Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

The wind wailed, and the rain beat against the stone as Leo climbed up the stairs to his tower. He'd spent nearly all evening dealing with questions from Orsal village elders about the rain and worries about the harvest. The stores were lower than they'd been this time last year, and his mind raced with calculations.

Granny Ro had tried to soothe him and tell him that the elders were fussy, old worriers, but they were also the reason that their people were well-fed. Fergus and Kristie had not been in attendance, as Kristie was feeling unwell and they'd retired to their chambers.

Leo swept a hand through his damp hair. He'd taken a bath after a quick supper and had rushed upstairs, but now he dragged his feet as he approached the door to his rooms. Firelight flickered underneath, and he knew that he owed Agnes a dozen apologies or more.

Worse, too, she'd had to preside over dinner alone. Most of the Aitkens had been deep in conversation about how to deal with the harvest shortage. Perhaps they needed to buy up some stores from the south. He squeezed his eyes shut. What a nightmare, he'd have to find men to travel and protect the convoy, and even then, stores didn't always travel well.

However, it would be a fine use of Queen Marianna's bounty—if it ever arrived. Perhaps she had decided not to send it after finding out that Agnes had been raised in a convent and the Wells had tried to deceive her. Leo snorted softly. He wouldn't blame her, but at the same time, he hoped that Agnes would not hear of it.

Shoulders curving in, he laid a hand on the door and pictured her inside. She'd be curled up in the chair by the fire, solemn and withdrawn, but waiting for him, at least. He drew in a breath and entered, ready to?—

Leo drew up short.

His rooms were empty. Shaking his head as though to clear his vision, he glanced around again, from the chair to the desk to the bed, and then back. No one was there. A cold, deep ache spread through him, and he shut the door harder than necessary.

On the bed, a small gray blur stirred and then hopped down. Dusty ambled up to him and mewed. He rubbed against the Laird's ankles with no fear, and Leo reached down, picking him up from the ground. Carefully, he cradled the cat against his chest, and Dusty arched up, bumping his head into Leo's chin.

A laugh escaped Leo's lips, and the cat stretched, his paws on Leo's shoulders, and pawed at Leo's mask.

Swallowing hard, Leo reached up and removed it, feeling oddly naked without it. Then he held the cat higher, squinting and waiting for the animal to flee in terror. Instead, Dusty rubbed his face against Leo's scars and purred madly.

Something relaxed in Leo, and his throat ached a bit. Striding over to his desk, he pulled a small chest toward him with one hand and then lowered Dusty into his lap. The cat immediately curled up and went to sleep.

Leo ran his fingers over the lid, the familiar patterns carved into the wood soothing him. The hinges were a bit blackened, but the rest gleamed, thanks to his constant attention. It was one of the few pieces that had survived the fire—his father's small wood carving chest, filled with bits and bobs of wood, his tools, and a small bear that he'd been working on.

His da had always loved to whittle when he got the chance, charming his children with his ability to create creatures out of a small piece of wood. He'd taught Leo in the quiet hours they'd stolen, usually sitting in his study. Ma had read or wove in the corner, while Kristie lay on the rug in front of the fire, playing with the dogs, napping, or drawing.

They were the happiest memories that Leo had.

He drew in a breath and opened the chest, not even wincing when the mirrored inlay of the cover revealed his scarred face. His gray eyes were steady as he pulled out a handful of tools, including a small knife, and one of the bits of wood that his father had placed in there, probably a decade ago.

Leo tried to save them for special occasions—the last time he'd used one had been for Kristie's wedding, carving a lion for his fearless little sister. Now, he glanced down at Agnes's cat and set to carving the wee creature for his wife.

For a while, Leo was lost in the rhythm of whittling and carving, his hands remembering how to shape the wood. Soon, he had a cunning imitation of the cat on his lap, and he set it aside, smiling a little. The night was deepening, and most of the castle had to be asleep.

Standing up, he considered going to bed, but instead, he placed Dusty on a pillow and turned to the door. At the threshold, he hesitated and then put his mask back into place. For a moment, it felt oppressive, the leather sticking to his skin, and it itched, but he shook off such fancies.

Stealing downstairs, silent as a shadow, he made his way through the castle until he stood in front of Agnes's door. Everything was quiet inside, not even the fire going. He knew she was probably asleep, and that he should leave her alone, but the restlessness that had driven him all day was back in full force. He'd only managed to suppress it temporarily with a bit of whittling.

A wail rose with the wind as he walked down the dark corridors, one that sounded like the Caoineag, and his heart began to race. He began to walk faster, nearly running, as he approached Agnes's door. Relief washed over him, and outside, the storm seemed to die down.

He hesitated, wondering if he was being a fool, then rapped quietly on the door. No answer. Leo knocked again, louder, and when he heard nothing, he pushed it open and stepped in.

"Nes?"

A lone candle, almost burned to the stand, flickered wildly. It was barely enough light, but as Laird Briorn stepped inside, it was enough.

Her room was empty.

His wife was gone.

Fire raged against a night sky, illuminated by the waters of a still loch. A scream rose and fell against the mountains, echoing deep into one's marrow, one's very blood, and Agnes went down to her knees. Rocks dug into her knees, and her hands scrabbled at the ground, dirt getting under her nails.

But she couldn't move, couldn't get up—she could only watch as the fine, old castle burned.

Not Briorn Castle, she realized.

No, this had to be MacLarsen Castle.

Again, that scream came, and she thought she could see a young man running—running so fast that it seemed impossible. She wanted to scream, for he did not run away from the fire, but into it. How could he survive?

He glanced back.

At such a distance, she should not have been able to see his face so clearly, and yet she could. Steady gray eyes, a strong jaw, and unruly dark hair. He paused and seemed to gaze at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to place her.

Leo. It was Leo without a mask. Leo, young and unscarred.

"Stop!" she wanted to scream and beg. "Do not go in there!"

But it was too late. He turned and ran into the flame, and the fire screamed with shrill, triumphant laughter. Agnes turned as a bright light came across the loch and then a wave of cold water hit her face ? —

With a gasp, Agnes came to and started as she stared around an unfamiliar room. Cold water dripped into her eyes, and she shook her head, wondering if the roof had leaked or if the storm was getting in?—

She tried to get up, but she couldn't move her hands. Or her arms.

She was tied to a chair, she slowly realized. Oh, how her head throbbed. Blinking, her vision swam, both from the pain and confusion, and the water that was in her eyes. Where had this water come from?

More water hit her face, and she spluttered, shivering all over. The room was freezing, but the water was even more so.

Something is wrong.

Agnes's instincts churned through her, clearing her head, and a memory of the dark room at the convent flashed through her mind. Struggling not to make a sound, a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs, praying that at any second, the door would creak open and sunlight would wash over her.

Maybe this is a bad dream.

"I'm afraid nae. But it seems ye're awake now, Lady MacLarsen?"

Agnes froze at that voice and slowly looked up as a figure sauntered forward and seized her face, their nails digging into her skin.

Flora looked her over with a cruel smile and then lightly patted her cheek. "Good. We need to have a chat, ye and I. Woman to woman. Although, ye're English, so it might take ye a bit to ken what I mean, hm?"

Agnes's teeth chattered, but she tried to sit up, tried to remind herself who she was—even in this situation.

I am Lady MacLarsen, and even here, I will act as befits my station.

"Where am I?" Agnes asked in a slow, calm voice that seemed to come from outside of her.

"Ach, that's right," Flora simpered and flounced a few steps away. It made Agnes's head hurt to watch her, but she did not want to look away. "Such a pampered thing as yerself probably has ne'er been to a hunting camp, hm?"

Flora waved her hands at the dirty wooden walls, the low light, and the men hunched around the room, clutching their weapons. Most of them looked at her with a mix of revulsion, fear, and yearning.

Agnes swallowed hard. That did not bode well for her.

"This is where Scottish menfolk like to go when they head into our wilds, when they need to bunk down and think of their warm beds at home—with their pretty wives." Flora's blue eyes narrowed on Agnes. "I dinnae ken why ye thought ye could take Leo from me." She snorted. "English and nae even that pretty. Just an odd, uncanny thing that's bewitched me poor Leo."

"Aye, they'd have burned her for bein' a witch a hundred years ago," grunted a swarthy man in the corner, whose flat, yellowish gaze raked over Agnes in a way that made her want to retch. "P'raps ye should let me put ‘er down mercifully, Me Lady. Could be a changelin'."

"Och, Pip, ye are so fanciful," Flora said with a trilling laugh. "Isnae he just? There are nay such things as faeries, dear."

"Mmm," Pip said, still holding Agnes in a baleful gaze. "Let me ken if ye change yer mind, Flora."

Agnes's head cleared more as she gazed around, even as the pain increased, and she tried to glean what Flora was up to. Her stomach was hollow with hunger and acid, while her body ached.

What had they done to her? How long had she been here?

Again, she looked around, and then her mouth went dry as she realized Flora's intentions. Her heart began to pound in her temples. The woman's smile grew when Agnes looked at her again, and she bobbed her head.

"Ye are clever, I'll give ye that," Flora cooed. "Aye, ye little wench, I mean to get ye out of the way." She huffed. "If only those fools had listened and hadnae been so damned vengeful. Ye would've been dead by the border, and I would've comforted Leo and then offered to wed him." She sighed. "It would have been so romantic."

Kristie had pulled Agnes aside earlier and warned her to stay away from Flora.

"She's always been a nasty thing with an empty head, but now I worry all that hollowness is filled with malice. She seems a bit mad. Watch yer back, Nes."

Agnes couldn't even remember what had happened after that. She'd gone to dinner, tried her best to be a good hostess, and then tried to go to bed early. Someone had called her to the kitchen, and then it all went dark.

She must have been kidnapped then, and who knew how many hours had passed since then?

"Listen when I'm talkin' to ye," Flora snapped, and a hand struck Agnes's face.

Agnes almost laughed at the pitiful hit, but her laughter died down when she saw the frantic gleam in Flora's eyes. Agnes had never believed Mother Superior's intonations about demons. Nonetheless, at that moment, it did seem something inhuman peered at her from Flora's eyes.

But more, she suspected the woman had festered in unhappiness until she had made herself sick in the heart and mind. Sister Theresa had spoken of such things, how it was all part of the body, and of course it could be unwell. Agnes had even had fits of melancholy and anger as a young girl, which Sister Theresa had always helped her through with a gentle hand.

Flora had no mother, though, Agnes knew that. She'd been alone and yearning and rejected. And now she thought to blame Agnes, even Leo, for such things. To take Leo as a prize, to try and stem her sadness.

Agnes gazed at her and shook her head.

"What is that mewlin' look?" Flora demanded. "Dinnae give me those calf eyes, wench."

"No, Flora. Listen, I understand—" Agnes tried, but the woman let out a shriek.

"Ye understand nothin'!"

The woman gripped her golden hair and tore at it. Agnes's stomach churned with nerves—both for herself and Flora. She worried that if the woman hurt herself, Pip might blame her for it.

"Flora, Flora," Agnes tried to say. "You'll hurt yourself."

" Shut yer mouth. You dinnae ken. I-I had plans. But those fools, they took it too far. They werenae supposed to maim Leo, ye ken. Just hurt him a little. And I thought maybe time would heal him, but nay. I suppose the mask is fine." Flora shook her head and smiled. "It's a statement. It's fine. We'll make it work."

They weren't supposed to maim Leo?

Agnes's compassion was snuffed out like a candle in a flood. In its place, she felt an emotion she had never experienced. A slow wave of horror crashed over her, again and again, and all the filaments and cracks of her heart went white-hot with rage.

"What—what did you just say? What did you do to Leo?"

Flora seemed taken aback for the first time, and uncertainty flickered in her eyes. And something like guilt. Agnes reeled back as she realized that Flora had twisted the story to tell herself that if she got Leo, then she could right her wrongs.

"No, it doesn't work like that," Agnes blurted out. "That is not how you do penance. You cannot do right by him by doing wrong again."

Flora swayed, her gaze uncertain, and she swallowed hard. For a moment, Agnes thought she had gotten to her, but then Flora shook herself.

"Ye will be dead soon, so I suppose it doesnae matter…" Flora forced a smile that curved into a cruel blade, and Agnes's blood went cold. "Ye should ken I would do anything for him. His ma and da didnae want us to wed, ye ken. I overheard them discussin' it one day." Her fists clenched. "So, I found an old enemy of the Laird and gave him a bit of money."

Agnes began to shake as Flora beamed, her cheeks becoming rosy.

"It was so clever of me, Agnes. I told them all about the celebration at MacLarsen Castle, and then I poisoned the mead a bit so the MacLarsen men wouldnae be able to fight. And then we…" She gestured around the room, and the men stirred, giving each other nervous looks. "We soaked the wood with the rest." She clapped her hands together. "The old pile went up like a firestorm, Agnes. Ye should've seen it. And what a relief, Briorn Castle is a much finer home for me."

"Leo's parents…" Agnes whispered. "All those people…"

Flora shrugged. "I had nay idea that their enemy would kill them. Jack truly loathed Leo's parents, though. I guess they ended his horse breeding operations or some such—took his horses to their fine homes, rather than lettin' him continue and sell them to barbarians."

Agnes could barely get the name out. "Jack?"

Flora's eyes glinted with blue hate. "Ye'll meet him soon. He's so pleased that I'm handin' him Leo's wife. I do think ye will keep him entertained for a while, at least." She gave Agnes a simpering smile. "But I'm afraid yer death willnae be pleasant."