Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Ciaran stood by the side of his father's chair in complete silence. The Laird had not bidden him to sit, and so he did not, even though he could see some of the servants in the room giving him strange looks. After all, after the death of his brother, Ciaran was the eldest and the heir to the Lairdship. He was fuming, but keeping it in check; he knew better than to let his anger at his father show.

Angus would have. Angus had always known how to stand up to their father—but Ciaran was no Angus. He'd only ever been a disappointment. Angus had been everything that Ciaran was not—broad shouldered, with good Scottish features and a bright, sunny attitude when he wasn't showing a warrior's fierceness. He'd been the son of Laird Brennan's first wife, the only woman Ciaran's father had ever loved. When she'd passed of illness, the Laird had turned to a servant girl for comfort, and Ciaran had been the shameful result.

His father had never let him forget who or what he was. A bastard. A mistake. Angus had loved him regardless, and been the shelter from their father's disdain, but Angus was gone now, killed in a skirmish with the accursed war between the McFergusons and the McMillans that was plaguing the Highlands. Ciaran had been in France when he received word of his half-brother's death.

He didn't even give me time tae mourn. Just sent me on me next quest in my endless battle tae prove me worth. Except this time, it was more than that. This time, he was being offered a golden opportunity: to prove himself as the rightful heir to the throne regardless of his birth, yes, but even more importantly, to seek vengeance on the ones responsible for his beloved brother's death.

But Deirdre had…complicated things. She'd been as easy a mark as he'd hoped, easier even, when he lured her to his side. But she'd brought weapons of her own with those sparkling eyes, that flowing hair, that quick wit and infectious smile. Aye, the rumors were truer than he'd known—the McMillan sisters were dangerous. No wonder he wanted them in chains.

"Bring her," the Laird declared.

Ciaran caught the eye of the guard posted near the door, a close friend of his named Rabbie who had been with the family since before Ciaran was born. Even though he was around twenty years Ciaran's senior, Rabbie had been Ciaran's friend and confidante over the years, and had been an extremely close friend of Angus as well. His wife and children held a place of honor in the castle village as a result.

Rabbie gave Ciaran a sad smile, then turned to do as the Laird had asked. A second later, he brought Deirdre in. She stood there, saying nothing, looking pale and terrified.

Her hair. What did they do to her lovely hair? He knew it wasn't the time to be thinking such things, but he couldn't help but feel sorrow to see the rough, uneven cut that had ruined her scarlet tresses. He'd ordered them to clean her up before she saw the Laird, thinking it would please his father—but it seemed they'd instead chosen to humiliate the girl.

Deirdre caught his eye, and the pain he saw there made him look away. He could not keep her gaze, not right now. He would lose his composure if he tried.

"Deirdre McMillan. The youngest sister, and the last to remain unbetrothed, aye?" Laird Brennan asked, leaning forward in his chair to examine her. "A fine young woman ye seem tae be, Deirdre. Ye do yer cousin credit."

"Me cousin is nothin' tae me," Deirdre snapped. Some of her fire seemed to come back at the mention of Bram. "Is that what this is, then? Ye've paired up with him and now ye'll hand me over?"

"Perhaps…" Laird Brennan sounded entirely unfazed by her tone. "Ye are me prisoner, Deirdre, but what happens next is entirely up tae yerself. Perhaps I'll hand ye over tae Bram. The wee lout is certainly persuasive, especially after what ye and yers have taken frae me."

Ciaran saw the confusion on Deirdre's face and his heart hardened. She could play innocent all she wanted, but he knew the truth; he'd been told all about it. How the McFergusons had stolen away Bram's cousins when most were still bairns unable to protest, easy to mold into whatever Laird McFerguson wanted. How they had twisted the girls' minds. How Bram's father, the late Laird McMillan, had died under mysterious circumstances shortly before the McFergusons had made an open declaration of war.

Aye. Deirdre may be confused, but she was no innocent. She was on the side of those who had killed Ciaran's brother, and even if she did not know it, she was complicit in everything that had happened. And now Ciaran was going to put it right.

"Or perhaps…" Laird Brennan drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, then took a deep sip from his wine glass. "Well, I've had nae wife since before me bastard was born. I'll give me lands tae him if nae others arise, but I'm still virile enough that a young wife may yet produce a fine trueborn heir."

Ciaran blanched. It took every single bit of training he'd ever received not to turn and gape at his father now. What was he saying? How could he even?—

"I'd rather die," Deirdre announced.

Laird Brennan laughed. "That's the third option. But first, ye and I are gonnae have a little conversation. How much do ye ken about Laird McFerguson's protections over the innermost areas of his clan?"

Deirdre stared at him, then laughed as well. "Ye've got tae be jokin' with me, me Laird," she said, her voice dripping with irony. "Ye think I'm goin' tae give ye information ?"

"Another chance. How many men does James McFerguson keep on the perimeter of the borders between his land and Bram's? Has that eldest sister of yers whispered anythin' intae yer ears?"

"I'm tellin' ye nothin'."

The Laird leered at her. "A different tactic, then. I doubt ye ken anythin' of military use anyway, a wee silly lass like yerself. I ken yer sister is wed tae the Wraith. Tell me, how often does he leave behind his wife and bairns tae do his Laird's dirty work?"

Deirdre folded her arms and said nothing.

"The third sister, she's marryin' some merchant lad, aye? What did his father offer in exchange for such a match? Mercenaries? Weapons? Is he a part of the strategy?"

Ciaran finally looked at his father. Did the Laird really think he was going to get any information out of Deirdre this way? Ciaran had known her for less than a week, but it was already clear to him that the more the Laird pushed, the tighter Deirdre's lips were going to get.

"Father, perhaps I should?—"

"Quiet, lad," his father hissed at him. "Nobody here asked for yer input."

Ciaran turned back to Deirdre, just in time to see her studiously ignore him, her entire focus on the Laird. Well, it made sense for her to be angry, hurt even, and want no part of him, but the thought caused him unexpected hurt in turn. It was not his fault she was here—it was her own. Her, and her sisters, and her terrible brother-in-law who could have avoided all of this. If she wanted to ignore him, let her. Let his father do the dirty work; it was out of Ciaran's hands now.

And yet, he made no move to leave.

"Will ye be returning only defiance for the rest of our conversation, then, young Deirdre?" Laird Brennan asked. "Should I have me men beat answers from ye?"

Deirdre met the Laird's eyes, her expression blazing. "Let yer men use hot pokers and blades if it's yer pleasure, me Laird, but ye'll have nae information frae me, not even if it means I die."

Ciaran could see the terror hiding in Deirdre's eyes. Her attitude was all lies and bravado, but she was doing a convincing job of externally appearing cold and authoritative. If he hadn't spent time getting to know her, he'd have believed she truly felt no fear.

Laird Brennan scoffed. "Well, I'll nae have ye tortured, lass. After all, I may yet take ye tae wife," he told her. "I wouldnae want tae ruin that perfect wee body by breakin' it."

Anger boiled in Ciaran's blood at these words, abrupt as it was strong. He clenched his fists so hard that the nails dug into his palms and pressed his mouth together tight, knowing that he couldn't speak back to his father, especially not in defense of her .

"But if yer defiance keeps up too long, I may have ye killed," Laird Brennan continued. He leaned forward, leering at Deirdre. "Or I may leave ye alive, an' take ye tae battle, tae watch Laird McMillan slaughter every one of yer sisters first."

Deirdre's bravado faltered, and for the first time a tear escaped. Laird Brennan chuckled, sounding sickly satisfied, then nodded toward Rabbie. "Take her tae the dungeons," he said. "Slap chains around the witch's wrists as well; cold iron stops magic, or so I hear."

Rabbie hesitated for just a second, his distaste for the demand clear, but before Laird Brennan could notice, Ciaran stepped forward. "There's nae need for that."

Laird Brennan turned to Ciaran incredulously, like a man who'd forgotten that Ciaran even existed and now couldn't believe the gall Ciaran had in speaking to him. Ciaran was used to that look. "Boy?"

Boy. Not even lad. The Laird was deliberately stripping any possible affection from the word, robbing Ciaran of any sense of identity in how he chose to address his son and heir.

"Father," Ciaran said, his voice unwavering and diplomatic, his eyes deliberately avoiding Deirdre. "There's nae need tae take her tae the dungeons. We've so many unused rooms in this castle. Why not just lock her in one of those, let her mull over her choices? We can post guards?—"

"She's a prisoner, bastard." The form of address was a deliberate deep dig. It was a calculated insult for his father to call him that, especially in front of guards and staff, even more so now that Ciaran had been granted legitimacy and entitlement to inherit. But his father would never let him forget who he was or where he came from, never let him forget that he was a poor replacement for Angus. Him or anyone else.

Ciaran did not outwardly react. "I understand that she's a prisoner, Father, but look at her. She's a whelp of a thing, thin as grain. The dampness down there in the bowels of the keep will kill her, if the cold doesn't first."

Laird Brennan narrowed his eyes. "Ye believe so, do ye?"

"I do. Ye ken I've studied on the continent in me travels, Father. I've read books of medicine and learned from men of learnin'." This part was true, but the next was not. "Women are weak creatures. They can die frae the slightest change in breeze if we're not careful."

He saw doubt flash in his father's eyes at that. He knew that the Laird was thinking of his beloved late wife, followed soon after by the lover who had become Ciaran's mother, both dead and gone. He was probably thinking of his own mother, Ciaran's grandmother, who had passed young as well, and of the wives of other Lairds who oh-so-often died in childbirth.

Ciaran had learned things in his travels and studies. He knew that these things were no weakness of women, but weaknesses of the men who 'cared' for them, men uneducated and unwilling to understand. He knew it would be many years, perhaps past his own lifetime, before things changed, before diseases stopped spreading rampant and childbirth stopped meaning death for around one in every twenty women.

But he also knew that even if his father understood these things, he would not believe them. Laird Brennan was a simple man with simple ideas, and the image that Ciaran's words had painted for him was troubling.

"Is that so, aye?" Laird Brennan ruminated.

"It is, Father," Ciaran assured him earnestly. He heard Rabbie clear his throat, but ignored it and pressed on, using his advantage where he saw it. "And beyond this, if ye're truly considerin' takin' her tae wife, ye must keep her healthy. A sickly lass will never produce ye a fine trueborn heir as ye wish for."

Brennan pondered that, too. "I'm nae fool tae think ye care for another half-brother, lad," he said after a moment, "But nonetheless there's wisdom in what ye say. Very well. Take her tae one of the unused rooms, give her enough tae keep her well, but not any more than that. She's still a prisoner. Thin blankets and thinner food, ye understand?"

The last words were directed at Rabbie, who bowed his head as a show of understanding. He never directly addressed the Laird if he could help it, and Ciaran's foolish father believed this a sign of respect.

"Accompany them," his father ordered. "Ensure there's no less than three guards posted at her door at all times. Understood?"

"Aye, Father," Ciaran agreed. He met Rabbie's eyes, and gave a slight nod. Then he looked to Deirdre.

He assumed she would look away, ignore him, or perhaps even scream at him, but what she did was so much worse. She fully met his gaze, and her eyes were red from weeping, her skin pale as milk. She was looking at him with such hurt, such betrayal, that his heart clenched in agony at the sight.

This isn't me fault , he wanted to tell her. I'm tryin' tae help ye. I'm gettin' ye better than ye deserve.

But even as the words formed in his mind, they fell away like leaves in the wind, leaving nothing but doubt and a deep sorrow where they'd been before.

Deirdre was silent as they took her to the room, her silent judgment and condemnation more painful than any words she could have thrown at Ciaran. Nevertheless, he pressed on, grimly sure that he was doing what he must.

They arrived at the room that his father had indicated, and Ciaran stepped inside to inspect it first. It was better than the dungeons, that was true, but this was perhaps the only positive thing that could be said for it.

The room was small, only barely bigger than a solitary cell, and its stone walls were bare of any decoration except for a single torch bracket which hung on the wall, imposing in how large the torch looked compared to the rest of the room. There was a bucket in the corner for necessities, though Ciaran would make a note to have some of the women escort Deirdre to use the privy chambers a few times a day and spare her that particular indignity.

There was a bed, one which took up the majority of the space in the room, despite being small and thin itself. It had once been a comfortable bed built for a child, but that had been many decades ago, long before Ciaran's birth. Now it was sad and deflated and dirty, the bedsheet upon it so thin that Ciaran thought it might crumble upon the touch. There was no covering on the cold stone floor, and the only other furniture was a small stool.

He shivered, glancing up to the window. There wasn't a shutter covering the hole, which was too high to look through and too small to climb through, but plenty big enough to fill the room with the icy nighttime breeze. He considered ordering more blankets brought, at the very least, but resisted. Ciaran knew he'd already used his limited favor with his father even to get her this room.

Besides. Pretty or not, she's one of them. This is necessary. They killed Angus.

But though the thought rallied him, it felt more hollow now than it had on the road. He shivered from a cold that was not only to do with the room around him.

Ciaran stepped out of the room and nodded to Rabbie, who led a now-weeping Deirdre inside. He spent a few minutes inside before he exited, though Ciaran did not question why he'd taken so long. The guard had a soft heart, especially for young women in need.

They closed the heavy door and locked it tight behind them.

"Shall I fetch the three men tae guard the place, then?" Rabbie asked.

Ciaran somehow felt like his older friend was chastising him. "All of this is necessary," he said sharply. "We're at war, Rabbie."

Doubt was clearly written all over Rabbie's face. "She's nae older than me own wee Marjorie. Remember when ye were bairns, and Marjorie was sweet on ye? She used tae follow ye around?—"

"Stop it," Ciaran demanded, his voice cold now. He didn't want to think of Deirdre in that way, to compare her to Rabbie's carefree and happy daughter who dreamed of traveling the world. He didn't want to think of Deirdre as a person.

But Deirdre was a person, and he knew it all too well. And not just a person, but a woman, a fine, bonnie woman with bright ideas in her head and bright laughter in her heart. The easy way they'd talked together, laughed together, slept side-by-side through their travels. The care she gave to that horse of hers. The way her soft lips had felt pressed against his…

His head pulsed and he rubbed his temples, feeling a headache brewing. "Leave me for a while, Rabbie, eh? She isn't goin' anywhere."

Rabbie put a bracing hand on Ciaran's shoulder. "Och, lad," he said, sympathy coloring his tone. They were never formal when they were alone together. "Ye're mixed up in somethin' ye'll regret, me friend. Dinnae let it destroy ye, eh?"

Ciaran grunted. "Send the guards along in an hour."

Rabbie nodded and left, leaving Ciaran alone in the corridor. Once Rabbie's footsteps had faded, Ciaran leaned against the locked door, listening inside.

Deirdre was crying. No, Deirdre was breaking. He could hear it in her voice as she sobbed and begged with seemingly no one at all for succor, for aid, for freedom. The pain in her voice as she screamed and wept was almost too much to bear.

Should he go inside? Should he comfort her? Yes, it was a necessity for her to be a prisoner, but did she need to suffer?

But no. He couldn't go in. What use would it do? He couldn't set her free. Best he just left, and…

"Ciaran!" she cried out in hiccuping sobs. "Ciaran, please , let me go! I want my family, please ."

She was calling to him . It was too much to bear. And so, even though he'd told Rabbie he'd stay, Ciaran turned from the door and walked away.

However, even after he reached his own rooms, even after the locked room was floors away and he lay there in his bed in complete silence, his heart could still hear her pleas.

Ciaran knew that he would not sleep that night. He wasn't sure he'd ever truly sleep again.