Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Deirdre woke to a thin stream of sunlight through the window slit, feeling more rested than she could remember ever being in her life. She wasn't sure what time it was, but she knew that, for the first time, she'd managed to sleep for at least eight uninterrupted hours of dreamless bliss. She turned, half expecting to find Ciaran laying in bed next to her, but wasn't surprised to find him gone.

Had he ever been there in the first place? Had any of that been real? But she remembered how it had felt to lay in his arms, how gently he had stroked her hair, and she knew she couldn't have imagined it. It didn't change anything—it couldn't change anything—but last night he had given her a gift.

She saw with a start that there was a breakfast tray perched waiting for her, and she slid down off the bed to examine it. Judging by the temperature of the food, it must have been sitting here for hours. Deirdre realized it must be well into the morning or perhaps even early in the afternoon. Had she truly slept all that time?

"What was in those herbs he gave me?" she mumbled to herself as she sipped at the water and ate a little of the bread to settle her stomach. She felt lighter this morning than she had done since she got here, at last seeing a side to all of this that might not end poorly.

Deirdre was still a prisoner, she knew that, and yet—perhaps all was not lost. After a good night's rest, she was sure that she could believe Ciaran was not a monster who would leave her here to rot. She was certain that, if she was able to talk to him enough and explain her family's side of things, he'd come to see that he was on the wrong side of this war. There was still hope, and she was inspired by it.

When Marjorie came to take her to the privy a little later in the day, Deirdre's cheer was obviously a little unnerving to the girl. Deirdre said, "I love your dress, by the way; that blue colour really suits you!" and it was clear that Marjorie had no idea how to respond.

On the way back to the room that was her current prison, Deirdre tried again. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Marjorie gave her a confused look, then let out an incredulous little laugh. "Am I all right? Are ye, ma'am? Ye seem a different woman than ye were yesterday."

"Hmm, well, perhaps I am," Deirdre replied. She could still feel Ciaran's fingers in her hair and his arms around her. "Perhaps it's not all so bleak as I thought."

But Marjorie's expression just grew sadder at that. "Ye seem a kind lassie, Miss McMillan," she said.

"Deirdre, please, I've told ye before."

Marjorie nodded, but barely seemed to be listening. She worried her lip, looking torn, before saying, "Ye must ken that Ciaran isn't a monster."

Surprised, Deirdre replied, "I ken that. I…" She faltered for a moment, then committed to what she thought. Nobody would hear it beyond this girl, anyway. "I think he has a good heart, beneath all this. I do. I think?—"

But Marjorie shook her head and touched Deirdre's arm. "He's no monster, and I've kent him all my life. He does have a good heart, it's true, but—Miss McMillan, Deirdre, ye mustn't allow that tae blind ye."

Deirdre frowned. "What? What do ye mean?"

Marjorie sighed. "Good heart or no, men are men. And in this world of lairds and warfare, men close their hearts off and make decisions we could never understand. Even the best man can lose himself to it—and Ciaran has more reason than most."

Deirdre didn't reply, disquieted by the intensity in Marjorie's words. It seemed the girl was trying to warn her of something, but Deirdre couldn't understand, and nor could she agree. Perhaps some men would lose themselves to war, but Marjorie didn't know the gentle way Ciaran had treated her the night before. She knew she couldn't fully trust him—he had brought her here and made her a prisoner, after all—but nor could she fully believe him a villain. She was beginning to believe that the Ciaran she'd known while traveling was the real one, and all she needed to do to find him again was to overcome this Laird's son's facade.

But then again…how could she be sure? Marjorie knew Ciaran much better than Deirdre did, and more importantly, as a servant and a clanswoman, she knew the Brennan lands better. If there was war on the horizon, Marjorie would be among the first to become aware of it; people were famously loose-lipped around servants, especially young women.

They arrived at her door. "Just think on it," Marjorie told her gently, "Before ye throw yerself down a path from which ye might not return."

What did she mean by that? Whether she trusted Ciaran or not, she was still a prisoner, wasn't she? And yes, her heart might swell whenever Ciaran walked into a room, but Deirdre was not the silly girl she'd been a few short weeks ago. No matter what her feelings might be, no matter what it might mean, she would get back to her family before anything else. The only difference now was that she had a strong, founded hope that Ciaran would listen to reason and help her.

"I'll think about it," she promised, because it was obvious that Marjorie was waiting for an answer. The young woman nodded and let Deirdre into the room before locking it behind her, leaving Deirdre alone.

She would think about it, but it didn't matter. Tonight, when he brought her dinner, Deirdre would persuade Ciaran to have a talk with her. They'd clear all of this up once and for all.

Ciaran sat alone in his father's war room, his mind distracted as he stared out of the window and over the grounds. This was Brennan land, Angus's land— Ciaran's land—and these people, this beautiful place, were his own. No matter what Deirdre had told him, the fact remained that this place was now under threat thanks to the infighting between the McMillans and the McFergusons, and no matter what happened, the Brennans would be pulled into this bloody war. Angus had already fallen, and it wouldn't be long until others followed.

He thought of the words his father had told him and grimaced. The plan was simple, elegant: the war would be over decisively, and they, Clan Brennan, would emerge victorious with their fair share of the spoils, as well as the promised protection from Clan McMillan. They'd even be able to lay claim to land from the McFergusons and some of their allies, finally giving the innocent Brennan citizens a chance to rebuild what they'd lost in a war that hadn't originally had anything to do with them.

A good plan. The solid, tactical plan of a leader. Ciaran could not deny it. Neither could he deny that the protection and ongoing safety of the Brennan people had been what his beloved brother had fought and died for.

His mind traveled to Deirdre, how she had fallen so peacefully asleep in his arms. He didn't know if she was aware of how much this war was tearing apart not only her clan and her allies, but also the whole of the Highlands. If it didn't stop soon, the last bastion of Scotland's beating heart would be truly destroyed.

Ciaran knew what he had to do. It worried him, confused him even, because he knew he'd have to go against someone whom he cared for deeply—a betrayal of sorts to a gentle soul who had given him trust he perhaps had never deserved. But in talking to his father, Ciaran had at last realized for sure what mattered, and at least in the short term, what he had to do.

So when his father had asked, "Are ye ready tae end this war?", Ciaran had replied, "Aye." And he'd meant it.

The door to the war room opened, and Ciaran was surprised to see Cunningham slink in, looking chagrined and pained. On closer inspection, the guard had a stinging red mark on his face, and Ciaran, unfortunately, recognized the tell-tale imprint of his father's beatings. Cunningham was a terrible man, a cad and a fool, but the sight still made Ciaran wince.

"Yer father sent me tae apologize," Cunningham said without preamble, though it was clear from the acid in his tone that the words were killing him. "He said ye've finally earned yer place at his side, and me and me big mouth would do well tae remember it. So, please, accept me heartfelt sorries."

Ciaran felt no victory or smugness as he looked at this sad, pathetic man, beaten down. It just made him sad. He nodded once and said, "I will tell my father we spoke."

Cunningham nodded curtly, his relief evident, then he backed out of the room, leaving Ciaran alone once again.

Ciaran sighed, and shook his head. He glanced at the clock, which showed it would normally be time for him to take Deirdre's food to her, but thinking of Deirdre was too much right now.

He had to focus on the plan. On what would happen next. And, God willing, an end to this war, once and for all.

Ciaran didn't come that night. Her food was delivered by a guard—not the kind older man who sometimes came, but another, who scowled at her and didn't speak. He had a red mark on his face, darkening quickly as though it would soon bruise quite badly, but Deirdre could tell by his expression that even if she did ask, she would never learn its origin. The man dropped the tray on the ground, food spilling everywhere, and stormed out.

Deirdre was stunned. Where was Ciaran? She felt her heart sink; she'd been so dependent on talking to him that evening that she hadn't even thought about the possibility that she wouldn't come. She figured that perhaps he was busy, and that he'd come later—but minutes turned into hours and there was still no sign of him. When the door did open again, it was for her evening privy visit.

"Marjorie, thank God. Have you any idea—" she started, then stopped. The woman standing in the doorway who would not meet her eye was not Marjorie, but instead a castle maid she had never seen before.

"Ye've not touched yer food, ma'am," the girl whispered, glancing at the cold meal scattered all over the floor.

"Don't worry about that. Where's?—?"

The girl held up her hands. "Dinnae ask me questions, I beg of ye," she said in that same whisper. "I'm tae escort ye tae the privy and back, no more."

Though she did try to ask her a few more times, Deirdre eventually fell silent. She felt pity for the girl, who was clearly terrified, and she did not want to make things any worse for her than they already were. However, she herself was confused, fear creeping at the edge of the serenity and surety that had kept her warm all day. Where was Ciaran? What was he doing? What had Marjorie meant by her warning?

She was no closer to understanding by the time she was led back to her cell. In fact, a new fear was gnawing at her stomach, causing shooting pains that had nothing to with her hunger over her skipped meals.

What if I imagined it? She wasn't now a hundred percent sure that Ciaran really had been with her last night. Had she made it all up? The way he'd spoken to her, listened to her, held her: was it all part of some madness that had set upon her? Madness wasn't anything new to her family, after all. Was it claiming her the same way it had claimed her father, prophecies or no prophecies?

But when the maid locked the door behind her and Deirdre moved forward to collapse on the tiny bed, she stopped with a small gasp. There, on the pillow, was a small, silver tray – and atop that tray, a cup of familiar herbal tea.

The wolf cub stood alone in the clearing…or so she thought. Her senses were strong, and she could tell that there was someone with her. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? In the deep woods around her, it was impossible to see, impossible to know.

"Who is there?" she wanted to cry, but the words did not escape her muzzle. Instead, a low growl emanated from her throat. Terror clenched at her massive heart as the silence grew thicker. Where was her pack? Where were the other wolves, who had been her protection against the darkness of the world?

And where was the monster? Where was the enemy who had stalked her and her pack all these years, the fear that had robbed her of her dreams? Even that had abandoned her now, and the she-wolf stood alone and afraid, hair bristled, teeth bared.

A flap of wings above was the only sound in the darkness—but when the wolf cub looked up, she saw nothing there.

"Come back," she silently begged. "Don't leave me alone."

In the far distance, all she heard was the faraway call of a crow—and the monster's eager, responding call.

Deirdre woke with a gasp, her hair slick on her forehead, gasping heavily as she gulped in air and awoke herself from the terrible dream. Sunlight was filtering in; the herb had done its job and allowed her to sleep once more, but it had not been enough to keep the dreams away the way it had the night before, when she'd slept in Ciaran's arms.

Tonight he'd come. He had to. She had to talk to him again, and she knew that he had more to say to her, too. There was more to be said, more to be done—and they could save lives, the two of them, together. They could do it all together, she knew it. She just had to see him again.

She ignored her morning meal when the guard brought it, her mind and body fully focused on when the evening would come and bring Ciaran with it. But once again, he stayed away; neither he nor Marjorie showed face again. Deirdre felt sick, pushing her food away from her, and curled up on the bed, dragging the ragged blanket over her eyes.

"Ciaran, where are ye?" she mumbled. "Please. Don't take me hope away now, not when ye just gave it back tae me."

Someone delivered her tea, and though she drank it, the dreams came again, even more fiercely than before. The she-wolf suffered in her sleep, and Deirdre suffered through the day, and it seemed there would be no end to it.

Another two days came and went in this manner, and Deirdre felt totally, absolutely, and abjectly alone. Why had Ciaran abandoned her? Had he decided to betray her after all? If so, all was lost. Her family would be overwhelmed and killed, her nephews and niece never given the chance to grow, her sisters destroyed. And she herself? Well, she would live to her namesake's legacy and leave the world in sorrow and anguish, unable to prevent evil from winning in any other way.

She knew that Laird Brennan had spoken of marrying her, and though the thought sickened her, she was even more sickened as she thought of another possibility. Perhaps he was holding her here until Bram had slain the remaining McMillan sisters entirely, and only Deirdre remained. Perhaps he would wed her, his own cousin, to strengthen his claim, just as the original Deirdre had been torn from love for the sake of spite and rage.

Would Ciaran allow that? Did he know it was a possibility? Was that why he had abandoned her?

"I'll die first," she muttered to herself. "Bram, Brennan…I'll die before I let either of them touch me."

But what then? Her death would not protect her family—no more than her life would. In her whole life, despite everything, Deirdre had never felt so hopeless.

The door creaked, and Deirdre gasped, hope against hope flaring in her chest. She couldn't hide her disappointment when it was not Ciaran who walked in, but a familiar guard whom she hadn't seen in the last few days, the kindly older man.

He placed the tray of food down, but instead of leaving, he met her eyes—and beckoned.

"What?"

Impatience crossed the guard's face, and he beckoned a little more clearly, using his other hand to signal that she must be silent. Then, deliberately, he turned his back and began to walk away, the door open behind him. He wanted her to follow him!

This is a trick. A trap. And yet, she was already a prisoner. How much worse could it get?

Deirdre tried not to think of all the possible answers to that question as she slipped down from the bed and, with a deep breath, followed him into the darkness.