A Price to Be Paid: A Scottish Highlander Romance (Legacy of the Laird Book 2)

Chapter 23

Mathe opened one eye, but the darkness remained.

The left side of his face felt swollen and heavy. His tongue explored the holes where his teeth should have been; one gap on the bottom, from Rodric’s fist, and two at the side from the blow that must have knocked him out. He vaguely recalled the baton falling upon him and then nothing more. Or… he frowned. Had he woken? A sudden memory of thrashing around in the darkness, something over his head, constricting his movement. Of screaming the name of Rodric Ross, and then darkness once more.

Mathe tried to open his left eye, but it was sealed shut, and the attempt brought a dull throbbing pain to his head. Instead, he looked around with his good eye.

It was dark all around him, but enough light leaked in from somewhere to see he was in a large room. There were shelves down one side, laden with goods, and barrels stacked in one corner. It appeared to be a storeroom or cellar. He sat in a chair in the centre of the room, and a tentative attempt at movement told him he was securely tied to it, with thick ropes binding him around the arms and legs, fastening him to the chair. Each hand was individually tied to one of the vertical lengths of wood that made up the back of the chair. He tested the strength of his bonds, but they didn’t so much as budge.

Mathe continued to look around, to observe clinically, trying to keep the fear at bay, but it loomed behind him. Mathe MacBrennan was captive once more. And while being lashed to a chair wasn’t as bad as being in an English prison cell, he felt the familiar old panic rising. It took him back to his first few months after being captured, when he was moved from Scotia down to Carlisle, then to York, and finally to the Fleet in London itself. Each time he was thrown back into the darkness, he would feel the same panic and despair. To feel it now, back in his own town, sent a jolt of anger through him that kept the fear at bay.

Using that anger, Mathe strained against his binds once more. He relaxed and then tensed, trying to shock the wood of the chair into splintering, all without making a sound. He could have tilted sideways, he knew, or attempted to bounce, but both things would have made a noise. So far he had heard nothing from around him, and he had no desire to announce that he’d woken. He forced himself to relax and instead looked down. He was still wearing his leather kirtle, but the sword was gone. He remembered throwing it off and watching it slide across the floor, distracted by his own thoughts, as Rodric and his men prepared to kick the door in.

He’d been careless. Somehow, Rodric Ross had discovered that Mathe was playing both sides. He cursed himself, running back through the last few days, looking for clues he may have dropped, but failing to see anything. Perhaps he was seen meeting with Fergus, down by the Dundonnell?

Mathe’s thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of a door as it opened slowly. Heavy footsteps on stone rang through the cellar as someone descended, the glow of torchlight warming the space. Mathe tried to calm his breathing, knowing that reaching a state of panic wouldn’t serve him. Not here. Men like Rodric Ross fed off the fear of others, and acting in such a way would only embolden him. Instead, Mathe knew he had to remain calm. To rile up Ross, not the other way around. To wait for the man to make a mistake and be ready to take advantage of it.

After a moment the flame appeared and Mathe turned his head from its brightness, letting it fall on the eye that wouldn’t open.

“No” so pretty anymore,” Rodric said, and Mathe could hear the sneer in his voice.

“Dinnae think anyone called me pretty before,” Mathe replied. His voice was hoarse and came out as a rasp.

Rodric didn’t answer, but stepped forward and held the torch up. He peered at Mathe, looking this way and that. Mathe met his gaze with his one good eye. The man tested his bonds before giving a satisfied grunt.

“How tall are ye?” Mathe asked the man.

Rodric smiled down at him. “No” as tall as ye, MacBrennan, but I do alright. Why?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been woodworking lately.”

“I know.”

“I want to make sure I get the size right for yer coffin.”

Rodric threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, MacBrennan. Once upon a time, that would have had me pissing in my breeches. Ye know, before ye tried to double-cross me to the laird.”

Mathe let his face fall into a mask of confusion. “Double cross?”

Rodric put his head down, as if in exasperation, then suddenly drove his fist into Mathe’s chest. It was a mighty blow, and Mathe gasped as his body exploded in pain. The momentum sent the chair back onto two legs and he balanced precariously, on the verge of tipping, before falling forward once more.

“Let’s no” play that game, MacBrennan,” Rodric said. “I dinnae have the time or the patience. Why did ye do it?”

“Tell me what I did,” Mathe rasped, “and I’ll tell ye why.”

Rodric’s mouth thinned. “We know, Mathe MacBrennan. We know everything. So why did ye do it?”

Mathe muttered something under his breath, and Rodric spat on the floor in disgust.

“What?” the man asked, cupping his ear, moving his head closer.

Mathe pulled back as if he feared the other man, and when Rodric moved closer again, he suddenly whipped his head forward. His forehead glanced off Rodric’s cheek, and the man cursed and stumbled backward. Mathe hadn’t expected to hurt the man, just to throw him off balance, and it certainly seemed to have worked. Rodric bounded forward and struck Mathe with slow, heavy blows; on the neck, the shoulders, the chest. Mathe closed his eye and weathered the onslaught and prayed that he could remain conscious long enough to leverage any opportunity for escape, if Rodric’s attack presented such a chance.

One particularly violent blow hit Mathe lower, in the kidneys, and he cried out. Rodric’s fist had driven something into his side, and he feared the man had stabbed him. But when he opened his eye, Rodric’s fists were clenched but empty. He stood over Mathe, breathing heavily, and there was murder in his eyes.

The door to the cellar creaked open, and a voice called out. “Ross?”

Rodric looked at Mathe for one last moment, then spat on the ground again, and turned on his heel. Mathe heard the footsteps recede, and then all was silent once more.

He put his head back and groaned. His entire body felt like it was aflame, at once numb and tingling with pain. He tried to curl as much as his bonds would allow, and once again he felt a strange hardness in his side. Mathe frowned and twisted and felt something move against his body. After a moment he realised it was something in the side pocket of his kirtle.

And not just anything.

It was his iron chisel.

A sudden recollection of the stables; he’d walked in, disgusted with himself, with only one desire; to work the wood and forget what he’d just done. He’d picked up his chisel, and then Rabby had stepped from the shadows. He must have dropped it into his pocket before he drew the sword and then forgotten about it.

The chisel was Mathe’s only chance; with it, he knew he could pry the chair apart and slip his bonds.

Provided he could get it out of his pocket, of course.