Chapter 37

CRàDH PRISON - SEPTEMBER 28, 1385

S creams rent through the blackness. Aileen startled and gave a silent groan as pain shot through the back of her head, throbbing around the crown of her head and into her temples and sinuses. Tears stung her eyes.

Screams echoed again. She heard them. She could hear!

Blinking her eyes, she tried to make out shapes but couldn't. Her vision. She had no vision. Her heart slammed against her chest. No.

With great effort, she put a hand to the dirty floor and pushed herself to a seated position. Feeling around her, she discerned a wall.

Screams continued to echo, and she turned her head in the direction they came from. And then, from the corner of her eye, she made out the faintest glow of light from the near-dead embers of the fire.

Crawling across the floor, she made her way toward the glow, grabbing up fistfuls of soiled rushes. Head swimming, she fed one fistful and then the other onto the dying embers. Nothing happened. Bending forward, pain slamming through her head, she blew. Come on. She blew again. And again.

One rush, then two, then one bundle went up. Light erupted and she found a partial brick of peat and placed it on the embers. Hurrying, she grabbed more fistfuls of rushes and threw them on and blew. Finally, after several minutes, and almost half the rushes on the floor, the peat caught.

A warm glow of light illuminated the room and she stilled. The hearth, the ticks on the wall…she knew this cell. Léo .

A feeling that he was near enveloped her and she took a steadying breath, looking around the tiny cell. There was nothing more to see. How had he survived months trapped in here, alone? With no natural light? No fresh air? No sense of day or night, or what time it was?

You.

A distinct voice made itself known in the tenderest place of her heart and she became frightened. She looked around for the source of the sound but knew she wouldn't find it.

When she didn't hear the voice again, she put a hand to her head. It must be her injury. Checking herself, she looked at the scrapes on her fingers and tried each one, wiggling them and feeling her joints. Not broken.

She repeated the process with her legs. Not broken.

Feet. Not broken.

Stomach. She flinched and raised her bloody tunic. Bruised, tender. But no broken ribs.

Arms. Hale.

Neck. Dirty. She cringed and moved it from side to side. A bit stiff, but not injured.

She sucked in a breath, knowing her head was a different matter. Careful fingers went to her chin. Scraped raw. Cheeks—puffy. Mouth, swollen and ragged. She moved her tongue and found all her teeth still in place. Her fingers traveled to her nose and immediately her stomach convulsed from pain.

Nose. Broken.

Eyes—both puffy, but this morning…if it was morning…she could open them both.

Taking a deep breath, she brought her hands to the back of her head and found her hair matted with blood. There was a three-inch gash on the very crown of her head, and she could feel matching cuts over her scalp, but other than a headache and a bit of lingering oozing, it was not as bad as she feared .

She had survived. With most of her body intact. Thank You, God. Thank You.

Getting to her wobbly legs, she made a few laps around the cell and dropped into a crouched position, stretching one leg and then the other. Laying down upon the straw mat, she brought one leg up beside her ear and stretched it, and then the other. She twisted to stretch her low back, and then repeated it on the other side.

One part after another, she stretched the stiffness from her muscles. She would need to be limber, for the next time the door opened she would run. She could remember the corridors, the stairways, the passages. She could remember where the water gate was. If she could get to it, she could steal a boat and get to shore.

Eyes finding the ticks on the wall, she studied the markers of time. In the beginning some were whole, some scratched out. He must have been mistaken about a new day a few times. And then, after a month's worth of ticks the marks became steady. Every six marks, a long mark extended down with an FA beside it.

FA…Father Allen. Two marks bore a heart, a small letter within…M. For Moira.

Her heart gave an almighty shudder. He cared for her, even in the beginning? When he'd insulted her? When she'd sketched Gabriel, and he told her how much he regretted kissing her?

Straining her eyes, she made out something else etched into the darkened corner of the cell. More words.

Moira Allen . All her secrets …a little dash.

Mysteries in her eyes.

Beautiful eyes.

Golden curls.

Soft skin.

Lavender and freedom.

Delicious food.

Stubborn.

Principled.

Bold.

Funny.

Heart of gold. A small heart sketched beside .

Observant.

Talented.

Smart.

Brave.

Selfless.

Healer of body.

Healer of soul.

She followed the list of her superlatives all the way to the floor where he'd run out of room. She swept the rushes away with her hands, finding that it continued on the stone floor.

No voice, but she

speaks to my soul.

Companion.

Friend.

Love in her kiss.

Fire in her soul.

Loves God.

And I love her.

Tears dropped upon the last sentence. He'd known who she was all along. How? How had he seen who she was when they'd only met a few times?

Again, the voice spoke to her heart. You saved his life. You gave him affection when his soul needed comfort. You fed him. You clothed him. You gave him the world outside this prison. You gave him my words so he would not lose hope. You've done my work, and I love you, too.

Touching one hand to her heart and one to the scrawled words, she felt out of her depth. He'd known these things about her before he ever knew her true name.

The same man wanted to marry her, and she'd turned him down. The only person who loved her for exactly who she was.