Page 114 of Bride of Mist
“I don’t believe ye.”
Feiyan seized the iron bars, squeezing them in desperate fists. How could she convince the maid of the truth?
“Fine,” she said, “Don’t believe me. Believe your own eyes. You saw what Gaufrid did when I threatened your life. You sampled his mercy. He would have let me slit your throat.”
Merraid’s resolve faltered, but only briefly. “I’m only a maidservant,” she reasoned. “Dougal is his blood kin.”
Feiyan felt a twinge of pity at Merraid’s claim. How brutal was Gaufrid’s rule that a maidservant would believe her life was expendable?
“I’m telling you, he won’t make the exchange.”
“I’m sorry,” Merraid said, turning away.
“Nay!” Feiyan cried, then lowered her voice in a quiet plea. “Don’t go. Gaufrid will kill me. And then he’ll let my clan kill Dougal.”
“Sorry.”
“Nay!” Feiyan screamed after the maid as she scurried off, taking the light and hope with her.
Fergus was pleasantly surprised with the information the maidservant extracted from the prisoner. She’d been rather useful. On her own, without direction from him, the clever lass had managed to gain valuable knowledge, saving him the trouble of having to torture the captive for it.
Indeed, so useful was this information, he and Morris might reward the wee maid later with a lusty romp between the linens.
Of course, she had a very different idea about what he meant todowith this information. He had no intention of ransoming Dougal mac Darragh, no matter what the cow-eyed lass believed.
After all, he was now in possession of Feiyan la Nuit, a warrior maid of the illustrious Rivenloch clan, an ally of the mac Girics and the niece of the laird.
Once Dougal had arrived at Creagor, no doubt loudly accusing the mac Girics of the massacre perpetrated at Kirkoswald, he’d probably been disabused of his belief at the point of a sword. Maybe the lass herself had slain him and kept his plaid as a souvenir.
That was for the best. Laird Gaufrid might pretend he was only getting Dougal out of his sight for a while. But Fergus and Morris knew better. And in his gut, so did Gaufrid. He had to know he was sending his brother on a suicide mission.
Now Fergus had earned a bonus for his trouble. A valuable hostage who would command a hefty price.
His only regret was that he wouldn’t be able to pay the wicked wench back for the damage she’d inflicted. The cracked ribs. The bruised throat. The smashed knee. The crushed ballocks. Battered and humiliated by the wee slip of a warrior lass, he’d salivated over the idea of having her tied up and at his mercy. Imagined all sorts of painfully devious and deviant torments to subject her to while he feigned to care about and demanded to know Dougal’s whereabouts.
Now he and Morris would have to forego their aberrant pleasure. Which was a pity. Unrequited revenge made one’s injuries throb all the more.
But that couldn’t be avoided. Perhaps they’d take their frustrations out on the wee maidservant later. As for the warrior maid, she would command a higher price if she was untouched.
Feiyan felt her way along the cave wall, running her fingers over the stony, damp surface, heading toward the sound of the sea.
Maybe there was a way out.
Several yards along, after unrelenting darkness, the passage curved to the right. There, light filtered in to speed her progress, allowing her to discern the knobby rock walls.
When she entered the last chamber of the cave and saw the bright beach and the misty water beyond through a narrow opening, however, the beautiful view was cleaved into squares by another iron grate that sealed the entrance. This one had no hinges.
The fresh, salty air kept the cell from feeling like a grave. But she wondered who had been imprisoned here before. Had they been starved? Forgotten to death? Antagonized by those strolling in delicious freedom along the beach? Were their unlucky skeletons cowering in the darkest corners of the cave?
She shivered. Eventually the cold and hunger would kill her, if Gaufrid and the Fortanachs didn’t first.
She cursed herself for trusting Dougal’s trusty maid. She might be faithful and devoted. She probably felt she was doing the right thing, saving her beloved Dougal. But she didn’t have an ounce of good judgment if she believed Gaufrid would go along with her scheme.
She did an obligatory test of the iron bars. Forged into the rock, they didn’t budge. She dug down through the sand. The grate extended farther than her arms could reach. It might as well have been anchored to the underworld.
Finally, she sighed and looked out through the rusty grate. White-capped waves of gray lashed the sand, leaving a frothy trail like a glimmering snail’s path. Seagulls skipped along its edge, searching for breakfast.
Was Dougal searching for her? Had he discovered she was missing yet?
