughter that earned him his daily bread became too much to bear, Nab slipped away to his own little hidey-hole. After discovering the place, he’d spent several weeks furnishing it with threadbare, cast-off rugs and a small chest whose latch was broken. No one missed them.
Nab was a hopeless magpie. Bits of twine, fishing hooks, and oddly shaped rocks that reminded him of the scaly back of the waterhorse he’d once seen all found their way into his secret cache.
How to stay warm was a problem. The small fireplace in the tower room had collapsed in on itself and, in any case, to light a fire might alert others to the chamber’s existence. Nab made do with wrapping a thick blanket around his shoulders.
Despite the eternal chill leeching from the stone walls, the tower room’s good points outweighed the bad. Its window overlooked the loch and wasn’t visible from any point on land.
Usually Nab read there by the light of a tallow candle through the dark watches of the night, but now he couldn’t seem to make his eyes focus on the leather-bound volume of Le Morte d’Arthur . After hanging upside down in the great hall, his face still burned and he felt all hot and jittery inside.
He stood and limped to the window. It was a wonder his leg hadn’t been yanked out of the socket. His hip joint pained him something fierce.
But Nab had a good imagination and picturing Ranulf MacNaught dangling over the loch from the tower window with a rope looped around his ankle cheered him tremendously. It was a long drop to the water.
The earl’s men had taunted him unmercifully about the helpless little sounds he’d made while he hung upside down in the great hall. Nab wondered what sort of noises Ranulf would make if someone sawed on the rope with his boot knife ever so slowly. . . .
“Nab!” A hissing whisper echoed up the spiral steps.
Someone had found him. He scuttled away from the window and plopped back down on the rugs, hugging the blanket around him. Had they heard his wicked thoughts about Ranulf? He hadn’t thought them very loudly.
“Are ye there?” the voice came again.
“Nay, I’m here,” he called back. “Ye’re there.”
“Quiet, ninny. D’ye want the rest of them to find ye?”
He recognized the voice now. It belonged to Dorcas. She was either the serving girl or the upstairs maid. Nab had trouble keeping track of her since she could never be counted upon to turn up where he expected. He liked things and people to be tidy and in their place. Dorcas should stay where she belonged.
He thought the same about Lady Katherine.
Which was why he had to help William find a way to take his lady wife home. Those two belonged together, whether they realized it or not.
But he couldn’t think about that now. A soft swish of kid soles told him Dorcas was coming up the stairs. His stairs. The secret ones.
Nab grasped the scepter Will had given him and twisted his hands around the cold metal, wishing Dorcas would turn around and go back down. William had told him the rod was a thing of power, but Nab felt none coming from it. If the scepter had a bit
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