Page 9 of Sins of a Scot
Large fires burned in huge iron baskets stood on tall poles, the fire causing dark shadows on the cobbled ground beneath their feet. The area was busy with noises, and shouting, and children yelling. In fact, as Iseabail looked around about her, it reminded her of home.
The heir of Clan Sinclair, or so he called himself, guided his horse onwards, and eventually, they came to a huge woodenstructure that Iseabail recognized as the stables. After he had dismounted, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her down to stand beside him, keeping a tight grip on her wrist. Two young stable hands hurriedly took hold of the horse’s reins and guided the steed away.
“Now what?” his companion asked, once he had dismounted his horse and let the stable hands deal with both it and Iseabail’s mare.
“We’ll take her tae the dungeons. I have some questions I’d like tae ask her,” Mask growled, glaring down at her.
Iseabail gasped and gawked at him. Partly because at some point, he had removed his mask, and she could now see his face fully. He was as handsome as she had imagined he would be, but ruggedly so. Blue eyes pierced into hers as black hair framed the chiseled jawline of his face. The other reason came from the fact that, although she didn’t really know what she expected to happen when she arrived at this castle, she had not fully believed him when he had told her the dungeons were waiting for her.
“What?” he spat. “Did ye think I was jesting? Did ye think I might go easy on ye because ye’re a lass?” He then narrowed his eyes and gave her a cold stare. “Nae a chance.”
Abruptly, he pulled her along with him as they headed towards the towering castle. Iseabail had to trot a little to keep up with his huge, angry strides. As they neared the building, he did not take her in through the front entrance, but entered the castle via a smaller wooden door situated on the side.
Once inside, they turned right and traveled down a corridor. It was dull, with only small lanterns fixed on the wall to light their way. Iseabail was now beginning to grow a little more worried. She had imagined, at some point, that she might have been able to use her powers to get out of this situation, but if this man was going to keep an eye on her, she was stuck. She was simply powerless while he continued to wear that crystal around his neck.
The spiral staircase was narrow, and thus, he went first, Iseabail followed, and his companion followed at the rear. She turned to try and catch his eye, but the stairs were steep and she nearly lost her balance, and thus, she turned her attention forward again. Falling down the stone steps and breaking her neck was hardly going to assist her in escaping.
Once at the bottom, Laird Sinclair’s son grabbed her wrist once more and marched her down yet another dull corridor. They rounded a corner up ahead and immediately, Iseabail noticed the iron bars of the cells.
A guard jumped up from his post at their approach, and looking rather surprised, he said, “Is everything all right, sir?”
“Indeed, it isnae,” he growled. Nodding to one of the gates in front of them, he said, “Open that cell.”
“Aye, o’ course,” the guard replied, still looking slightly confused.
A piercing screech hit her ears as the guard pulled the rusty gate open. But the second it was wide enough, she felt herself shoved inside. It came as a surprise to her to see how clean the cell was. Not that she had spent any time in a cell in a dungeon, but she imagined it ought to be darker, colder, and perhaps teeming with rats.
Hearing the gate slam behind her, she spun around, only to discover her captor had stepped into the cell with her.
“Leave us,” he called to the guard.
A second later, the guard and the man who had accompanied them back to the castle seemed to disappear. To where, Iseabail had no idea.
“Now,” he growled, stalking toward her. “I want answers. What were ye doing in the tavern? How come ye ended up watching the fight when nay women are allowed? What dae ye want with me? And what did ye dae tae Daire?”
Iseabail was overwhelmed with all his questions, and could only stare at him. She had no intention of answering anything he asked of her, but even if she wanted to answer, she could now not remember the first thing he had said.
He heaved a sigh. “Let’s start from the beginning. I will tell ye me name, and ye can tell me yers, because I can bet every stitching of clothing I wear, that it isnae Soirsche. Fair?”
Iseabail nodded because, well, what else was she supposed to do?
“Me name is Owen Sinclair, son o’ Laird Madigan Sinclair. And ye are?”
“Iseabail,” she replied firmly.
She did not feel nervous, for as bad as the situation was, she sensed that there was no danger in this man. It was a strange assumption to make under the circumstances, and yet, her gut told her it was so, and thus, she believed it.
He gave her a long glance. “Iseabail what?”
She shook her head. “I’m nae willing tae tell ye any more than that.”
“I’m afraid that just isnae good enough,Iseabail,” he said, emphasizing her name. “Ye did something in that tavern. Ye did something tae Daire.”
She now understood that Daire was the name of his huge companion. The man who looked like he might be able to rip a man, or woman, in two with his bare hands.
“Are ye a witch?”
“Indeed, I am nae a witch,” Iseabail spat. “What a ridiculous question.”
