Much Ado About Highlanders (The Scottish Relic Trilogy) (15 page)

I have drunk poison while he utter’d it.

James’s stomach heaved and he rolled, lifting himself on his hands and knees in time. Remnants of vile burning liquid spewed out. As the retching subsided, he became aware of noises—the sound of wind and drums—pounding in his head.

The last thing he remembered was . . . what? He was at the inn in Oban. Nay, he went outside. The stamp of a horse hoof near his head. That’s it. He made it outside the inn. He was on the ground.

But where was he now?

The damp smell of oat and earth invaded his senses. Still on his hands and knees, he pried open his eyes and stared at the packed-dirt floor and his own vomit. Near him, beyond the shadows that enveloped him, a thin ray of moonlight stretched down from a barred window high up a stone wall.

He sat to one side, trying to stay upright. The world outside his head began to spin. His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left. The dry retching left him panting and sweating. He needed water.

As his situation became clearer, cold fear pushed into the fogged recesses of his brain. He’d been drugged, poisoned, and thrown into this hole. It had to be Maxwell. The bastard. Fear gave way to anger. He reached for his sword. Gone, of course. He felt for the dirk in his boot. Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, James pushed to his feet. The cell swiveled and tilted. He reached out and found a rough, wood wall and held on until the room began to steady itself.

His throat was parched, tight. A hot flush washed down his back and the accompanying weakness nearly sent him back to the ground. James pressed his back against the wall. The dungeon floor rolled again, lifting and dropping like a ship in a storm. He didn’t move, but waited.

How long he stayed there, he didn’t know, but then a heavy door creaked and banged shut somewhere in the distance.

James tried to think of anything that he might remember after stumbling out of the inn. Hushed voices. Boots. And then nothing. He didn’t know where they’d taken him or how far. It was night, but he had no idea whether he’d been unconscious for a few hours or a few days. Was he even still in the Highlands? And why take him and not kill him? From all he’d heard, this was Evers’s way. For ransom, the English bastard would deliver him piece by piece, one limb at a time, to his family until there was nothing left.

His eyes scanned the cell. Two pairs of shackles hung from iron rings driven into a wall. A few sacks of last year’s oats were stacked in a corner. Just like every other castle in Scotland, the dungeon served more than one function.

It was curious that his captors hadn’t put him in chains. Perhaps they didn’t expect him to regain consciousness . . . ever. Ransom would still be sought.

The small barred window was built high in the wall. There were two doors: One, a stout, oak half door that he guessed led to an adjoining room. A second door had air holes drilled through the wood at eye level.

James heard heavy footsteps coming down a passage. He slipped into the shadows, pressing his back against the stone wall near the door. He’d strangle any bastard who made the mistake of coming in here.

The footsteps stopped by the door. James stood motionless, making no sound. He hoped they’d come in. The man had to be staring in through the opening.

To his disappointment, the footsteps continued down the passage.

With every passing minute, James’s stomach settled a little more. His strength was returning. The cell was too small to hide any surprises. His gaze moved once again to the barred window. Below it, the iron ring and shackles.

If he was going to get out, that seemed to be the only way.

Steeling himself, he darted to the wall, jumped high enough for his boot to find a foothold in the ring, and leaped as high as he could. The ledge of the window was just a few inches beyond his reach, and he tumbled back onto the packed-earth floor.

He gathered himself for a second attempt. His timing was better this try, and his fingers just caught the stone sill of the window. Hoisting himself up, he managed to get one hand fisted around the bars.

Even in the darkness, he could see that if he could pry open the barred window, he might be able to squeeze through. It was latched on the inside to keep pilferers out of the grain storage space rather than to keep prisoners in. That’s what the shackles were for.

As he was thinking about how to break the latch, a woman’s cry reached him from somewhere in the dungeons behind him. James glanced back toward the door. Again, the creaking and the bang, and footsteps approached.

“Why are you doing this? Where are you taking me?”

He knew that voice. He let go of the bars and landed softly.

“Why must I wear this? Remove this hood from my head.”

A tumble and a sharp gasp.

“Get up.” The voice was gruff and hard.

“Don’t yank me so. You’re breaking my arm. I tell you, you’re hurting me.”

James rushed to the door and peered through the air holes into the dark passageway. They were coming. He saw the back of a man’s head as the group stopped near James’s cell.

An iron latch scraped and lifted. A door very near screeched on rusty hinges. James moved to the smaller door, and through a tiny slit at the very top he saw a woman roughly shoved in. She hit the ground hard and the door slammed shut behind her.

She scurried out of his line of vision. He heard her crying softly.

James waited until the footsteps retreated and they were alone before he spoke.

“Emily?”

A sailor’s woolen cap she’d nipped from somewhere. And an oiled leather pouch. And extra food.

And questions for Alexander’s crew. Where was the square-rigged caravel taking them and how long before they reached there? How do they lower the dory that was lashed to the deck of the ship?

She was as bloody transparent as a puddle on a sunny day. She was planning to jump ship.

What a fool he’d been, making romantic designs regarding their first night in a real bed, of sorts, in the privacy of the captain’s cabin. Like some dreamy-eyed whelp, in love for the first time, he’d been making plans for wooing his wife and been ignoring everything that needed his attention on deck. Like some lovesick lad, he hadn’t stopped thinking of her all day.

And all the while, she’d been making other plans.

Alexander half expected Kenna to be gone—having dropped over the side and swimming for shore—by the time he burst into the cabin. She was still here. Dressed in the same clothes as before. She was wearing a dagger at her belt. Her hair was now tucked into a wool cap, and she was wearing boots he knew she’d borrowed from the second-in-command.

She was poring over the details of the map, and leaped back from the table, clearly surprised to see him.

“Just where do you think you are going?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He approached. “Don’t lie to me. Everyone has been telling me, word for word, what you’ve been asking.”

She moved, keeping the table between them. “So now I’m not allowed to speak to the sailors?”

“Of course you are . . . unless you have ulterior motives.”

“Is that what they told you?” she asked, her violet eyes flashing at him. “That I have
motives
?”

“Nay, woman. If any of them said such a thing about you, I’d have thrown him overboard straightaway.” He moved in one direction, and she countered, keeping him away from her. “That’s what
I
concluded, knowing you so well.”

She snorted. “You don’t know me at all.”

Alexander was relieved she was still here, but they were playing a game of cat and mouse. And what a fool he’d been to think she was done playing runaway games.

“Know you? I know the trouble you’re about to get into before you even
think
of getting into it. Nay, wife. I know you very well.”

“Oh, so you’ve suddenly become brilliant. I can name a half dozen village idiots with more brains than you. And stop calling me ‘wife.’ Word of our annulment could come any day, thank the Lord.”

“Bloody hell, lass. Have you already forgotten that cave?”

She looked in the direction of the door. “No one knows anything about that.”

“I know and you know and God knows. And that bairn growing in your belly knows, too.”

“So you’re a midwife now, as well.” Her face flushed. “Bairns aren’t conceived so fast.”

“I suppose the Mother Superior told you that.”

They stopped circling the table, and Kenna shook her head. “You can’t keep me against my will. I’m telling you now that I wish to return to the priory.”

Alexander had spent enough time with her to know there was something different about her at this moment. This wasn’t the willful Kenna of before who would be difficult just for the sake of a good fight. Her eyes were red and puffy; she’d been crying. She avoided meeting his gaze. She didn’t want to be touched. There was a catch in her voice when she said she wanted to go back to the nuns at Loch Eil. He tried to reach her, but she moved again.

“We made a promise.”

“Promises get broken. You have to let me go. I have to get off this ship.”

Alexander knew there wasn’t another woman like this one in all of Scotland. She embodied physical courage and ability that many men lacked. And she had determination. If she’d really set her mind to go—if her heart truly wanted it—she would have been gone already.

Nay, perhaps a part of her wanted to leave, but the greater part of her wanted to stay. On that he would stake his life. He had to convince that other part to be reasonable.

“Let’s talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

She shook her head. “Nay, it’s too late.”

“It’s never too late.” Alexander stopped and planted both fists on the table, facing her. Her gaze darted into every corner of the cabin but not once at him. He saw the vulnerability she was trying to hide, and he saw the fear. She was as frightened now as he’d seen only once before . . . outside of the hermit’s door back in the cave. It stung him to think he was responsible for it. He gentled his tone. “Whatever is wrong, it must involve me. You’re angry with me. Tell me what I’ve done.”

Her lower lip quivered, but she held her head up and shook her head. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Please, let me go, Alexander. It’s for the best.”

“Best for whom? It’s the two of us, now and forever. Remember?”

As the tears broke through the shield she’d erected, the point of some invisible blade slipped between his ribs. Alexander breathed in sharply as the point touched his heart. In the next moment, he had her in his arms. He pulled off her cap and her hair tumbled down in shimmering waves. As he drew her head against his chest, he found himself mumbling what had to sound like nonsense. She remained in his embrace, no longer fighting him but crying softly. It was some time before he found his voice to speak again.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Her tears seeped through his shirt. It was a few moments before she spoke.

“For once I’m trying to do what’s best for everyone. Why won’t you let me go?”

“I don’t care what’s best for everyone. I won’t let you go. Not ever again. And if you run away, I’m coming after you. And I promise you, I’ll pull down the walls of that priory one stone at a time, if I have to. And that goes for anywhere else you try to hide.”

He wiped away the wetness from her silky cheeks and lifted her chin until he could swim in the violet depths of her eyes.

“Diarmad told you,” she wept. “Weren’t you listening? They’re after me. I’ll only bring danger to you, wherever you take me. I can’t do that to your people.”

“And how will you protect yourself by running away? By facing those villainous vermin alone?” He touched her cheek. “Not as long as I live. There’s no battle ahead of us that you and I won’t fight together.”

“Alexander—”

“Hush, lass.” He stepped back and sat down on the edge of the bed. He drew her down onto his lap. “But there’s something else. Something you promised to tell me before. It’s time. Tell me.”

She looked into his eyes and nodded. There was no hesitation. She batted away the wetness on her cheeks.

“After you hear what I have to say—after you know the truth—I want you to know it’s not too late to send me away.”

“Kenna, I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care if you’ve bedded the pope or murdered him. I will
never
send you away.”

“It isn’t something I’ve done.” She took his hand, tracing his fingers with hers. “First, I want you to know that what I’m about to tell you, and show you, is mostly a mystery to me. I have so many unanswered questions. And I don’t even know who to go to for answers.”

He said nothing and waited for her to continue.

She reached inside the neckline of her shirt and pulled out a leather pouch. Lifting the cord over her head, she placed it in his palm.

“This was given to me by my mother. Well, not exactly given. I found it on the day of our wedding, tucked among other gifts she’d left me. I think this is what Evers is after. This is the reason he’s offered a bounty for finding me.”

“What is it?”

She opened the pouch and dropped a piece of carved stone into his palm.

It was cold to the touch. The edges were rough, as if it had been broken off of a larger tablet. Alexander lifted it to the light and stared at the unusual markings that had smoothed with age. The markings meant nothing to him, but the fragment seemed to be very old.

“Do you feel it?”

“Feel what?” he asked.

“The warmth. The power that runs through it.”

He met her gaze. “I feel nothing. To me, it’s just a piece of stone.”

“Touch my hand.”

He did. Her smooth palm was cool and steady.

Kenna took the stone out of his hand and held it out in her palm for only a moment. Then she dropped it in her lap and touched his forearm. Her hand radiated heat, and Alexander felt a surge of energy race up his arm from the place where her hand lay.

“I feel that, by ’sblood.” He took her hand and turned it over in amazement. “How . . . ?”

“It’s not my doing. It’s the tablet.”