Page 23 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
* * *
When they arrived at Mulrigg, Ramsay was led into the Great Hall straight away. His hands were still bound, and he reeked of the mouldy straw he had been sitting in for the last hours. He felt a mixture of emotions; fear, anger, and last but not least, embarrassment as he stepped into the massive chamber and the gaze of a pair of bright green eyes met his own.
They widened slightly as Ailsa looked at him, but she raised the corners of her lips in a slight smile of encouragement; she was on his side and wanted to let him know.
Ramsay had no time to send a signal back to her, however. He was distracted by the deafening sound of a harsh, grating voice yelling from the corner of the big room.
“That’s him! That’s the swine that gave me the letter.” The owner of the voice was a large, muscular man who was completely unknown to Ramsay. He had fiery red hair, a bushy beard of the same colour, and fierce brown eyes that were so dark they almost looked like holes in his face.
“I did no such thing,” Ramsay cried indignantly. “Who are you? I have never seen you before in my life.”
“Aye, well, I saw you when ye came across the Braeburn tae talk tae me.” Kenneth stepped towards him, his face screwed into a savage scowl, and poked his finger into Ramsay’s chest.
Up close, he was even more repulsive, with rotten front teeth and breath that smelled so foul that it made Ramsay want to be sick. However, all of that was unimportant. What mattered was that this was the man who had killed his brother, and Ramsay was going to do the same to Kenneth Anderson, even if he had to give up his own life to do it. He had never been so furious in his life.
Ramsay’s hands were still bound, and a guard was standing on each side of him grasping his arms, but anger gave him strength, and he leapt forward and launched himself at the other man. Anderson stumbled backwards, toppled over, then fell down and hit the back of his head on the hard floor with an audible thud.
Ramsay had been about to press home his advantage with a savage kick before he noticed something that stopped him in his tracks. Anderson’s kilt had partially ridden up his thighs after the fall, and he could see that the long stretch of white flesh had not a single mark on it. Ramsay knew that during his battle with John’s killer, he had sliced open a long gash in his enemy’s leg, so this man could not be his murderer.
He took a step back, but his anger had not yet cooled as he thought about the unjust accusations that had been levelled against him. This man might not have fired the fatal arrow, but he had delivered the letters that had led to John’s death, and had as much of John’s blood on his hands as the archer himself, in Ramsay’s eyes.
Ramsay felt himself being yanked backwards into the grip of his guards, which was tighter this time. He was not going to be allowed to escape again. For the first time, he took a good look at the people in front of him. He recognised Ailsa’s father, of course, but there were a number of other men there, and their well-made clothes spoke of wealth. They were likely other elders of his clan.
He moved his gaze back to Ailsa again; she was looking at him sympathetically, and for a few seconds, he felt at peace before he thought of John again. “Where have you taken John’s body?” he asked, unable to keep a tremor out of his voice.
Ailsa opened her mouth to speak, but the Laird forestalled her, holding up a hand as he addressed Ramsay. “He has been taken to the infirmary, where it is cool and dark,” he said, but his voice was as hard as stone and his expression was thunderous. “He is being washed and laid out ready for burial when we make the proper arrangements. It is not in my nature to treat the dead with disrespect, Master Ormond, but you,” he stepped forward and poked a finger in Ramsay’s chest, “are a different matter. Your brother is dead and my daughter could have been killed because of you, so you will rest in the comfort of my dungeon tonight.”
“May I see him?” Ramsay asked desperately. “Just once more.”
“When everything is ready, you may,” the Laird replied, then he warned, “But only if you cause no more trouble. If you prove to be a nuisance you will never see him again. Do you understand?”
Ramsay nodded, his heart breaking. At that moment he felt so miserable that if someone had tried to attack him he would have put up no defence.
“Are ye goin’ tae punish him for attackin’ me, M’Laird?” Kenneth Anderson asked angrily. He was rubbing the back of his head and screwing his face up in pain. Looking at him, Ailsa felt nothing but contempt, since he was so obviously exaggerating.
The Laird turned to him, frowning, and said irritably, “What I do with him is none of your business, Anderson. Now get out of here, and I will speak to you later.”
The flame-haired man gave Ramsay a murderous look as he marched out and slammed the great doors behind him, causing the room to shudder.
Ailsa jumped, startled by the sudden bang, then looked up at Ramsay. His gaze was waiting for her, and she had never seen such sadness in the depths of anyone’s eyes before. Her heart was aching for him, and she tried to signal her sympathy by steepling her hands in a gesture of prayer under her chin and mouthing, “Be strong.” Then she gave him a small encouraging smile for good measure.
Laird McBain nodded to the guards, who turned and walked to the door. Just as they opened it, Ramsay glanced over his shoulder at her with a look that said,Please help me.
Ailsa nodded her acquiescence; she would do everything she could to see justice done, and not just because of the righteousness of Ramsay’s cause. He needed someone to love and look after him, and if there was no one else, she would be that person.
10
The staircase that led to the dungeons at Mulrigg Castle was as dingy as the ones at Balmuir and probably every other castle in existence, Ramsay thought as he was led downwards into the darkness. The stench that hit him was a mixture of mould, stale urine and unwashed bodies which almost made him retch. As well as that, there was the unmistakable odour of rats, and he suspected that they would become his neighbours for as long as he was there.
Ramsay was hungry and exhausted, and a splitting headache was beginning to develop between his eyes. All this, and the misery that was pressing down on him because of John’s death, was forcing him down into a pit of gloom that was worse than anything he had ever experienced. His hands had been untied, but he was practically thrown into the cell, fortunately landing on the thin mattress on which he would have to sleep that night. It cushioned a little of the impact of his landing, though.
He asked for water and was brought some in a chipped clay cup, then he drank it down in one draught like a thirsty man in a desert. It served to make his stomach rumble, however, and he suddenly felt so weak that he had to lie down. He had no strength left to worry any more; at last, sleep overtook him and he sank into its blessed oblivion.
* * *
“He does not belong in the dungeon,” Ailsa yelled at her father. She had been prepared to follow Ramsay downstairs as the door closed behind him and had only been prevented when he intervened by clamping his big hand around her forearm.
“We do not know that for sure,” the Laird said sternly. “His story is very weak.”
