Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The wind came sweeping across the ridge in long, icy gusts tossing Selene’s hair across her eyes and stealing her breath with every inhale.
Kenneth’s great warhorse climbed steadily up the narrow path, its hooves crunching over rain-slick stones, while she sat rigid against the laird’s chest. The leather straps binding her hands tugged with each jolt of the horse’s gait, abrading her wrists and reminding her at every heartbeat that she was not his guest, but his prisoner.
The ridge curved, and through the swirling mist she caught her first glimpse of Duntulm Castle.
It did not merely sit upon the headland – it commanded it.
Its jagged silhouette rose from the cliff as though carved from the very stones of the peninsula.
The sea churned below in frothing arcs of grey and white, the waves sending up sprays that rode the wind to kiss her cheeks with cold salt.
As they approached, the castle’s dark walls loomed ever larger, their ancient stones scorched by storms and centuries of fierce northern weather.
Selene swallowed hard.
It looked nothing like the elegant, hospitable manors of Hertfordshire where she’d been raised. This was a fortress for warriors – and she was being taken against her will straight into the very heart of it.
Kenneth’s voice rumbled behind her, low and steady.
“Hold yerself firm,” he said. “The last stretch can be treacherous.”
She stiffened. “My hands are bound, Laird MacDonald. I’m hardly in danger of falling when I cannot move at all.”
His only response was the tightening of the arm that encircled her waist, steadying her as the horse picked its careful way up the final, steep incline.
Wind roared in their ears, tearing at cloaks and sending grit against their faces.
Bracing herself, Selene held fast to what little dignity she could muster, determined not to huddle closer to the brute’s broad chest.
Past the gatehouse arch, the wind softened into a low moan. The courtyard burst around them with sudden noise and movement: stable lads running forward, men calling out welcomes, women carrying baskets stopping to stare.
“Laird MacDonald has returned!” one boy shouted, darting forward to take the horse’s bridle.
Kenneth dismounted fluidly, then reached up and lifted Selene down as though she weighed nothing at all.
His hands were firm, impersonal, and she felt only a fleeting brush of warmth before her feet touched the cobblestones.
The assembled throng watched her with open curiosity – and a hint of suspicion.
Before Selene could fully regain her balance, a young woman rushed from beneath the covered walkway.
“Kenneth!” she called, breathlessly. “Ye’re back at last.” She looked him up and down. “And in one piece.”
Her gaze flicked to Selene, widening with surprise. “Who is this lass? Is she hurt?”
Kenneth stepped subtly between them, blocking his sister’s path with one broad arm. It appeared he was shielding her from Selene in a way that softened even his harsh features.
Dear Lord, he believes I am a spy and considers me a danger.
For all that, she was grateful that in her present state of dishevelment she had not been exposed to prying eyes or to his sister’s gaze. Even if it seemed he was protecting his sister from her.
It was only now she paused to wonder if the trunk containing all her clothing had been rescued and brought along on the journey with them. How would she manage if she had nothing with which to clad that poor cold body of hers?
“Dinnae fash about this wee lass taenight, dear Maureen. Go back inside. I’ll see tae her comfort. Steward Johnnie will make a chamber ready fer her.”
The girl, Maureen, opened her mouth to speak, but Kenneth raised a hand. “We’ll speak on the morrow, sister. But, fer now, the Lady Selene requires rest.”
Maureen hesitated, her eyes lingering on Selene with a mixture of concern and curiosity. But with a small nod she obeyed, disappearing back into the hall.
Selene had observed the exchange between brother and sister with interest. It was clear to Selene that Laird Kenneth MacDonald was far more than a brother to Maureen. He acted like her guardian. Her shield. Possibly the only father figure she had known.
Within mere moments of Maureen’s departure another figure appeared. A tall, grey-haired man, dressed in the same plaid as Kenneth’s – which, by now, Selene recognized as belonging to Clan MacDonald.
“Me laird.” The man’s lean face lit up with a smile and his blue eyes sparkled. “Welcome home.”
“Indeed, Johnnie, it is good tae be back at Duntulm.” Kenneth responded. He nodded, indicating Selene. “This is Lady Selene Montgomery,” he said by way of introduction.
Kenneth turned to Selene. “Our steward, John MacDonald will ensure ye are comfortable this night.”
The steward bowed slightly from the waist. “At yer service, Laird Kenneth.”
“Situate the Englishwoman in the south chamber. Warm it and prepare a bath. I’ll question her after,” Kenneth ordered.
Selene bristled at the Englishwoman, though she was hardly in a position to protest.
The tall steward nodded, glancing at her and offering a half smile. “I will instruct the chambermaids to prepare a chamber fer Lady Montgomery at once.”
She was grateful for the man at least affording her name and title. The steward hurried off as Kenneth took Selene’s arm, guiding her up the stairs and through the giant entryway leading into the keep.
She tugged her arm to free it from his grasp, but his fingers tightened. He frowned down at her making it painfully clear she could not break free without a struggle. Gritting her teeth, she accompanied him without another word.
The castle’s interior swallowed her among cold stone and echoing corridors, the lingering scent of peat smoke clinging to the air. Her footsteps sounded small beside Kenneth’s heavy tread and that of his two soldiers following close behind them.
In moments a young maid appeared, smiling broadly at Kenneth.
She curtsied to him and glanced curiously at Selene. “The chamber is ready fer the lady in the south wing as you requested, me laird. The chambermaids are lighting the fire and the scullery maids will bring broth and bannocks once the lady is settled there.”
Kenneth released his grip on her arm. “Go with the maid, lass. She’ll guide ye tae yer quarters.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared along one of the nearby passageways nearby.
With the two soldiers escorting her, Selene followed the maid along a maze of corridors. After ascending a wide stone staircase, and traversing yet another passageway, they came to a halt outside a large, studded-timber door. The maid, wielding a giant key, unlocked the door and flung it wide.
Selena shivered as she entered. The chamber felt a trifle damp and, despite the fire crackling in the little hearth, there was a chill in the air.
The room was small and simple, yet clean.
It was furnished with a sturdy oak bed in one corner, a small table and two timber chairs and, in front of the fire, a warm-looking, padded chair, with a rug and pillows tossed over it.
Several maids worked quickly, fussing around her like a flurry of sparrows, two of them preparing the bed with linen sheets and woven blankets.
Her guards stepped up and one of them took her tethered hands and unfastened the straps from around her wrists. She rubbed the reddened impressions left on her flesh and flexed her hands, trying to ignore the pain that came with the movement.
After her two guards had departed from the chamber, she was left in the middle of the room still concealed in the plaid Kenneth had wrapped her in. She was acutely aware that she was clad only in a still-damp shift.
One of the maids bustled over. “Let’s get ye bathed and warmed, milady.” She gestured toward the small tub against the wall where one of the other maids was pouring water from a bucket. Beside the tub stood a stool piled high with linen towels.
But the water was scarcely lukewarm, and by the time Selene discarded the plaid and her shift and stepped into the tub, she gasped aloud at the chill.
“This cannot be normal,” she said through chattering teeth.
“Oh aye,” a maid replied brightly. “Only a quick cold wash is usual fer this time of year. Keeps a body awake.”
Selene wasn’t certain she wanted to be quite so awake, but she endured a cold splash with what scrap of dignity she could muster. When she was finally dried, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket, and seated by the hearth, a strange unease crept over her.
Everything there was so foreign. Nothing about that place bore the slightest resemblance to the comfortable, tasteful, home she had left behind in Hertfordshire.
Not the stark stone walls, not the roar of the sea echoing through the corridors, not the sense she had of being observed by a hundred unseen eyes.
Hot, angry tears burned behind her eyes. Her convoy was dead. The letter from Halvard had been lost. And she was now in the hands of a laird known across the Isles as the Brute of Sleat.
My God, what a mess…
A feeling of cold despair clawed up her spine.
The chambermaids trooped out, leaving her by the fire.
At least by then the room had warmed a little.
Only minutes later two scullery maids knocked and entered, bearing trays of covered dishes which they placed on the table, without a word. As they hurried out, one dropped a small carved token, which skittered across the cold flagstones.
“Oh, wait!” Selene called, bending to pick it up. “You dropped—”
But the maid had already slipped out. Clutching the little carving, Selene reached the door, lifted the latch and tugged on the heavy oak door.
It did not move.
Her heart thudded, and she tried again. Still the door did not budge.
She was locked in.