Page 30 of The Forest Bride
“Hey, you. Good lad, good girl. Stay,” he said, and stood with a hand on either head. Margaret straightened as the brown terrier jumped for more attention. “The wee one is Broom,” Campbell said. “This is Freya. The big lad here is Mungo.”
She patted heads, shoulders, the small one eager, the two larger dogs calm and regal. “Beautiful sighthounds, and the wee cairn is lovely too.”
Bran grunted. “A bundle of mischief, that one.”
“Bran,” Duncan Campbell said, “bring something upstairs for us in a bit. We are starved. And send to the village to fetch your sister here, if you will.”
“It is late to fetch her. Gone gloaming already.”
“We need her help. The lad is injured.”
Then Duncan Campbell took Margaret’s arm gently as he led her along a dim corridor. Lennox and Bran followed, the dogs weaving in and out. They greeted Lennox and were curious about her, but craved Campbell’s attention. Reaching a passageway, Bran held cheese out to lure the dogs away with him.
Campbell led Margaret up a turning stair, Lennox behind them. The wedge steps were worn and treacherous in the shadows, the only light the yellow gleam of a wall torch.
On the third level, a stone platform with two doors, Duncan Campbell opened the right-hand door, fitted with a latch and brackets.
“Go in,” he directed, guiding her inside the dark room. “You will stay here.”
She turned. “Is there a candle? Can I make a fire in the brazier? I am a bit hungry,” she added, plaintive and hoping. She had expected to be led down to a grim cell rather than to what appeared to be a bedchamber.
Silhouetted in the doorway against torchlight, his face was inscrutable. “Someone will see to your needs.” He shut the door before she could reply. Then she heard the decisive click of a latch and a thunk as a wooden bar slid into brackets. Footsteps sounded as Campbell and Lennox descended the stairs.
So it was a prison after all. Fear ran through her and she folded her arms against it. Turning again, she peered through the shadows.
The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a narrow bed against one wall, covered in a plaid blanket with a few folded linens. Red woolen curtains strung on ropes were draped partly around the bed. Nearby was a small wooden table and a bench.
An iron brazier stood cold and dark in a corner, but the promise of heat reassured her, if she could find flint and kindling. A wooden cupboard on spindly legs filled another corner; on top of that was a candlestick, a cup and bowl, a stack of small books. But she did not see a flint. Hearths and braziers generally were not put out entirely, and could be quickly ignited. She hoped someone would bring a light to banish the damp chill and shadows.
A tall arched window was framed by wooden shutters beneath a top section of leaded glass roundels. She crossed to the window and opened one of the unlatched shutters to find the window open with no barrier. But as she peered down, she saw the tower wall and a long drop to the bailey yard.
She breathed in the cool damp air carried off the loch and rose on her toes to lean on the stone sill. The view overlooked the curtain wall planted on the peninsula at the water’s edge. Far beyond, hills and tall pines were dark against the twilight sky.
Closing the shutter against the chill, she sat on the bed and gathered a blanket around her, shivering. The mattress rustled, giving off a dusty blend of heather and pine.
The chamber seemed more suited to the occasional guest than a captive. Cold and empty now, it would be comfortable with a fire in the brazier. But the drawbar was a telling detail that said she was definitely a prisoner.
She rubbed her aching shoulder and then her knee as fatigue crept through her bones. Time seemed to pour by, and she hadfound no way to help Lilias yet. Her sense of frustration and desperation increased.
Though she regretted Menteith’s wounding, she had not done it deliberately. Somehow the arrow’s track had curved to catch him. She did not understand how that had happened. Then Campbell, doubting her innocence, had dragged her to the far end of the loch, leaving Menteith hours away. She had lost Andrew Murray again, and could only hope he would find his way back to Kincraig, or wait in the hiding place in the forest until she could get away.
And Lilias de Bruce might be more in danger with every sunset and sunrise. Margaret either had to convince Campbell to help, or had to get out of Brechlinn.
Hungry, thirsty, tired, feeling despair overtaking her, she stretched out on the bare mattress, curled in the old plaid, and fell asleep.
A rattling at the door woke her suddenly and she sat up in deep darkness, dazed, wondering where she was, just as the door burst open. A blaze of candlelight flowed inside with Bran MacArthur, a mountain of a man carrying a flaming brand in one fist, a plate in the other, and a jug tucked under his arm. Another person stood on the stone platform in shadows. Skirts. A female.
Margaret stood, clutching the plaid around her.
“Here you go, bairn.” Bran set a wooden platter on the table along with the ceramic jug. “This is all I could find—cheese, oatcake, more cheese. And a bit of dried meat, though it be tough. Ale is here too. Not fancy.” He cocked a brow, regarding her. “By the look of you, rags and dirt, I doubt you are used to fine things—but there is something about you. Something,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Do you come from a fine household? Servant or such? Either way, a boy will be hungry.”
She approached cautiously, for Bran towered, an intimidating sight. He wore no helmet now, his hair a brown riot, his eyes crinkled, irises pale and surprisingly pretty.
“Thank you.” She tore off a bit of cheese. “There is a cup on the shelf.”
“Huh. So there is.” With a long step and a longer reach, he snatched it up. “Here. Eat. Brechlinn says you need it.” He sloshed dark ale into the wooden cup. “Later you can piss in that bucket in the corner. Or in the tub. There’s one coming up.”
“Tub?” Margaret saw a woman enter the room through the shadows.
