Chapter 19
Elspeth
Darkness pressed heavy against the damp stone walls of the cell. She crouched low on the cold floor, knees drawn close, fingers tracing the rough edges of the worn stones as if marking time. Days—or was it weeks?—had lost all meaning here, swallowed by shadow and silence that clung like a chill.
A tray of food was set down at her feet with a dull clang—an unceremonious mark of the slow passing of time. She was no longer sure how long she had been held captive.
Each time the kitchen maid came, escorted by a guard, their disdain was as sharp as a blade—silent but keen. Neither woman nor man met her eyes, nor offered a word beyond what was necessary. No scraps of news, nor whispers of what stirred above stairs, ever found their way to her.
When Elspeth sought to draw a response from the maids, the guards, or the raiders locked beside her, their bitter voices cut through the stillness. “Hush yersel’,” one would growl. “We have no use for yer prattle.”
Why was she still here? Why had Calum not come for her?
She had thought once he returned home, her place beside him—as his chosen—would shield her from the cold judgement of the clan. Yet here she remained, caged with those branded criminals, as if she were no better than they. The very notion curdled her blood.
She was Elspeth Dunn, daughter of the blacksmith, aye, but more than that—she had been close to Calum since they were bairns.
He had sought her company, trusted her laughter, chosen her heart over duty.
In her mind she had been as good as claimed, her place beside him assured, admired, even envied for the bond she shared with the Laird’s son.
Was all that to be forgotten now, cast aside as though she were naught but another servant’s child, left to rot in stone and filth?
What kept him from setting her free? Was it doubt? Hesitation? Or had Sorcha poisoned his mind against her?
The questions spun in her head, steady as the drip of water echoing down the corridor. She did not belong here—not in this darkness, nor amongst these shadows. Yet still, she was forgotten and abandoned, left to languish beneath the very clan she had once hoped to command.
She thought of the great hall above—once hers to glide through, skirts sweeping over the rushes, her laughter carrying to the rafters.
She thought of the hearth where she should be seated, goblet in hand, her rightful place at Calum’s side, the firelight gilding her hair while the clan’s eyes turned to her.
There she ought to have sat in velvet and fur, mistress of Strathloch, her every word heeded.
Instead, she sat here, her beauty wasted on the dark.
She only hoped Calum would hasten his coming. For when she was free, those who turned their backs on her—the cold maids, the silent guards—would come to know a reckoning colder than the stones that held her now.