Chapter 11

DUN RINGILL CASTLE - OCTOBER 30, 1384

M oira was certain the instructions Ardis had received from Lady MacKinnon were incorrect.

"After you gather up the old rushes and discard them, you'll need to scrub each stone beneath and make sure that all traces of dirt are gone. Then and only then, you will spread fresh rushes over the floor. Let's not have another problem like we did the other day."

An annoyed twinge went up Moira's neck and settled in her jaw. She gritted her teeth and pointed to Ardis's mouth and then toward herself in an emphatic swoop. You told me to do that.

Ardis dropped her head toward her shoulder, an annoyed look contorting the striking features of her face. "I feel like you're trying to tell me something."

Moira gritted her teeth. Somehow in the last two months Ardis had come to the conclusion that because she had no voice she therefore had no brain.

Fisting her hands, Moira seethed, then pointed her right index finger, mouthing, YOU.

She swept the finger in an arc and froze. TOLD.

She pointed the finger in her own face. ME .

Sweeping her arms wide she looked around the room, holding them aloft. TO DO THAT.

Ardis crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't understand what you're saying. Do you think you can handle everything I just told you to do?"

Defeated, she nodded.

Ardis rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. "Good."

Moira began sweeping up the rushes and piling them in the corner of the room. For two months she had put up with Ardis, a fellow chambermaid in no way senior to her. Rather than telling Moira prior to a task how Lady MacKinnon preferred to have things done, Ardis seemed to wait until Moira was finished to tell her it was wrong and needed to be done again. For weeks she'd endured comments like… is there a reason you did it that way? And, that may be the way you do things, but we do it this way. If the result was a cleaned room, Moira failed to understand why it mattered how she did things.

Specks of dust floated through early morning light as she swept up the rushes she had scattered over the servant's hall only yesterday, and she hacked and hurried over to the window to open the shutters.

Outside, clouds blanketed over Loch Slapin and she paused for a moment in the misty cold, taking a deep breath of fresh air, and watching a sea eagle make a lazy swoop over the harbor, circling the rippling gray water.

The graceful hunter patrolled its territory with a discerning eye, then suddenly picked up speed and bore down on a sparrow, snatching it within its talons and swooping up into the mist, to a place the sparrow would meet its death. She thought of Niall. Was she the eagle or the sparrow? Lord, what do I do?

Filled with evil, Niall had brought her to his chamber that wretched night Father was murdered. She'd fought him with all she had, and managed to connect her elbow with his wounded mouth and her knee with his groin. If he expected she would meekly accept her fate like all the other lemans of Dun Ringill, he had another thing coming. She would rather die.

Angry, but pragmatic, Niall had locked her in the auld dungeon of Dun Ringill to break her will, and there she'd stayed for two days, happy to be away from him.

On the third day, when she still rejected his advances and attacked like a crazed cat every time he came near he'd decided to change his tack and made her a scullery in the kitchen, intending for her to come willingly to him if he made her life miserable enough. He hadn't been expecting flies in his dinner, scorched porridge in the morning, vinegar in his wine. Outsmarted, he turned her over to his mother. An effective punishment indeed.

Malvina MacKinnon was a domineering woman permanently imbued with her power as lady of the clan though her husband was long dead. Within the walls of Dun Ringill there had been no passage of time, and though her son was now the leader of the MacKinnons in name, everyone continued to bend to Malvina's will. And so, by Malvina's will Moira was made a chambermaid.

Unafraid and unimpressed by her new mistress' icy resolve, Moira persisted with her revolt and washed Malvina's hand mirror with a mixture of flour and water. The woman's cold black eyes took in Moira's handiwork without a flicker of emotion and then, without warning, she'd nearly beaten Moira unconscious with the heavy silver. Bloodied and senseless, the housekeeper helped Moira to her bed, where she was forced to recover for more than a week. In the end, Malvina had achieved what Niall had not—a compliant servant.

Moira pressed her lips together and sucked in a strengthening breath of harvest wind. Refocusing on the task at hand, she swept the rushes into a neat pile and began to bundle them.

Isobel stuck her head in the hall. "What are you doing, Moira?"

She gestured to the bare stone floor and motioned a scrub brush with her hand.

"Didn't you change the rushes yesterday?"

A beat of suspicion stilled her. She nodded.

"Why are you washing them, then?"

Exasperated, she dropped her broom and formed her sign for Ardis.

Isobel brought a hand to her wrinkled cheek. "Oh dearie, no. We only scrub the floors in the great hall because no rushes cover the floor in that room. The servants' hall has rushes changed every other week, and we scrub twice a year. They were scrubbed last in June. No need for a scrub for two months' time."

That cat.

Isobel's fading blue eyes studied Moira's sign for Malvina. "I will discuss it with Lady Malvina, but willnae mention your name. If she gets it in her head that you'll be the one performing the task, you'll be scrubbing every floor in the keep."

As the longest-serving member of the Dun Ringill staff, Isobel had earned the unquestioning respect of both the servants and the family as housekeeper. Conscientious and kind, it was difficult for even the crooked MacKinnons to find a fault in the auld woman. A near-impossible feat, as far as Moira could tell.

Isobel waddled over and took the broom from the floor. "I was about to go upstairs and see to the pots. I'll fix this before Malvina comes down, you make yourself scarce and get them collected."

Moira blew her a kiss and made the few signs Isobel knew. Thank you, Isobel.

"No trouble. And lass?"

Moira lifted her eyebrows. "Ask me how something's done no matter what Ardis tells you. That's the fourth time this week she's tricked you."

She rolled her eyes and nodded. Fourth, and not the last time Ardis would be after her. Ever since Moira had moved from scullery to chambermaid Ardis's entire demeanor had transformed from pleasant to threatened as if it were Moira's own choice to continue at Dun Ringill and usurp Ardis' place in the pecking order.

Exiting the gloomy servant's hall and climbing the damp backstairs, Moira made her way toward the fourth floor where the family kept their rooms. She pushed into the first room and collected Lady Malvina's used pot from beneath the bed and then returned to the corridor garderobe? 1 and emptied it down the hole.

The next chamber was the family's common solar? 2 . Listening for sounds of Niall, she waited, relieved to hear nothing. As she was about to continue to the next room she noticed the door wobble, though generally neither Niall nor Malvina frequented the solar at this time of the day .

If there were used pots inside and she didn't collect them, she would be in trouble. A memory of the heavy hand mirror colliding with her skull was enough to make her consider going inside, even if Niall was there. With one finger she pushed the heavy door. It creaked open a few inches and she peered through the crack.

The room was dark and ominous, though a fire burned in the hearth. The heavy bear skin over the window lofted out on the breeze. Someone must have forgotten to secure it last night. Punishment for one servant was a punishment for all, and reluctantly she slid inside.

The room was empty. Her heart slowed. Thank God for small mercies.

It was hard to believe that a man as good-hearted as Léo had been raised in this hopeless place. Every piece of furniture, the skins on the windows and floors, the fabric of the cushions, and the half-paneled walls were dark. It was as if light itself was not welcome in their home. She thought of Father's cheerful cottage by the sea with its drawings and shells, and then looked around at the ugly room. No wonder Léo's family was loony.

Around the half-plastered, half-paneled walls, wolves chased a deer across the fields of a painted snowy scene. Her eyes followed their pursuit around the room. From the shoreline painted above the door the doe ran, over a burn? 3 , through the wood, around the heights of the Cuillin Hills. The chase ended over the hearth with the doe sprawled in the snow, blood leaching from her neck as hungry wolves devoured her. A warped choice to adorn the walls of a solar, but fitting for this lot.

The bear skin slapped against the plaster and she jumped, then chuckled to herself, and made her way to the window. As she navigated around a heavy oak desk, a word on a wrinkled piece of paper beside a collection of spirits caught her eye. Duart.

Squinting her eyes in the dim light, she read the correspondence.

Chief Niall MacKinnon. Dun Ringill Castle. Isle of Skye. — Three centuries caterans to infiltrate Craignure, third November. Expect to take Duart same night. Two additional centuries to arrive by boat through the Sound of Mull after commencement. Need additional support, three tent-groups ? 4 archers and as many centuries of guard as you can spare. Expect total destruction. No prisoners. - A. Stewart .

The Wolf was planning to attack Duart Castle. The stronghold of the Duart house of the MacLean clan. The fine hair on the backs of her arms stood on end. An attack on Hector's brother. Her heart jumped into her throat. No prisoners? He had a wife and five children.

Searching the desk, she found paper and ink and picked up the quill, copying the message with speed. When she'd finished she stowed away the supplies, blew on the ink, and folded the paper. How would she get the message out of the castle? For months she'd been trying, but every door was barred and every window hung over Loch Slapin—its dark waters too frightening to risk a fall. Unsure what else she could do she pulled off her slipper and stowed the information in her shoe.

"What are you doing in here?"

Gasping, she brought a hand to her chest, fear overtaking her senses.

Niall stalked close to her, his portly figure becoming a solid wall between herself and the door. "So you do get scared?"

Heart pounding, she drew her shoulders back, refusing to look guilty, but unsure how much he'd witnessed before she'd stowed the missive away. She pointed toward the door, then brought her closed palms together and opened them like a book.

"The door was open?"

She nodded and turned, pulling back the heavy bear skin, demonstrating that the window shutters were opened. He gripped the sill on either side of her, pinning her to the window. Her heart raced. It had taken much skill to avoid Niall MacKinnon in his own keep, but for two months she'd managed to be trapped alone with him only twice.

"Beautiful, long-legged Moira. Have you thought about my offer?"

She swallowed and nodded her head.

He dropped his face beside hers, his lips touching her neck, and it took all of her self-control not to slap him away. He breathed in and she shivered with revulsion, though he seemed to be encouraged by it.

"Wouldn't you love to know pleasure? To feel a thrill every time I'm near?"

Sour breath filled her nose. The only thing she could feel when Niall was near was desperation for him to leave. She shook her head. No.

"Wouldn't you love to have fine gowns, hot baths, a maid to take care of your every need?"

What maid? Ardis? She shook her head. No .

"Wouldn't you like to live in chambers as fine as this?"

Her eyes found the wolf on the wall, a bloody bone hanging from its mouth, its ugly, lifeless eyes staring back at her. She almost laughed. No.

"Wouldn't you love to have your freedom? To go where you want, when you want?"

Her mind filled with rapid thoughts of freedom—trees, mountains, songbirds, rain on her skin, her cottage on Breacais, a boat to Cràdh, Léo. Her shoulders slumped and she nodded. Yes.

He made a sound of pleasure.

"Ah I knew we could come to an agreement."

She shook her head back and forth with deliberate force and mouthed NO.

He pushed off the windowsill and looked at her. "But now I know what you want, and that is something. You will come to me, my sweet. Willing and ready."

She would rather eat a slug. Turning, she latched the shutters and squeezed around the other side of the desk, moving quickly toward the corridor. Niall plodded right behind her, his heavy breathing making her feel as if she were being followed by a monster. Moving down the hall's gloomy length, she stopped before the next door. The chief's solar.

There was no choice but to continue her morning collection of the pots. Her breathing became audible as she drew up her courage and opened the door. If he tried anything, the man would earn another missing front tooth beside the one her father had knocked out.

His eyes were alight with desire as she neared his bed. Reaching the bed, she dropped down and removed his very full pot and drew it swiftly up between them.

Fixing her sweetest smile to her face, she held it out to him and he jumped back and growled like the animal he was. Ensuring her face looked innocent and confused, she lifted an eyebrow.

"You think this is a jest." A hand fisted in the knot of hair at the back of her head and he drew her painfully backward, waste sloshing out of the pot and across his shoes. "Do you think I'll wait forever? That I've forgotten why and for what purpose I've brought you here? You will come to me, or I will come for you. The decision is yours. We can make this pleasurable for both of us, or only me."

If she had a way out, if she had a way to run, she would break the pot over his pasty head. He tightened his grip in her curls. "I will give you time, but show me that you are trying or I will lose my patience."

Hating herself, she nodded and he released her.

"Now. Clean these." He kicked off his shoes and threw them at her, but they missed, landing on either side of her.

Léo wouldn't have missed the target. The unreasonable thought almost made her laugh, and then cry, but she remained calm and picked up the shoes with her right hand and hefted the pot in her left.

Thankful he did not follow her, she dashed into the privacy of the garderobe, and shut the door. She emptied the pot, stomach roiling, and she screamed as loud as she could. Lungs burning, only a clicking rasp came from her throat. Her stomach heaved and she bent over the hole cut into the bench and vomited.

Sinking to her knees and shaking with sickness, she curled into a ball. A wave of rejection hit her fresh and hard, sweeping her off her feet and sucking her into a tide of torment. God, what have I done to earn your wrath? Please forgive me. Please God, I will do anything, forgive me. Show me the way. Get me out of here.

After a few more minutes of letting herself cry the tears she never let fall, resolve armored around her. Crying would do her no good, she must endure. For strength, she touched the heavy gold chain tucked inside her dress and hidden by her shawl. Wear it for me, as the one I've chosen. The words held her together. She still belonged to someone, and one day, they would be together.

Please Lord, even if you are angry with me, be merciful to Léo. Please don't let him die. Help him to get stronger.

Wiping her tears, she sucked in a breath, then pushed to her feet. Collecting the pots, and Niall's disgusting shoes, she emerged into the hallway and walked back to the servants' corridor, and down its dank stairs to the ground floor dungeon.

In the far corner of the moldering stone gaol she deposited soiled pots and shoes into Isobel's wooden trough and poured water into the bottom, then searched the shelf for soap. Finding none, she wandered to the shelves in the back corner. A light breeze ruffled over her wet skin. She held her hand out and felt for air. Nothing but her imagination.

After scouring the pots, she placed them upside down to dry. As she scrubbed her hands, another breeze cooled across her fingers. That was not imagined.

Wetting her cheeks to better judge where the draft originated from, she stepped into the middle of the room. Her left cheek cooled.

Following the tiny waft of air, she wandered through an archway and paused. Her right cheek cooled. She walked forward and collided with a wall. In the darkness she felt along the damp walls and realized that there was a ragged hole in the rock. Her hands felt around the hole, little wider than her hips, and removed a few stones to open it farther, tossing them aside.

Crouching in the dirt, she stuck her arm through the hole and waved it around. Her hand did not collide with wall. It was an opening.

Getting onto her belly, she slid forward, pulling her chest, then hips, through the opening. She waved her arm above her head. No ceiling. Rocking to her feet, she wandered forward, arms outstretched. Her shoes skittered away from her and she tumbled down stairs, skinning the backs of her legs, landing in a pile of stone.

Feeling hundreds of round rocks all around her, she realized she was sitting in an old river bed. She felt behind her. Stairs. A river opening. It was an old water gate. Perhaps connecting to the outside.

Something furry brushed her hand and skittered away, and she cringed, thankful she couldn't see whatever it was. One hand extended, she crawled forward. No wall. Getting back to her feet, she kept her steps slow and moved forward up the rocky passage.

After walking for ten minutes light began to penetrate the darkness. She kept walking. After five more minutes, her shoes sank into thick mud. She continued forward, the light becoming brighter and brighter, until a mouth began to form in the distance.

Thighs burning from trudging through muck, she put a hand on either side of the mouth of the opening and pulled herself out, astonished to find herself in the center of a grassy knoll. Bracken rose all around her in the impenetrable forest and shrouded her location.

A tall tree rose at the edge of her distant vision and she ran toward it like a bird freed from its cage. Launching herself into its branches, she climbed, higher and higher. At the top she looked out over the forest, spreading her hands to the sky. Below her, a pool caught the waters of the Albhainn Cille Mhaire.

She descended the tree and began traveling northwest, thanking God for his mercy. It was still early morning. If she walked all day with only a short break or two she could make Dunvegan by nightfall.