Page 55 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
Alex grinned at him, and Donall felt a stab of guilt, recalling the way he’d spoken to his long-time friend the night before. “Fair morn.”
He paused a moment. “Alex…”
Alex clapped him on the shoulder, still smiling. “If ye’re about tae apologize fer bein’ a lout last night, dinnae bother. I ken that look well enough, an’ I can forgive the temper fer seein’ ye find someone ye care enough about tae be so sharp. So long as the lass forgives ye, there’s nay harm in it.”
Donall said nothing, but he could feel the heat rising up the back of his neck, and Alex’s smile widened into a teasing smirk. “An’ I take it from yer face that the lass did indeed forgive ye.”
“Aye. We spoke on the matter.” Donall huffed. “But never ye mind that. Ewan, after the meal, I want tae question the prisoner.”
Ewan grimaced. “Aye, me laird. Best be warned though… he’s nae in the best o’ condition. One o’ his wounds has gone bad… Evelyn’s been tae see him, but she says the sickness is deep, an’ has begun taintin’ his blood.”
The words sank into Donall’s gut like stones.
A brief memory surged to the fore, and for a moment, he felt phantom wounds throbbing and burning, recalling a body wracked by fever and chills in turn as the whole world spun and twisted about him.
Donall shoved the memory aside and forced himself to eat some of his food, though his appetite had vanished. “All the more reason tae speak tae him now, while he still has wits an’ health enough tae speak.”
The words cast a somber pall over the table.
They finished their meal, then Donall and Ewan made their way to the dungeon. Donall grimaced as the door opened - even from the doorway he could smell the foulness of rot and diseasetainting the air. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, then made his way to the cell that housed the prisoner.
The Cameron warrior was pale, sweating despite the coolness of the dungeon. The bandage wound tight around his torso was stained in awful hues of reddish-yellow, and the smell emanating from it was truly awful. Even so, the man managed to twist his expression into a pained sneer. “So… the mighty Laird Ranald is comin’ tae see me at last? I thought I might have killed ye.”
“I’d never fall tae a man like ye.” Donall snorted. “Ye’re too weak tae kill me, even if ye might have left a mark.” He studied the man’s battered frame. “Looks like Ewan left more o’ a mark on ye, though.”
He stepped forward and crouched beside the man. “I’ll be honest with ye… I dinnae like being rough with prisoners, but even if I did… that wound will dae more tae ye than I ever could. There’s a good chance ‘twill kill ye. But I’ll give ye a choice - sleep through the end an’ be buried with honor, or remain aware til yer last breath.”
The man scowled, then winced as a slightly deeper breath pulled at the wound. It took everything he had for Donall not to flinch when fresh blood and foulness stained the bandage. The Cameron warrior clenched his teeth against the pain, then slumped against the wall. “What is it ye want tae ken?”
“What daes Laird Cameron want on me land? Why nae come tae me an’ deal with me honestly? Why send raiders intae me lands tae attack me people?”
The man blinked, and Donall was almost certain he saw honest confusion in his gaze. “Because ye’re harboring a runaway, an’ one me laird wants brought tae him with all speed an’ discretion.”
Donall frowned. “I’m harborin’ nay runaway. An’ why nae ask me tae surrender them willingly, if he thinks that’s the case?”
“Because me laird kent that if ye’d offered sanctuary tae the lass, ye’d nae allow her tae be taken back, even if my laird asked ye. Besides, he didnae wish fer his business tae be kent.”
Donall scowled. “I dinnae ken who ye’re talkin’ about. The only lass who’s new tae me lands is me servin’ maid.”
To his surprise, the man nodded. “Aye. That’s the lass. She’s the lass we’ve been sent tae get back fer his lairdship. His runaway betrothed.”
Donall felt himself go cold. “His… what? Why would Laird Cameron marry an English serving maid?”
The prisoner stared, then abruptly burst into unexpected laughter. The expression twisted almost instantly into pain as he gasped and fresh ichor flowed over the bandages, but the amusement was clear. “Ye… ye really… ye dinnae ken… did yereally think that lass was a servant? By Morrigan’s blood, she’s fooled ye well.”
“What dae ye mean?” Donall inched forward and caught the man’s shirt, to jerk him close. “What are ye sayin’? Who is she then?”
“Her name is Lydia Wycliffe. She’s the only daughter o’ the former Lord Wycliffe o’ Wycliffe Province, an’ the niece o’ the current lord, who offered her hand in marriage tae Laird Cameron tae seal their alliance.”
Wycliffe. Donall knew the name. He knew the province. Laird Wycliffe was a lord of modest holdings and modest influence, but unquestionable ambition. He was exactly the kind of man Rory Cameron would have chosen to ally himself with.
It cannae be true. It cannae…
The thought spun through his mind like a prayer, but even as it did, Donall knew the prisoner’s words were true.
All the little oddities. The lack of a surname. The lack of familiarity with so many basic tasks that any servant ought to know how to do, combined with the obvious skill in things like reading, writing, and medicine. Her education, which was far more advanced than any servant’s would ever be - like her knowledge of poetry and plays. Her soft-spoken manner and her soft, uncallused hands.
The way none of her story seemed to quite add up, though everything she said was believable.
