Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Deirdre had snuck away to see a play once, performed by a traveling troupe. In it, the heroine had pined for her lost love and sought increasingly drastic ways to leave the earth, though each attempt had failed. When she had tried to drown, she'd discovered herself an excellent swimmer. When she'd taken poison, she discovered it was only wine. And when she lifted the knife to her breast, she'd been interrupted—thankfully—by the news that her love was alive after all.

Most of the audience had laughed at the silliness of the girl for such things, when she had other options open to her that would not damn her soul, but Deirdre remembered feeling a deep pity for her. And now, trapped in this endless abyss of sleeplessness and loneliness and pain, she understood that poor heroine even more.

Did Deirdre want to die? No, not at all. She wanted to live more than anything in this world, to return to her family, to see her sisters and her niece and nephews again. She wanted to tell Aoife that their quarrels all this time had been over so little as to not be important, to admit to Blair she'd been right all along, to speak to Jocelyn about books and knowledge and love. She wanted freedom.

But if, when, Bram came for her, she had no intentions of letting him take her. Or, equally vile, if Laird Brennan decided to make her a wife after all. No. She would not tolerate it.

She was too weak to defend herself if it came to a physical altercation. She wondered if she could convince one of the maids to slip her a tincture, or that kind guard to leave her a knife. She didn't want to die, but if she had to, it would be on her own terms, not at the hands of those evil men. She'd go down fighting.

The metal of the lock screeched, and she looked up from her bed to see Ciaran entering the room. In her tiredness, she couldn't even muster the emotions that had risen from their argument the day before, and all she felt in her heart was hope and joy at the presence of a familiar face. His dark hair, those stormy eyes—he truly was beautiful. An angel. A devil.

"I brought ye supper," he said. "And…well, medicine."

"Medicine?" she asked, touching her hand to her aching forehead as she tried to focus. "Medicine for what?"

Had he somehow understood her thoughts from before he had entered? Had he brought her the last and only option of a way out of this hell?

"Tae help ye sleep," Ciaran answered. "I…I ken ye've been strugglin'. The healer, she had some herbs. She's boiled them, made them a tea for ye. Ye should drink it, it'll help."

Sleep…

Deirdre's heart stuttered. She longed to sleep. She longed for rest. She'd almost given up hope she'd ever know it again. "But…why would ye do that for me? Is there not a chance the healer will go tae yer father? Will he not be angry?"

Ciaran shrugged. "Let him. He's always angry."

She considered this for a moment, but her tired mind couldn't make sense of any of it. "I don't understand. Why?"

He took the teacup from the tray and handed it to her. Without thinking, she sipped at it while he spoke. "I've told ye," he said, "Ye're not…what I expected. I care about ye, Deirdre, foolish as that may sound. Regardless of what ye might think of me, I don't want ye hurtin', or worse."

"Then let me go," she whispered. "Let me go back tae me family. Come with me if ye like. I'll forgive ye, James will protect ye, whatever it is ye want—please, just let me go home."

He didn't meet her eyes as he shook his head. "I can't. Stop askin' for that. I can make yer life here more comfortable, but until all of this is over…"

"Bram will kill me. Or yer father will bed me," Her voice trembled and her hands shook around the cup. "If I stay here, that's all I have waitin'."

Ciaran tensed, his muscles taut through the thin sleeves of his shirt. "I won't allow that."

"How will ye stop it?"

"I won't allow it ," he growled. "Ye have me word."

Deirdre finished her tea and let out a rough but quiet laugh. "I've had yer word before."

He looked at her at last, then sighed. "May I sit?"

Why not? What difference does it make now? She nodded. She'd expected he'd sit at the foot of her bed once more, but to her surprise, he sat right next to her on the thin bed. She didn't object; if she was honest, she appreciated his warmth.

"It's not…Deirdre, I ken me father isn't a good man. I'm not blind, no matter what ye think. But it's more complicated than ye can possibly understand."

"Make me understand, then," she told him sharply. "Tell me why it's come to this."

He sighed. For a little while, she thought he wouldn't speak.

"Why didn't ye tell me about yer brother while we were travellin'?" she whispered.

He looked at her, then let out a long breath. "Och. Fine. I'll tell ye it all, if that's what it takes. It's a sad tale, one that'll show ye who I am, and I don't think either of us will be happy for it."

She said nothing.

"I was born tae Elspeth Brown, a wee orphaned servant girl who warmed her Laird's bed after his wife passed. He…commanded her there, and she knew better than tae refuse."

Deirdre winced. She could picture the poor young woman, doing what she needed to do to survive.

"I was born when the Laird's true son, Angus, was already ten. The Laird wanted tae spurn me, tae send me mother away in my infancy, but when she died, Angus begged him tae keep the new wee brother, and me father never refused Angus anythin'. So I was kept, an oddity and a backup. And Angus took care of me, and even though he was so much older, we were close as two brothers can be."

"Blair looked after me as well," Deirdre told him quietly. "And Jocelyn. I never kent me mother either."

Ciaran nodded, looking away. "I ken I've taken ye away frae siblings ye love, and I ken that pain. I truly am sorry for it. But me brother is dead because of yer sisters' husbands and the elders' betrayal of yer uncle."

"It wasn't like that," Deirdre whispered.

But Ciaran kept talking, his eyes distant. "Me father never showed me an ounce of love, but I didn't expect him to. I always kent who and what I was, and how hard I'd have tae work tae be worth the effort he put intae me upbringing and education. Though I can hold me own in a fight very well, I was never the right type tae be a soldier. But Angus convinced Father that a scholarly second son could be useful too. So I learned."

"And he sent ye tae Europe."

"Och, that was the latest in a series of tests. Misbehavior or failure has always been a beatin', a threat, a reminder that I am dirt and Father can send me back tae it. But after Angus died, we both kent we couldn't continue that way. And so I went tae study more, tae learn tae be a true man, since I am now his only remaining heir. The bastard Laird."

"But ye're legitimized. Not a bastard any longer. Isn't that so?"

Ciaran shrugged. "As Father sees it, some stains never fade. Even if he'd have married my mother, I'd have been nothing but a reminder that I am not Angus, and she was not the late Lady."

Deirdre swallowed. She didn't want to feel sorry for him, not after everything, but all she could picture was a dark-eyed boy with stormy eyes, lost and alone. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched his arm.

"Why this, though, Ciaran?" she whispered. "Why me?"

He stared at her touch, then smiled sadly. "I…I thought it simple. He told me the things yer family had done, the deaths ye'd caused. All I had tae do was bring ye or yer other unmarried sister here. Perhaps he means tae wed ye, or wed ye tae me, or just hand ye over tae Bram, I don't ken his eventual plan. But he told me if I did this, it would all be over. The bloodshed. The pain. And he'd recognize me, at last, as the son I've always wanted to be."

"And so here I'll rot, until he decides what to do with me."

Ciaran groaned. "Och, me Deirdre of the sorrows. It was all so simple until I met ye. Ye with yer joy and yer heart and yer life. Ye who tells stories of a family filled with love, not hate, not death. I barely ken what's true anymore."

Deirdre could feel the effects of the tea tugging at the edges of her consciousness, but she wasn't ready to end this conversation, not yet. And so it was her turn to speak.

She told him of Blair, who had been bound to marry one man for the sake of her family and had instead found a love so true it had kept them all alive all these years. She told him of the brave man from whom little Callum had taken his name, and the trials that Blair and James had to suffer to finally be together and be happy. She spoke of the prophecy, of their father, of their uncle, and of Bram. Of imprisonment. Of freedom.

Then she turned to Jocelyn, and how her quiet, bookish sister had propelled their escape. How Lachlan had saved them, and in turn, Jocelyn had saved him. How close Jocelyn had come to death over and over as Bram, the same Bram who Ciaran's father worked with now, had hunted them down and burned villages full of innocents. And of their joy when, despite all odds, the sisters had been reunited once more.

And she spoke of Aoife, too. Of her proper, dream-kissed sister, who loved all things beautiful and romantic, who had agreed to marry a man she didn't know just to escape the war. Deirdre teared up as she spoke this part.

"She's engaged tae William McLeod?" Ciaran asked. "A good lad. We grew up together." A frown crossed his face. "Me father would be devastated by the loss of McLeod's support. And yer sister agreed tae this marriage only for the sake of the clan?"

"I didn't understand her," Deirdre sobbed. "She was me best friend, me closest companion for all me life, and these last years, I've pushed her away. I didn't understand until now how trapped she felt. How trapped we've all been. I thought she was runnin' away, but she isn't, not me Aoife. I understand now that she's just doin' the best she can for us in the only way she kens how—and I'll never, never get tae tell her how sorry I am for our fightin'."

Her strength gave out and she fell back on the thin pillow, exhausted and weeping and wretched. How horrible this all was. Ciaran, who wanted a family so badly that he had torn hers apart. And Deirdre, who had sought freedom so hard that she had lost it forever.

Ciaran suddenly shifted, laying by her side, perched on the thin bed. He didn't speak—after all, what words were left to say? Instead, he drew her close, and Deirdre went willingly, nestling into his chest as he gently stroked her hair. He didn't tell her not to cry, but instead held her as she did.

It might have been absurd, but for the first time since she got here, Deirdre suddenly felt safe and warm and protected. He held her, and comforted her, and she cried until there were no tears remaining.

The tea was pulling her down now, and she stopped resisting. "Do ye remember," she murmured sleepily in his arms, "When ye told me ye could love me? If we just had enough time?"

"I remember," he replied, his voice a small whisper in the wind.

"Did ye mean it? Or was it all part of the lie?"

Perhaps Ciaran answered, or perhaps he didn't, but either way, Deirdre did not know it. For it was at that moment that sleep took her, not like a rough drop, but a gentle sinking into the waves. All she knew was Ciaran's warmth and his hand in her hair.

That night, for the first night in a long, long time—perhaps as long as she could remember—Deirdre did not dream.

That night, there were no wolves, no crows, no blood and monsters behind her eyes. Only darkness, and rest, and peace. Quiet, restful silence, all punctuated by the soft, gentle warmth of the man at her side.

Deirdre slept. And at long last, she rested.

Ciaran jolted awake, alarmed to discover he wasn't in his own bedroom, his muscles taut and his nerves on edge. Then he heard a soft mumble next to him and felt the soft press of Deirdre's sleeping body against him, and his memories came back. He relaxed as he sat there, allowing himself to fully wake, enjoying the feeling of her at peace in his arms. He wished it was all as simple as it seemed at this exact moment, just a man and a woman together at peace.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He hadn't meant to lie down with her at all. But he'd never opened himself up so freely to anyone, and never had someone trust him enough to open up to him in turn. He wasn't sure he deserved it, wasn't even sure it had been real. All he'd known in that moment was that they both had needed comfort, and for that brief, shining time in the night, they'd given it to each other.

Judging by the darkness around them, it was still very late at night or perhaps early in the morning. Deirdre slept soundly, the herbalist's magic doing its work, and so Ciaran slowly extricated himself from the embrace. He felt cold and empty as he left her behind, sliding out of the bed, an empty ache on his chest where her head had been.

Before Ciaran left, he covered her with the moth-eaten blanket. It wouldn't do much, but at least it would give her some warmth. He would have to see about improving the conditions in here, if his father truly did insist on keeping her as a prisoner.

What were her sisters like, Ciaran wondered? Really like? If the eldest had been as mother to her, then surely Lady Blair McFerguson, oldest of the McMillan sisters, could not be as heartless as he had heard. And the other one, the wily wife of the wicked Wraith. Could she truly just be a bookish lass with a big heart? It made no sense, and it made Ciaran's head ache to even think about it.

He wondered how different things would have been if the other unmarried sister had been the one he'd captured. Would he have felt so conflicted? Certainly, he was sure he would have felt sorry for her, but he didn't think he'd ever meet anyone who could touch his heart and muddle his head in the way Deirdre did.

"There ye are."

Ciaran looked up in surprise to see one of his father's men waiting outside the room. He'd been expecting faithful Rabbie to still be at his post, but the older man was nowhere to be seen. Instead, two men he barely knew except for brief sightings in his father's chambers—-men who had joined during his time on the continent—were waiting.

"Here I am," he replied, not reacting to the informality or coldness in the guard's tone, though internally, it surprised him. "What brings ye here at this early hour, me good men?"

The guard who had spoken nodded at the other, who took up the post at the door. Then the outspoken one said, "Ye're tae come with me tae yer father's rooms. Immediately."

"Now? It's not even dawn."

The man sneered at Ciaran. "Do as ye're told, lad," he said, which was not only disrespectful but almost laughable. This man was no more than a year or two older than Ciaran himself. Ciaran briefly considered cutting him down with words, or perhaps a fist, but he held himself back. If the arrogant young man really had been sent by his father, it seemed better to obey, and deal with the rudeness later.

"What's yer name?" he asked quietly.

"Cunningham."

"Well, Cunningham," Ciaran replied mildly as he began to follow him along the corridor. "Be mindful to whom ye speak when ye choose yer words. I'll ignore it for now, given the early hour. But it's customary tae be more polite tae the future Laird."

The man blinked at him. "A bastard's a bastard," he muttered under his breath. But, more loudly, he said, "Of course, Master Ciaran. Forgive me."

Ciaran felt a hot flash of anger at the words, which he was sure he had been supposed to hear, despite Cunningham's false whisper. He remembered his brother's words in his ear: don't let them tell ye who ye are. That was what Angus used to say to him, over and over again, and Ciaran had tried so hard to believe it all these years.

He kept his composure and followed Cunningham to his father's rooms, where the older man was waiting at his desk, still fully dressed in his day clothes. Had Laird Brennan even slept at all?

"Ah. Leave us," Laird Brennan said immediately upon seeing them, and sent everyone away except Ciaran. "Do ye ken why I brought ye here, lad?" he asked as soon as they were alone. "I'm certain ye do."

Ciaran shook his head. He knew better than to reply. If he guessed right, it would be an admission of guilt—but if he guessed wrong, he'd just give his father something else to be angry or smug about.

"I heard ye've been botherin' our healer and depletin' our supplies for the sake of the prisoner," Laird Brennan stated.

Ciaran didn't bother trying to deny it. "She's no use to us if she dies of exhaustion, Father. And the herbs are plentiful; our wise women ken where tae gather them."

His father shook his head. "It had all tae do with keepin' her useful, aye? Nothin' tae do with those wide eyes or that flamin' hair?" Laird Brennan grinned and leaned forward. "Naught tae do with those perky breasts that?—"

"Enough!" Ciaran snapped, with such force he surprised even himself. His hands balled into fists at his sides. He'd never spoken back to his father so bluntly, but he couldn't stand to hear him talk about Deirdre that way. "Enough," he repeated, more quietly.

The Laird laughed. "Women are treacherous. Don't forget it. Now, come here."

Ciaran didn't move.

"Closer, now," the Laird insisted. "Before ye let yer head fill with too many fancies, there's somethin' ye must ken."

"And what's that?" Ciaran asked warily. He didn't move.

Brennan's grin became almost maniacal. "Well, lad. The next part of the plan."