Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Five nights came and went, in Deirdre's best estimation. Marjorie or another woman came to let her use the privy twice per day, and in the morning they would leave a cold, thin porridge or small hunk of bread and cheese for her to eat. And then, each evening, Ciaran would arrive, bearing a tray of food and an attempt at conversation that was always rebuffed.

Deirdre had been shocked when he'd arrived the second night. The way they'd argued on the first night, she'd expected he'd want nothing further to do with her. But he acted like she hadn't wounded him, and she didn't have the energy to snap again. The meals he brought were clearly leftovers from the nobles' table; even though it was very little, it was still decent food.

She hated him for that, for trying to make her feel better with a little roasted meat or a little strawberry wine when he had stolen her freedom for her. She hated him for how he smiled at her, how he gently tried to talk to her, how he spent so much time around her when there was no need to do so. But mostly, she hated that every night when he left, she felt a deep longing ache where he had been, and every day her treacherous heart waited eagerly to see him again.

He spoke endlessly of his travels in Europe, telling scandalous tales of maids in Paris and sailors in Spain. Once or twice, he'd almost made her laugh with his stories, but she always bit it back, always sternly told herself that she would not and could not allow that kind of emotion around him. He had already fooled her so easily and taken everything from her. Only a shred of dignity remained for Deirdre, and she would not allow him to take that away by fooling her again.

And apart from all of that, there were more pressing physical matters which she could barely draw up the energy to consider.

It was the sixth day, and Deirdre's head ached, both a dull ache and the occasional sharp shooting pain in her forehead. Her eyes stung, and her body felt heavier than a rock. Her sleeplessness back in the castle felt like nothing compared to this. She could not rest, even when sleep did take her for an hour or two at night, it was filled with nightmares. She knew her body could not take much more, and wondered how soon it would be before she went mad. Or perhaps she would simply die.

At least then, she'd be free.

She sighed, laying back down on the bed. She'd just returned from her privy trip, and was awaiting the delivery of her breakfast. She wasn't hungry, even though she should be; her body struggled to feel anything else other than this overwhelming exhaustion.

What day was it now? She'd been traveling for about a week before they arrived here, and if another five days had passed…

Her heart suddenly sank in her chest like a stone. Today was the first anniversary of little Faith's birth. The child would celebrate her first year of life today, and her foolish aunt had ruined it all. Would Jocelyn be able to force a smile for her daughter? Would Blair be able to organize the kitchens for a special meal in her sorrow, would Aoife still make the little one a pretty dress? And what of the other children? Was young Callum even able to have fun anymore, knowing that his Aunt Deirdre was gone without a trace?

They'd try, Deirdre knew, her stomach roiling with guilt and anxiety and sadness. For the sake of the children, her sisters and brothers-in-law would try to make this a special day. But she knew that there would be a darkness hanging over McFerguson Keep, a mixture of despairing hope and hopeless despair. And it was all Deirdre's fault.

The tell-tale scratching of metal sounded, but Deirdre didn't look up to see the maid delivering her breakfast. But after a few moments, when they didn't leave, she turned her head.

Ciaran stood there, hours early, looking at her with an inscrutable expression on that too-handsome face.

Maybe a few days ago, she would have yelped in surprise or exclaimed. Today, she was just too tired.

"Why are ye here so early?" she asked.

"I remembered ye told me somethin' about today," he said, "When we were travelin'. One of the bairns, was it?"

Deirdre squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't. Ye don't get tae talk about me family, especially not the bairns."

He audibly swallowed, but he didn't object. To her surprise, she felt a weight at the end of the bed, and opened her eyes again to see that he'd taken a seat at the foot of it. "Forgive me. I ken it…well, I just wanted tae see how ye were doin'. It must be difficult."

She wheezed a tired laugh. "Do ye think so, aye?"

"I miss my brother every day. At least ye ken yer sisters and the bairns are alive and well, Deirdre. At least ye have that," Ciaran told her quietly.

At last, she forced herself to sit up, leaning heavily against the wall at the head of the bed, to look at him properly. "For how long, Ciaran?" she asked. "How long can I be sure that me sisters and me family will live? How long until Bram sweeps in and takes them, with yer father's help? With yer help?"

She expected him to point out how he saw Angus's death as their fault or argue some other way, as he had done before, but now he just peered at her face and frowned.

"Yer eyes are black as pitch," he told her. He almost reached out, but she flinched back and he dropped his hand. "Ye've got dark circles half as big as yer face. Ye must sleep."

"And what difference would that make?" She met his eyes, staring directly into his gaze. "It's all the same nightmares whether I sleep or wake."

Ciaran let out a long sigh at those words. Neither of them spoke for some time. Then, when he did, he surprised her again. "I truly am sorry, Deirdre. I ken ye'll never really forgive me, but I didn't…this wasn't…I hope ye can at least understand that…"

She waited. He was floundering, but she would not help him find his words. After all, she barely understood what he was trying to say. How could he apologize?

"I am sorry," he said again. "I didn't…it was supposed tae be easy. It was supposed to be some silly, callous little lass, one with no heart and no mind, who'd be swept off her feet by a mysterious look. I didn't expect yer kindness, or yer smile, or the way ye laugh. Yer wit, yer charm. It all came as a surprise."

Deirdre shook her head. "So ye're sayin' that if I was a dim lassie, it would have been all right tae lock me up like this?"

"No, that's not…that's not what I mean. I just had an idea in me head of what I was agreein' to when me father sent the letter with the instructions, and ye were not that idea."

"So let me go."

"I can't."

"Why not? Why would ye agree tae somethin' like this in the first place?"

"I can't ," he insisted, more urgently this time. "I ken ye don't understand. I ken it doesn't make sense tae ye. But I had no choice in this matter, barely more than ye did. I had tae bring ye here. I didn't ken what would happen afterward."

"And ye didn't care."

Ciaran sighed. "I had tae choose not tae care. I had tae, and I was doin' well at it. Until ye made me care. Who couldn't, kennin' ye?"

His words were all too confusing, and Deirdre wanted to cry, or scream at him, or maybe laugh. She was just so tired that she couldn't understand which was which.

"Ye had a choice, Ciaran. Just as I had a choice comin' here. We each made our own prisons, and now we need to live in them." Or die in them, she thought, but didn't add.

"Deirdre. Ye don't know the whole story."

"Then tell it tae me," she said. "Go on. I'm listenin'."

For a small moment, it seemed like he would. Then Ciaran shook his head and said, "I've already told ye more than I meant tae. I'll speak tae me father about gettin' ye somewhere more comfortable."

"Don't bother," Deirdre replied coldly. "I want ye tae leave."

She didn't. In fact, her heart screamed at the idea. Despite whom he had shown himself to be, he was the only warmth she knew in this place, and sending him away went against everything her heart was feeling. She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to be the person she'd once believed he was.

"I was thinkin' I could stay longer today?—"

"Go," she demanded, turning her head away. "I don't want ye here."

For just a moment, it seemed like he was going to argue. For one, frozen moment, she wanted him to.

And then, reluctance in his every movement, he nodded. "I'll leave ye alone," he promised. "I'll send Rabbie with yer supper for the night."

"That would be best," Deirdre replied, her voice barely more than a whisper.

And then he was gone, and Deirdre was alone again, with nothing but a waking nightmare.

Ciaran really meant to stay away, at least for the rest of the day. He knew that Deirdre didn't want him around, and he supposed that he could not blame her, even though it bothered him more than he explained. To distract himself, he wandered through the corridors of the keep, unable to confine himself to his rooms, too restless to sit still.

His head and heart were all tied up, no hope of clarity. He'd not had a moment of peace inside himself since Angus died, since the only thing he'd been sure of in this world had been wiped out of it forever. His travels had helped somewhat, but this…this mission had been about finally gaining his father's approval, finally making Angus proud; this mission was supposed to be the clarity he'd been seeking. But instead, since meeting Deirdre, Ciaran had found himself sinking deeper into confusion.

He wondered what it would have been like to have a mother to ask about such things. He didn't have any memories of the servant girl that Laird Brennan had used up and then thrown away. Rabbie sometimes told him little snippets about her. Her name had been Elspeth, and she'd been young, too young to be caught up with the Laird. But she'd been popular amongst the servants, kind and well-liked. Before everything had gone wrong, she'd confided in Rabbie plans to take her baby and leave the castle, travel as far south as she could in Scotland and start a new life away from it all.

Ciaran often wondered what that would have been like. A bastard son of a servant girl—or, probably, she would have married someone who would have claimed him and nobody would question it. After all, nobody cared so much about the lineage of a commoner. He'd have had to work from a young age, perhaps since his early childhood, and he would likely have gone hungry more than one night. He'd have never seen Europe, never have received an education.

And yet, for all its downsides, part of his heart ached for that missed, simple life. A life with no Lairds and their expectations, a life without war and conspiracies. Pain, yes, but simple, honest pain, earned and lived through and banished by love.

Wherever ye are now, Mother, I hope ye're at peace.

"Ciaran? I, I mean…"

He started, then relaxed when he realized the voice simply belonged to Marjorie, Rabbie's eldest daughter. She was staring at him in surprise, and he smiled at her.

"Don't worry. When it's the two of us and yer father, Ciaran is fine," he assured her. It seemed silly to have to say so; Rabbie had been his friend and surrogate family for so long that Marjorie felt more cousin than servant. "As long as his Lairdship doesn't hear."

Marjorie shot him a faint smile. "Aye. Well, I was just leavin'. I'm done wi' the…duty for the night."

Ciaran saw how her face screwed up as she mentioned it. "How is she?"

The young woman looked like she didn't want to answer. Then she sighed and said, "I'm nobody except me father's daughter, sir. I dinnae understand the needs and musts of Lairdship. But that poor lassie is truly unwell. She's goin' tae fade away entirely if—well, I've spoken out of turn."

Ciaran's heart thudded painfully. "Go home, Marjorie," he said quietly. "Thank ye for yer help today and always."

"Me father's just finished givin' her supper," Marjorie added. She hesitated, then said, "Perhaps ye should talk tae him."

Nodding, Ciaran said, "Goodnight." He started to walk past her, but Marjorie put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He glanced at her. "What?"

"Ye're a good man, Ciaran," she said. "Dinnae let yerself forget that."

He gave her a strained smile, and then the two of them parted. And even though he knew he shouldn't, he turned in the direction of Deirdre's room.

Rabbie stood outside the door, a deep frown on his face. He looked up when Ciaran approached, but didn't seem surprised to see him. In fact, if Ciaran didn't know any better, he'd think Rabbie had been expecting him.

"She's in a bad way, lad," Rabbie said gruffly, not even greeting him. "She's not sleepin', barely eatin'. If she doesn't rest soon, she's goin' tae self-destruct."

Ciaran remembered the deep, dark circles around Deirdre's eyes from that morning. "I ken," he said.

"I'm not sure ye do," Rabbie pressed. It wasn't like him to insist, but now he was watching Ciaran with an unexpected fierceness behind his eyes. "I've seen men go mad frae sleep deprivation. Tearin' at their own hair, their own skin even. Screamin', weepin', collapsin'. And, eventually, the long sleep takes them all. It won't take long tae get tae that point if the poor lassie can't get some sleep."

"I ken , Rabbie," Ciaran snapped, more harshly than he intended. Rabbie didn't look offended at least. "I just saw Marjorie leavin'. Go catch up with her and spend the night with yer family for once. Yer wife will thank ye for it."

Rabbie asked, "And the guardin'?"

"I'll do it."

Rabbie folded his arms. "How do ye think yer father would like that? His son and heir, lowered tae door guard?"

"Och, me father kens his son and bastard is lower than dirt anyway," Ciaran said, not able to keep a little of the bitterness from his voice. "Let me stay with her."

After a moment, Rabbie moved forward and clapped Ciaran on the shoulder. "I ken, lad," he said softly, though he didn't make it clear exactly what he did know. "But ye ken the right path. Don't let yerself down."

Ciaran nodded, mostly because he didn't know how else to respond, and watched as the older man headed off down the corridor. He waited until he was truly alone until he moved to the door, taking Rabbie's place there.

She was weeping. Ciaran could hear Deirdre's dry, desperate sobs the moment he was close to the wood of the doorway. It wasn't sorrow that he heard in those sobs; she was crying because it was all that was left to her. Sleep would not come, and so the physical and mental agony which racked her body made itself known, one tear, one stuttering breath at a time.

Ciaran had to resist opening the door. She didn't want to see him, and what was more important, there was nothing he could do to help. If he entered now, she would try to hide her agony, try to hide her torment, and not allow herself to feel. She was strong, stronger than him—but even the strongest jewel would break under enough force.

And so, Ciaran stood, a vigilant guard, a careful protector, until the first rays of light flickered through the windows. It was one of the worst nights of his life. He expected her sobs to subside, but even when they eventually did after hours, he heard her pacing the cell, groaning, begging quietly to God, repeating her sisters' names over and over.

When the relief guard came to take over, he didn't say anything about seeing Ciaran there, for which Ciaran was thankful. His body longed for sleep, but as soon as he was free of his self-imposed duty, he made his heavy way up a spiral set of stairs into the healer's tower.

There was something he needed to do.