Chapter 9
Thomas strode through cool, dark hallways, his mind buzzing.
Had he really just kissed Emma? The chief healer’s apprentice? Right after Delphine had made him promise not to lay a finger on her?
Guilt made his cheeks redden. He ought never to have put her in that situation. Not asking her to pretend to be his fiancée—he was pleased with that idea. Who better to choose than a woman like Emma, forthright and outspoken, who was so eager to prove that she was immune to his charms?
Had she even kissed him back? He could hardly remember.
She hadn’t struggled or pulled away, that was for sure.
Thomas was not the sort of man to push a kiss on an unwilling maid, not in the slightest. He was sure that Emma would have struck him or pulled away if she didn’t want to be kissed.
But… well, it had all happened so quickly.
Perhaps she’d frozen in panic. Perhaps she’d been confused.
The guilt swirled in the back of his mind, and he resolved never to put her in such a position again.
What was more, he would never put himself in that position again.
Arousal and frustration simmered together in his gut, displeased that nothing had come of that kiss.
A tiny, sly voice in the back of his mind suggested that he go back to the Healer’s Chambers and do his best to seduce the plucky little apprentice.
He’d thought of it more than once, ever since she had arrived.
The thoughts arrived with a regularity and intensity that frightened him at times.
Perhaps if he bedded her, the feelings that plagued him would recede, letting him get back to the business of running his clan and Emma to her work of healing the sick.
He wished he hadn’t thought about bedding her because now his mind was throwing up some very specific images.
Not to worry, though. A brisk walk through the cold, unforgiving Keep would cool him down. If not, his planned visit to the dungeons would do the trick.
He groaned aloud, raking a hand through his hair. “Wretched lass,” he muttered.
Thomas stopped before a seemingly ordinary wall with a wide, high tapestry spread over it.
The tapestry itself was a hideous thing, made for some bloody victory won by a previous laird.
The tapestry depicted a battle scene, with various men and animals dying grotesquely, immortalized forever in faded embroidery thread.
He hated it, but it served a purpose. Two soldiers stood on guard on either side of the tapestry, and he gave them a brief nod.
One man swung aside the tapestry, revealing a narrow door.
The other man produced a set of clinking keys and unlocked the door.
Inside, a cold, cobwebby hallway opened, stone stairs leading down into darkness.
Thomas stepped inside and heard the door close and lock behind him. That left him in darkness.
Well, almost darkness. The occasional torch was set into the wall to prevent people from falling down the staircase and breaking their necks at the bottom.
This was not, of course, the only way into the dungeon.
There was a main door into the dungeon, and this way was designed for important men to sneak down to visit important prisoners in the middle of the night.
Thomas didn’t like to imagine what all the secret ways and hidden doors in Keep MacPherson had been used for over the years.
Stepping into a large, circular stone room at the bottom of the staircase, he shook away those thoughts.
The entranceway was hidden by another tapestry, this one small, narrow, ragged, and faded to a mixture of greys and browns.
The jailor glanced up at his sudden appearance and gave a slow nod of acknowledgment.
The jailor, Brom, was something of an enigma. He was a young man for a chief jailor—not even thirty, by Thomas’s guess—and he was, aside from that, unable to speak.
A mute chief jailor seemed almost ridiculous. Thomas had never been able to ascertain whether Brom could not speak because of a missing tongue or something else. The man had never opened his mouth to reveal whether he had a tongue or not, and it certainly wasn’t anyone’s business.
“A new prisoner should have been brought,” Thomas said bluntly. “One of the soldiers, Gregor.”
Brom glanced down at a ledger spread open on the desk, running a grubby finger down a column of neat writing. He could read and write, and personally, Thomas thought that the man was the best chief jailor he’d ever had. Nobody had escaped during Brom’s tenure here.
Brom nodded, tapping a name. He tapped a blank column beside it to indicate that no charge had been logged and made a brief writing gesture with his hand.
That was how he communicated, gestures and meaningful looks.
So far, it seemed to be working well. He was tall, well-muscled, and handsome underneath his shaggy black beard and the grime that stuck to everyone who worked in the dungeons, no matter how often they washed.
He had ivory skin, thick black hair, and a set of large blue eyes that sometimes made people look twice.
Plenty of the maids and serving girls giggled as he went past, batting their eyelashes at his broad back.
Thomas nodded. “Aye, write down the charge, please. Assault with intent to harm. He attacked the healer’s apprentice to make things worse.”
Brom shook his head in disgust and scribbled a brief note. He glanced back up at Thomas and made a series of quick gestures: a tap to his eyes, pointing towards Thomas, then a tap to the name on the ledger.
Thomas nodded again. “Aye, Brom. I’d like to see the man. Take me to him.”
Brom rose from behind the desk and set off down one of the dark corridors, gesturing for Thomas to follow him.
The secret passage—and indeed the regular way into the dungeons—would lead a person directly into the circular stone room where the jailor resided.
Every prisoner and anyone who wanted to visit a prisoner would have to go past the jailor’s desk.
From there, dark corridors branched off like spokes from a wheel, each one leading to rows of cells.
The dungeon of Keep MacPherson was functional and nothing more.
Thomas had no intention of torturing his prisoners with truly vile conditions.
Brom was a stern jailor, but not one that would hurt the men and women under his control for enjoyment.
It was cold down here, but the prisoners had blankets, at least, and weren’t permitted to wallow in their own filth for too long.
Brom led the way down one of these spokes, vanishing into the darkness. Thomas drew in a breath and followed him.
He hated the dungeons with a passion. They were too dark and cold, to say nothing of the rodents and insects that clustered in every corner. He tried not to look into the cells they passed by, either.
Thomas knew that he was a fair laird. The men and women who were imprisoned down here were there for good reason. Murders, assaults, thefts, and conning their vulnerable neighbors out of their belongings. Still, it wasn’t pleasant to look into the eyes of a man you’d sentenced yourself.
So, Thomas kept his eyes fixed on Brom’s shoulders instead.
Brom stopped abruptly before a particular cell and gestured. Here.
Thomas gave him a nod. “Thank ye, Brom. I’ll nae be long.”
Brom glanced shrewdly at the man in the cell and back to Thomas. He nodded, then returned back along the corridor. The darkness swallowed him up almost immediately. Thomas listened for receding footsteps, but for such a large man, Brom apparently trod quietly.
“Gregor,” Thomas said once the dungeon seemed still again.
There was a rustle in the gloom of the cell, and a man rose from the pile of straw in the corner, his blanket held around his shoulders like a shawl.
“Me Laird?” Gregor gasped, stumbling to his feet. “I’m so glad to see ye.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Are ye?”
“Aye. I’m keen to get out, Me Laird. Please. I’m sorry that I left my post.”
Thomas sucked in a breath, regaining his composure. “Do ye believe that ye are here because ye left yer post?”
Gregor had certainly seemed a little inebriated when Thomas had prevented him from attacking Emma. Had he forgotten what had happened?
Then, Gregor’s gaze flickered away from Thomas, a flash of guilt in his eyes, and Thomas knew that the man knew exactly what he’d done.
“I’ve done naething else wrong,” Gregor said, tilting up his chin.
Thomas swallowed down a surge of anger. It bubbled up inside him, like a cauldron boiling over. “Ye attacked a woman,” he said, his voice low and restrained. “Ye would have forced her against her will.”
“It wasnae against her will.”
“I saw ye, man! I saw her trying to escape! She says herself that ye attacked her. Do ye lie to yer laird?”
Gregor pressed himself against the bars of his cell, his knuckles standing out white as he gripped them.
“Ye are a good and noble man, Me Laird. Ye dinnae understand what women like that are like. She says that she wasnae willing, but—”
“I saw it,” Thomas interrupted.
He was glad, now, that the solid iron bars stood between him and Gregor. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if he could get his hands around Gregor’s neck. Squeeze, probably.
Gregor swallowed hard. “What does it matter, Me Laird? I’m a good soldier. Reliable. If she hadnae been a healer, it would have nae mattered, after all.”
Thomas’s arm shot out, grabbing Gregor’s neck through the bars. The man gave a spluttering noise of surprise, his eyes widening. He grabbed at Thomas’s wrist, but the burdock salve still sat on his skin, slippery and sticky, and he could not get any purchase.
“I am the Laird here,” Thomas said tightly.
“I dinnae permit men to hurt women like that, nay matter who the man is and who the woman is. If ye were my own brother and she was the lowliest peasant lass, I would still see ye in here to answer for yer crime. I haven’t decided what ye punishment will be, but I think ye will be here for a good, long while.
Make yourself comfortable and think about the sort of man ye have become.
And who kens? I might visit again soon.”
Gregor swallowed thickly, clawing at his arm in a panic. Abruptly, Thomas released him, pulling back his arm. Gregor sucked in a long, wheezing breath, crumpling to the straw-covered ground.
For a moment, there was only the sound of Gregor’s raspy breaths and the steady drip-drip-drip of water somewhere.
“That’s what I came to tell ye,” Thomas said finally, wiping his hand on his breeches. “That ye will not be released anytime soon. I’ll make an example of ye.”
Gregor glanced up at him, his eyes red-rimmed and full of hate. “I ken things about that woman.”
Thomas, who was about to turn away and walk back towards the light and civilisation, paused and glanced back.
“What did ye say?”
Gregor gripped the bars of the cell, hauling himself to his feet. “I’ve seen that woman before. Emma.”
Thomas blinked. “She made nay mention of ye.”
“Aye, well, she wouldnae. She doesnae ken me, exactly, but I ken her. I ken where she comes from. I ken what she’s done. She worked in a disgusting wee pub, the sort of place where ye just ken that a lassie like that would need to sell herself, just to—”
“That’s none of me concern, or yers,” Thomas interrupted. “I dinnae care what Emma did before she came here. She’s a healer, and that’s all I care about. I dinnae want to hear her name in yer mouth. That’s all.”
He turned to go once again but stopped in his tracks as Gregor began to laugh.
“I used to watch her, ye know. She’d go about her business, and nay one was allowed to touch her. But ye could watch, ye know. I could make a lot of trouble for her. I could tell him where she is.”
Thomas glanced over his shoulder, reluctant to give Gregor’s ramblings any credit. “Him?” he echoed.
Gregor grinned wide, revealing a missing molar at one side of his mouth, his gums red and unpleasant. “Oh, aye. He’d give a pretty penny to find her again.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes.
It was clear that Gregor wanted to be asked more questions, but Thomas’s patience—already stretched paper-thin—was all but used up.
“Do ye know what I think, Gregor?” Thomas said, his voice deceptively soft.
“I think that all this is the ramblings of a man backed into a corner. I dinnae know what, or who, ye profess to know, but I will tell ye this. Ye are going naywhere. Ye won’t do any more damage to Emma or anyone else.
So, I suggest ye resign yerself and maybe consider what has led ye here in the first place. Eh?”
He turned around and strode away down the corridor. Gregor called after him, one high-pitched, panicked “Me Laird!” but that was all.
When he reached the circle of light where Brom sat at his desk, Thomas gave a sigh of relief.
Brom glanced up from his work, lifting a questioning eyebrow.
“I’ll discuss his case with the council as soon as I can,” Thomas said, answering the unspoken question. “This sort of thing willnae be allowed. In the meantime, watch him closely. I believe he means to escape.”
Brom sat back, scrunching up his brow. He made a series of quick hand gestures, more complex than before, but Thomas had learned to interpret them over time.
I have never let a prisoner escape.
“I ken, I ken,” Thomas said soothingly. “I just… I just have a bad feeling about that one. Did ye know him before this?”
A shake of the head, more hand gestures.
I ken few here. But I am a good jailor. A good jailor.
Thomas paused, tilting his head, watching Brom’s quick, practiced gestures. He wondered, not for the first time, where Brom had come from, and why he no longer spoke. Who taught him to sign? Who taught him to read and write?
That was unimportant now, of course.
Brom finished signing, and Thomas smiled at him. “Thank ye, Brom. I trust ye, dinnae think that I dinnae believe ye can handle him. Just… well, I’ve got a bad feeling. As if something is heading this way. Have ye ever felt like that?”
A nod.
Thomas paused, on the brink of asking Brom whether he’d ever been in love. If so, what did it feel like? Would you ken when it happened to you?
He decided against it. That was far too personal a question.