Chapter 6
“Do ye think she’s pleadin’ our innocence to that ungrateful faither of hers?” Sawyer whispered through the grate, the following morning. At least, Owen suspected it was morning, though he only had the delivery of more thin, watery porridge to use as a clock.
Owen rolled his eyes, wishing he could see his friend so he could level a true scowl at him. “Ye daenae always have to be eavesdroppin’ on matters that daenae concern ye, ye ken?”
“I couldn’ae exactly get a decent kip with the pair of ye chatterin’ like larks, now, could I?
” Sawyer retorted defensively. “As soon as the lass was gone, though, I doubt me maither’s awful singin’ could wake me.
Slept like the dead, I did. Anyway, it does concern me, unless ye’re goin’ back on yer word to see me free of this English pit? ”
Pushing a wooden spoon through the wet, unpleasant porridge, Owen smiled.
“I havenae forsaken ye, Sawyer, but I wouldn’ae start bracin’ yer legs for the journey home just yet.
I daenae think the lass is goin’ to try and murder me in me sleep anymore, but there’s more to this situation than I thought. ”
In a hushed voice, he quickly informed Sawyer of everything he had discussed with Brandon the previous day.
“I thought ye would’ve eavesdropped on that, too, but ye must’ve managed to sleep since it wasnae a beautiful lass comin’ to impart knowledge,” Owen concluded, before spooning the sour porridge into his mouth and swallowing it down.
It tasted disgusting, but it would nourish him for any challenges to come.
Sawyer clicked his tongue. “So, ye think she’s beautiful?”
“I have eyes, do I nae?”
“I daenae ken; I cannae see ye. Last time I saw yer face, one of yer eyes looked like the bits that fall out of a deer after huntin’. Ye might have lost it while we’ve been waitin’ here,” Sawyer replied, chuckling.
In truth, Owen had thought of nothing but Lady Heather since her furtive departure the previous night.
She had hidden away in what appeared to be a gaoler’s room until the two guards had come to inspect the prisoners, then hurried out without another word for him.
Although, he had noticed her pause momentarily by his cell and straighten her fingers, as if remembering his fleeting touch.
Or they’ve put somethin’ in this porridge and I’m imaginin’ things. With little concept of time, he had no choice but to sit and wallow in his thoughts, so it would not be so strange if his thoughts veered into the improbable now and again.
“Och, if ye really wanted to anger that Earl, ye should get his daughter to fall hopelessly in love with ye. Ye could fall in love with her too, marry her, and elope together. I wouldn’ae be surprised if his skull exploded,” Sawyer teased, cackling away to himself in the neighboring cell.
Owen sighed. “Aye, half the Clan would likely collapse from the shock an’ all.”
As plans went, falling in love with an angelic, ethereally beautiful young lady and running away to marry her did not sound so awful. Then again, he was facing execution for a crime he did not commit, so any alternative sounded wonderful.
“The shock of ye with an actual, livin’, breathin’ lass, or the shock of seein’ ye wed to a Sassenach?” Sawyer shot back, clearly pleased with himself.
Owen shrugged, even though his friend could not see him. “Both, probably.”
On our weddin’ night, I’d take her to the cottage in the woods.
I’d sit before the hearth with her and unbraid all that long, shinin’ hair, before peelin’ away all those bothersome layers of attire.
He closed his eyes to picture her smooth, creamy skin, trying to imagine how many of those pretty freckles covered her shapely figure.
He would kiss them all, mapping out the constellations of her being.
Truly, such a thing would be as heavenly as her appearance.
“I best nae hear any heavy breathin’ comin’ from yer cell, M’Laird.” Sawyer mock-tutted, prompting Owen to clear his throat in embarrassment. How could one woman stir him so intensely? An Englishwoman, no less. A sworn enemy of his people.
“Och, ye’re the one who’s been breathin’ heavy, ye degenerate,” Owen shot back defensively, tugging at the front of his breeches to give his enlarged manhood some room.
As Sawyer chuckled, content in his own amusement, Owen glanced toward the bars where Heather had been last night.
Considering their first encounter, he had not anticipated a second in these dungeons.
Even now, he was somewhat in awe of her courage and humility, in coming back to give him another chance.
Does she really believe me? Perhaps, she could be the one to persuade Elias to let us go, if Brandon cannae? If she returned that night, as she had said, he knew it would not hurt his cause to ask.
Owen watched the empty passageway like a hawk, until his eyes burned, and he was convinced he could see figures dancing in the pools of torchlight that spilled onto the stone floor.
He assumed that Heather would return at the same time as the previous night, if she intended to return at all, and the gaoler had not long abandoned his post for, presumably, his bed.
Look at ye, watchin’ for the lass like a wee lad waitin’ for his first love. He should have been embarrassed, but after a tiresome day of doing nothing but stare at the same filthy walls, he craved the distraction of her.
“Sawyer?” he whispered, hoping his friend had had the decency to fall asleep and give his Laird some privacy.
Silence echoed back, but Owen was no fool; he knew there was every chance that Sawyer was still awake, looking forward to a distraction of his own.
“Sawyer?” he repeated.
“Did you call for me?” A different voice answered. Softer, sweeter, more feminine.
For a moment, Owen raised an eyebrow, wondering if Sawyer was adopting a girlish voice in order to toy with him.
But then, she appeared. A vision in the same sapphire-blue skirts as yesterday, though her tight bodice had been replaced with one of rich red.
The color of spiced plum wine, which happened to be Owen’s favorite.
“Nay, Lass.” He went straight to the bars, taking up his position by the wall there. “I was mumblin’ to meself, that’s all. There isnae anyone else to talk to when me man-at-arms has gone to sleep.”
Heather took a few steps back, before reappearing. “He does appear to be deep in slumber,” she remarked. “I am surprised you cannot hear that atrocious snoring. I thought a bull had gotten loose.”
“Aye, that’s why he’s nae allowed to sleep when we’re marchin’ to war,” he explained, half-serious. “The enemy can hear him snorin’ from halfway across Scotland, which isnae any good when ye’re tryin’ to maintain the advantage of surprise.”
To his surprise, Heather chuckled softly. A sound so charming and innocent that it robbed him of his senses for a moment. All he could do was stare at her, utterly delighted.
“I do wish you men would not fight one another so often,” she said, after a while.
“I know very little of warfare and conflict, but I wonder if more could be achieved by conversation instead of killing one another. A victory does not seem very victorious when it is won upon a plain of lifeless bodies.”
The fleeting ease that had conjured that sweet chuckle appeared to have deserted Heather, as her ethereal face hardened with sadness. It saddened Owen, too, for now that he had heard her laugh, he desired to hear it again.
“I cannae disagree with ye,” he conceded.
“I like nothin’ better than bein’ at Dunn Castle, tendin’ to me flock, wanderin’ the hills and forests, and mixin’ me tonics and salves and tinctures for when me flock need tendin’ to.
There’s nay greater peace, and though I ken how to swing a sword and swing it well, it’s peace I prefer.
I’m nae one of these lads who gets a bloodlust from battle. ”
Heather flinched slightly at the word “lust,” and her chin immediately dipped to her chest, concealing much of her expression from him. The movement brought a smile to his lips, for there was nothing so endearing as seeing a young lady in a moment of shyness.
“That does sound rather peaceful,” she mumbled: her voice strangely thick. “I did not realize you were a shepherd. Being a Laird, as you are, I assumed you would perform similar duties to those of my father: overseeing his serfs, collecting taxes to improve his army, that sort of thing.”
A burst of laughter exploded from Owen’s throat, his arm wrapping around his still-aching ribs as he gave into the bubbling humor.
He knew he should restrain himself, for her sake, but he could not help it.
It felt so good to laugh like that, after weeks of miserable marching, dismal battles, and his present situation.
“I do not see what is so amusing about my question,” Heather interjected, wearing an expression of disapproval with a slight hint of confusion.
Owen let his laughter ebb before answering.
“I’m nae a shepherd, Lass. I call me Clan me flock.
” He paused, realizing he might have hurt her feelings.
“I wasnae laughin’ at ye, Lass. I was laughin’ at the notion of me grabbin’ a sheep and shearin’ it for its wool.
Ye see, I tried it once, and I was so bad at it that the shepherd told me he hoped I didnae wield me sword like I wielded the shearer, else the Scots were doomed. ”
“Oh—” Heather’s expression brightened slightly, and her hand came up to cover her mouth as a quiet, genuine laugh sounded between her fingertips. “I see my mistake! Goodness, of course you do not shepherd sheep!”
He grinned. “Och, I’m a healer when I’ve nay right to be, so it wouldn’ae be much of a difference for me to turn me hand to shepherdin’ or woodcuttin’ or somethin’ of that ilk.”
“Indeed, I was rather curious about that.” She leaned forward on her chair, beautiful in her inquisitiveness. “I have always been exceedingly interested in the art of healing, and I know more than I should, but I have never practiced the art. I have only read of it.”
That piqued Owen’s interest, for he had not anticipated such a confession. “Why do ye say ye “ken more than ye should”? Is there such a thing as kennin’ more than ye should?”
“Ah, well, my father deems it woefully inappropriate for a young lady to learn of such things. Healing is a “lowly profession,” in his opinion, so I have been studying the art of it in secret.” She hesitated.
“It was my brother who permitted me entry into his private library, in truth. He has books containing all kinds of fascinating knowledge about anatomy and alchemy and horticulture.”
“A lowly profession?” Owen snorted. “He wasnae sayin’ that when he had his men ambush me, and I doubt he’d dare to say that to any healer who tends to him when he’s in need of one.”
Heather nodded eagerly. “That is precisely my argument, whenever he makes such remarks about healing. Now, I have met someone who is both a Laird of high station and a healer, so it is surely proven that healing is not lowly in any respect.” A smile curved up the corners of her ripe, bitten-red lips.
“Perhaps, if you are not averse to the notion, you could… instruct me?”
“How would ye have me do that?” he replied, noticing her gaze drop to the bare skin of his chest. He had lost most of the buttons in battle and saw no reason to ask for replacements, if his life was to end in this place.
She hesitated, hooking her finger over her lower lip as she contemplated the question. Never in his life had he envied a finger more, though he longed to press his lips to that spot.
“If I return here every night, maybe you could tell me of some of the healing you have done?” she said, eventually.
“I could write it down and study each process, to gain a better understanding. It is not quite practicing the art, but it is closer than reading the same books again and again. Truly, I have exhausted my brother’s library. ”
Owen wanted to say, “And when yer faither has killed me, ye can study me dead body, too.” However, seeing the eager light in her eyes and the excited bounce of her leg, he could not bring himself to strike her enthusiasm down with stark reality.
Besides, he had no heirs or lovers or a wife to whom he could impart his knowledge and skill, so why not this exquisite angel?
“Aye, we can do that,” he agreed, though his reasons were not entirely for the purpose of education.
She clapped her hands together. “Do you truly mean it?”
“I wouldn’ae toy with ye, Lass.”
Tipping further forward, she put her hands through the bars in a gesture of trust. “Thank you kindly, Laird—I mean, Owen. You do not know what this means to me.”
“Aye, I think I’ve an inklin’,” he replied, taking hold of her hands.
Slowly, he lifted them to his lips, daring to graze a kiss upon her buttery soft skin.
“If ye can learn how to heal, ye can learn how to save, and if ye can learn how to save, then maybe ye will nae have to lose another person that ye love.”
Her eyes widened, but she did not withdraw her hands. “Yes, I do believe you stole the very words from my lips.”
Och, Lass, that’s nae all I’d steal from them, if ye’d let me. But that was almost as impossible as the prospect of getting out of this castle alive.