Chapter 28

Domnhall jolted back into consciousness when the door to his room opened. Outside, he could hear the sounds that had become so familiar to him in the past few days: idle chatting, the voices almost completely drowned out, the scrapes of chairs and plates, the occasional drunken fight. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out he must have been taken to an inn or a tavern, a place not as secure as a keep, but harder to find if one wasn’t looking for it.

They must have been close to his lands, he thought, if not within them, if Ferguson had asked Billie to come there. Still, Domnhall was disoriented by the darkness and the unfamiliar location, the room too small and quiet to deduce anything else about the place where he was being held.

It didn’t help that his arms and legs were still bound and remained so for the better part of the day. Every now and then, a guard would come in a d release him so he could eat and stretch, before he was once again bound. The first time it happened, Domnhall attacked the man, stealing his blade, but before he could escape, he was intercepted by the four guards who stood outside. Weak and outnumbered as he was, he could do nothing to defeat them, and when one of the guards struck him on the head once more, any chances he had at escape immediately vanished.

He didn’t know how long had passed since then. All he knew was the throb in his head, that persistent ache on his temples and behind his eyes that wouldn’t fade. After that, the torture that followed only left him even more weakened, his body battered and bruised by Ferguson’s guards.

He was never the one to dole out the torture. Ferguson always had one of his guards, or sometimes several of them, do it instead. Domnhall marked the passage of time not by sunlight, as there was none, nor by meals, which were few and infrequent, but rather by the number of times a guard came in for another round.

This time, when the guard came in, Domnhall didn’t even feel any sort of relief when he saw that he had a tray of food in his hands. It mattered little now that all he could taste in his mouth was blood, the punches leaving his lip split in several places—marks that reopened whenever he moved it. He couldn’t deny the thirst, though. Even if he had no appetite for food, his mouth was dry like sand, and he was glad to see a cup on that tray, at least.

The guard placed the tray of food on the only other piece of furniture in the room: a small table, brought there a short while ago. He was accompanied by two other men, as though they didn’t trust him to not attack even now that he was in such a state—and perhaps they were right. Even now, even with his body weakened and his chances of escape almost non-existent, Domnhall would still fight. He would rather die fighting than in the hands of one of those men.

The only thing that kept him going was the thought of Billie back home. It would devastate her if he died, and Domnhall didn’t want to do that to her. Besides, there was also Hugo and all his people. If he died, it meant that the clan could very well go to Ferguson, after all, and Domnhall couldn’t allow that. He would endure any kind of torture if it meant he could keep his people safe.

Once the food was on the table, Domnhall expected the guards to untie him, but none of them made a move. Instead, he heard another pair of approaching footsteps and looked up to see Ferguson, pleased as ever to find Domnhall in such a state.

“I have excellent news,” Ferguson said, and Domnhall’s stomach dropped. The satisfaction in Ferguson’s smile made his stomach churn with disgust and he couldn’t help but fear for the worst.

Had something happened to Billie? Had Ferguson managed to get one step closer to making the clan his somehow?

“I received a letter from yer darlin’ wife sayin’ she will come here with everythin’ I need tae become the laird o’ the clan,” Ferguson said. “It seems that she would rather save ye, even if it means that I take over.”

“Liar,” Domnhall spat. “We both ken if Billie comes here, ye will kill her.”

“I have nae desire tae kill the lass,” said Ferguson. “It would only complicate matters fer me. I can only imagine her faither would want me head on a platter fer it, so ye have me word that I will release her as soon as the deal is done.”

There was no talk of Ferguson releasing Domnhall. It would be a lie and they both knew it. Even if he had all the papers, even if he had the support of some of the MacAuley Clan, he knew Domnhall was dangerous. Too many of his clansmen believed in him. Too many wanted him to be the laird, and so letting him live would be too dangerous.

There was only one way out of this, and it was death.

Before Domnhall could say anything else, Ferguson was gone. What was there for him to say anyway? He wouldn’t beg for his life. He wouldn’t give Ferguson the satisfaction. All Domnhall could really do was wait and see what clever plan Hugo came up with for his rescue, because he knew there was no way his friend would come there unprepared. If Billie was coming, it meant he had figured out a way to at least try and defeat Ferguson, and Domnhall believed in him. There was a reason why he had made Hugo his right-hand man. Out of anyone he had ever met, Hugo was the most cunning, a trickster both in and out of the battlefield.

Once Ferguson was gone, one of the guards finally untied him. Domnhall imagined attacking him for a moment—bringing him to the floor and stealing his knife, maybe even going as far as slitting his throat before the others managed to subdue him. He didn’t do any of that, though. Instead, he simply stretched and calmly picked up the tray, starting with the cup of wine to quench his thirst.

He had to wait for Hugo. He had to put all his trust, all his faith in him.

“Show me once more.”

Billie couldn’t help but roll her eyes at Hugo. The two of them had been training day and night for the better part of a week, and Billie couldn’t imagine a more intensive or grueling training than this. Surely by then, she had learnt everything there was to learn in the short amount of time they had available to them.

Hugo couldn’t make her a master swordswoman nor could he prepare her for every possible outcome, though that didn’t seem to stop him from trying. He was trying to pack as much knowledge as he could in those few days, teaching her technique after technique that she had to master in only hours.

She was exhausted.

“Dinnae ye think I have learnt as much as I can?” Billie asked between deep breaths. She was folded over, her hands on her thighs as she tried to catch her breath, her usual attire abandoned in favor of a pair of trews that Hugo insisted would be easier to walk and fight in than her heavier dresses.

He had been right, of course. Billie couldn’t understand why trews weren’t the standard attire for everyone.

“I won’t let you come with me if I’m not satisfied with your training,” Hugo said, as he assumed position once more. “I am apprehensive letting you come as it is.”

“Ye dinnae even expect me tae fight!” Billie reminded him. His plan didn’t involve Billie fighting anyone. Her training was more of a reassurance to him, a way for him to feel better about putting her in danger. As long as their plan went as well as they hoped it would, Billie wouldn’t even have to touch a knife.

“I don’t expect you to fight, but you might have to, and we must be prepared for that possibility,” Hugo said patiently for what was perhaps the dozenth time that day. Every time Billie complained, he would say the same thing, insisting that what they were doing was much more important than rushing into a rescue.

Billie knew, though, that there was only so long Hugo could wait before he rushed to Domnhall’s rescue. They were already on the fourth day of their training, and she was certain Hugo had the same concerns she did. The previous night, she had seen him pacing back and forth in the hallway in front of Domnhall’s study and she doubted he had gotten any sleep if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication. He, too, was close to his breaking point.

“Once more,” Hugo repeated, gesturing at Billie to attack him. With a roll of her eyes, Billie drew in a deep breath and braced herself, her hand tightening around the dull knife she was holding. After a moment to gather her strength, she rushed towards Hugo, aiming for his shoulder, just like he had shown her, only to have him parry her blow with ease, knocking the blade out of her hand.

Billie wasn’t finished, though. The moment Hugo thought he had won, distracted by his defensive move, she brought her fist down onto his torso, right where his chest met his stomach.

The result was instant. Hugo’s breath rushed out of him and he stumbled back, falling onto the ground. His eyes were wide as he crawled onto his hands and knees, unable to breathe—unable to do anything but stay there, curled up into himself, desperately trying to force air into his lungs.

Billie couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her at her own carelessness. She hadn’t meant to hit him so hard, and she rushed to him, falling onto her knees on the dirt beside him as she took hold of his shoulder. She knew her blow couldn’t have done any lasting damage—or any real damage at that—but it had been more than enough to stun Hugo, surprising him and incapacitating him for a few moments too long.

“Are ye alright?” she asked. “Evangeline told me once about hittin’ an attacker there, but I didnae ken it would be so bad.”

Hugo waved a hand at her, his lips parting as if to speak, but he did nothing but wheeze for a few moments. When words finally made it past his lips, he said, “Well done. I feel like I’m dying.”

“Ach, I’m sure yer nae dyin’,” said Billie as she helped him up. Hugo stumbled to his feet, clutching helplessly at his chest. “Ye can handle more than this.”

“That’s what I thought until now,” said Hugo. Slowly, with great effort, he straightened up, his breathing finally deepening and becoming natural once more. Billie could tell he was watching her from the corner of his eye as she dragged him away from the training grounds, but he said nothing until they were at the front door of the castle. “I thought noble girls like you were supposed to be…”

Huge didn’t finish his sentence, so Billie finished it for him. “Delicate?”

Hugo chuckled, giving Billie a small shrug. “I suppose so.”

“The Robertson sisters were never delicate to begin with,” said Billie, “but ever since Evangeline and Keira were kidnapped and it then turned out that our uncle Mitchell was behind that and the conflict with Iain’s clan, we have had to leave the notion of delicate behind”

They hadn’t been trained, though perhaps they should have. Trouble seemed to follow them around, and Billie had thought several times that perhaps it would have been wiser if all four of them had known how to defend themselves instead of relying on others to protect them. Their father, however, had wanted them to have as much of a normal life as possible. Even after his daughters’ abduction, he had been reluctant to teach them anything that would threaten the illusion of their idyllic life. .

Nonetheless, the girls had been more than eager to swap tips. Anything they had learnt, they had learnt on their own, through the little experience they had. Billie was surprised to find that what she knew only in theory worked so well in practice.

“That is very unfortunate,” said Hugo.

“It’s alright.” Billie didn’t think it was so bad. They had all survived, after all, and they all had the kind of life that pleased them. She had to believe the same would be true for her. The moment she gave up hope, the moment she began to doubt they could save Domnhall would also be the moment that they would fail. “Can we go now? Can we put an end tae this trainin’?”

Hugo didn’t seem convinced it was a good idea, but they didn’t have many other options. They had already delayed Domnhall’s rescue by four days, and it was more than either of them had wanted in the first place.

“I suppose we have no other choice,” Hugo said. “And like I said, I will protect you. And so will the men. I’ll do anything to make sure you don’t have to strike anyone like that.”

Billie shrugged a shoulder, a hint of relief washing over her now that she knew they were finally about to make a move. “Well, I may enjoy strikin’ Ferguson.”

He deserved much more than a mere punch to the torso, but Billie was certain he would get precisely what he deserved. Domnhall and Hugo would make sure of it. All she had to do was retain her patience and follow the plan.

“How’s your hand?” Hugo asked.

“It’s fine.” There was a dull ache blooming over her knuckles, but nothing Billie couldn’t ignore with ease. She doubted it would even bruise. “Are the papers ready?”

“Everything has been prepared,” Hugo assured her. “We didn’t have the time to create faithful copies and I’m sure Ferguson will know they are fake, but his guards won’t look too closely. Even if they do, they won’t know what to search for. They will at least allow us to get to Domnhall before Ferguson realizes anything is fabricated.”

That was good enough for Billie. As long as they could get to Domnhall, he and Hugo and their men could fight their way out even if Ferguson saw right through their lies.

“Tomorrow mornin’, then?” asked Billie. A roiling panic gripped her, fear coursing through her veins at the thought of what they were about to do, but she quickly swallowed it all down. She couldn’t allow herself to falter now, not when they were so close. Hugo could never know she was afraid. She could never allow him to doubt her.

With a nod, Hugo said, “Tomorrow morning.”