Chapter 12
Emma whistled as she worked. The dresses were imprinted in her mind. Of course, they weren’t made up yet. The seamstresses in Edinburgh would still be working on them, but she should have them by tonight, just in the nick of time.
A fizzle of excitement rolled down her spine at the thought of the dresses. Not just the dresses, but also Thomas.
There was no point denying it any further.
She was attracted to Laird MacPherson, tiresome though it was.
Well, there were worse men to be drawn to, weren’t there?
No doubt he would save his affection for more worthy women—even though his kiss had seemed to be genuine—but Emma could pretend.
She could dress up in fine silks and pretend to be a real lady on the arm of a man like him.
She could keep her fingers curled into fists or tucked into her sleeves so that nobody could see their green tinge.
“Are ye all right, lass?” Delphine asked, breaking into Emma’s thoughts. “I think that newts-eye seed is ground finely enough.”
Emma glanced down at the pestle and mortar, where she’d very nearly crushed the herbs into water. She laughed awkwardly and reached for more dry herbs.
“Sorry, Delphine. I’m… I’m distracted today.”
“I see.”
There was a twinkle in Delphine’s eye. It had been there since Emma had departed for Edinburgh a full three days ago.
Had it really been three days? Emma hadn’t seen much of Thomas since then—the nettle stings had apparently healed up nicely, with no more need for salve—and it was hard not to feel disappointed.
She tried to tell herself that it was a relief, that she could get so much more work done when he wasn’t around, badgering her and bothering her.
Unfortunately, telling yourself that something was so didn’t make it so, much to her chagrin. Wretched Thomas and his insufferable smile were never far from her thoughts.
“I must see those dresses when they arrive,” Delphine commented, watching Emma pour more herbs into the mortar and begin to grind again. “Ye deserve fine things, lass.”
“I don’t need fine things. Just practical things. I wouldn’t say no to a new dress, I’ll be honest. Three is extravagant, though.”
Delphine snorted. “A little extravagance is no bad thing. Now, ye have worked hard enough. Go and find some food and take a rest. Go chat to yer friend, eh?”
Emma faltered. “Are ye sure?”
“Aye, go on. That way, ye can rest, and I can have a nap without ye listening to me snoring and trying not to laugh.”
Emma suppressed a smile. “Aye, very well.”
Riley was not in the laundry. The chief laundress pointed towards the courtyard, bored and distracted.
Drawn by the murmur of conversation, muted and whispering and therefore intriguing, Emma rounded a corner and found her friend in a narrow alleyway, talking to a young woman she had not met before.
“Riley?”
“Oh, Emma, there you are!” Riley perked up, gesturing for Emma to come close. “This is Flora. She’s brand new to the laundry.”
“Good day to ye, Flora,” Emma said with a smile. “I’m pleased to meet ye. Welcome to the Keep.”
Flora was a spindly, waif-like blonde girl who seemed somehow diminished.
She had all the makings of beauty and a face that ought to be pretty but somehow wasn’t.
Perhaps it was the way her clothes hung off her like a scarecrow, the papery quality of her skin and the dark circles around her eyes, or perhaps it was her ratty hair, which was a bald patch near the scalp just starting to grow in.
It was clear that Flora had not had a good life until now. She was eating something, a slice of bread and cheese that was probably supposed to be Riley’s lunch.
“Hello, Emma,” Flora muttered, her voice reedy. “Riley was just telling me about ye.”
“I told her about Laird MacPherson kissing you,” Riley blurted out.
A tide of red-hot embarrassment shot up Emma’s neck, turning her face beet red.
“Ye did what?”
She had told Riley about the kiss in a moment of weakness two days ago. Somebody had to know about it. It hadn’t occurred to Emma that Riley would be so foolish as to tell anyone else, let alone a young woman who had apparently only just come to work in the Keep.
“She won’t tell anyone!” Riley reassured. “Will you, Flora?”
Flora obediently shook her head from side to side. She crammed the last of the bread and cheese into her mouth, chewing so vigorously that Emma feared she’d bite off one of her fingers.
“You must admit, it’s interesting,” Riley continued, her large brown eyes puppy-like. “He must be in love with you.”
“Why would ye say that, Riley? Eh?”
“Well, he tried to get you dismissed, didn’t he? That was probably because his feelings were so strong.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Good gods, Riley. I’ll kill ye for this later. Anyway, Flora, I apologize for this madwoman. Ye will get used to her, I’m sure. I don’t usually go around kissing lairds, and this particular laird doesn’t go around kissing healers. Or their apprentices.”
Flora blinked for a long moment before she seemed to realize that it was meant to be a joke and tittered half-heartedly. The girl barely seemed to blink, her large eyes intent on Emma, tracking her every movement. It was a bit disconcerting.
Be charitable. This lassie has obviously been through something. Maybe she just wants friends.
“So, where are ye from, Flora?”
Flora flinched at finding herself directly addressed. She swallowed the mouthful of bread and cheese with an effort and spoke.
“My father is a farmer in the Ridge Hills.”
Then, nothing. That was apparently all the information Flora cared to provide.
“And… and will ye go back to visit him?” Emma asked, trying to sound as friendly as she could.
Flora’s large eyes filled with tears. “I wanted to, but I don’t… don’t think that I can.”
A wave of pity washed over Emma. She glanced at Riley, who caught her eye with an I told you so look.
“There, there, don’t cry,” Emma soothed, reaching out to pull Flora close in a hug.
Flora flinched again, her entire body stiffening. Then, almost as quickly as she had stiffened, she relaxed again, sagging against Emma’s shoulder.
Emma felt a flash of guilt over judging poor Flora so harshly. She was a strange girl, that was for sure, but also a damaged one.
Abruptly, Flora pulled back, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I’m sorry, I just… my mother died not so long ago, and sometimes I think that my life ended that day,” she mumbled, sniffling. “Riley says that ye are a healer?”
“A healer’s apprentice, technically, but yes.”
Flora bit her lip, nodding. “I always wanted to be a healer. I don’t suppose… Could you teach me a little medicine?”
“Me?” Emma couldn’t help but feel just a little flattered. Flora was staring at her with large, awe-filled eyes, and it was hard not to feel good about yourself when someone was staring at you like that.
Flora nodded eagerly. “Aye, ye. If… if ye are willing, of course.”
“Of course, I’ll help ye.”
Flora nibbled on her lower lip again. It was obviously a habit because there was a reddish bruise blooming in the center of her lower lip.
“Could we go out to the forest one evening when I’m finished work, and ye can show me some useful herbs?”
“That would be a good place to start,” Emma said, smiling.
She briefly allowed herself to imagine teaching Flora to be a healer, then introducing her to Delphine, already half-trained. Delphine would be so proud. Then, perhaps Emma and Delphine could be healers together, and Flora could be the new apprentice.
Flora perked up a little at that. “Shall we go out tonight?”
Emma hesitated. “I can’t tonight.”
She didn’t intend to elaborate, but Flora looked so pitiful she just had to say something.
“I’m going out to the Sinner’s pub tonight,” Emma added, shrugging. “Tomorrow, maybe.”
Flora nodded slowly, her thin face breaking into a smile. “Aye, perhaps. The Sinner, ye say? I’ve heard that’s a good place. I hope ye have a good time.”
There was something disconcerting about Flora’s smile. Emma felt a clenching feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach but put it down to nerves over the evening.
“I’m sure I will.”
A heavy clang echoed through the dungeons. Brom flinched, making an ink-black blot across the paper he was writing on. If he was a speaking sort of man, he might have cursed. As it was, he sighed in annoyance and picked up a fresh sheet of paper.
His silence had spread to the prisoners over his time here.
They gave up on shouting insults at him and each other, mainly because they knew he would not give them a reaction.
If they behaved particularly badly, he would simply toss a bucket of ice-cold water through the bars of their cells, and nobody wanted that.
If they were polite to him, he was polite to them.
In fact, some of the prisoners were more courteous to him than some of the soldiers.
He’d heard them discussing, in obvious earshot, whether or not he was simple-minded (he was not), or whether he was deaf (he could hear perfectly well), or whether he was just as stubborn as a mule (that one was true).
The clang came again, and Brom squinted down the hallway it had come from, mentally running over which prisoners were kept there. The latest addition, the man Laird MacPherson had come to see, was there too. Now, there was a new noise, which sounded horribly like feet drumming on the floor.
A nasty feeling grew in the pit of Brom’s stomach. He snatched up his keys and raced along the hallway. The evening meal had just been served, and it was possible…
There. In the last cell, Gregor lay on his side, turned away from the cell door, convulsing. An half-finished tray lay beside him, the food carelessly scattered over the ground. He was choking, his body spasming wildly.
Brom acted quickly, unlocking the door and diving inside. He’d saved choking men before, and he knew exactly what to do.
His fingertips brushed Gregor’s shoulders, then the man whipped around, far too fast for a choking man, something heavy gripped in his hand. It thumped across Brom’s temples with a crack, and the world went dark.
Brom woke with a start, feeling sick. It took a moment to remember where he was, and then once he had remembered, he wished that he hadn’t.
Gregor, choking. Or rather, not choking. Something heavy, then darkness.
He could see the item he’d been struck with—a three-legged stool—sitting beside him.
He hadn’t been locked in, and he suspected he had his own bulk to thank for that.
Brom had collapsed half in, half out of the cell, meaning that he’d need to be pulled in or pushed out for the door to be locked.
Apparently, Gregor hadn’t had the strength or the time for that. He was, of course, long gone.
Brom stumbled out of the cell, squinting against the new pain in his head, and raced along the hallway, checking the other cells.
Nobody else was gone, so that was something.
Gregor had simply gotten himself free. It didn’t help that Brom had no idea how much time had gone by.
He could have been unconscious for only a few minutes, in which case Gregor would still be in the Keep, or else he might have been out for longer, and Gregor could have escaped.
He clanged on a cell door, attracting the attention of the prisoners within.
“Where is he?” he signed rapidly.
The prisoners only stared at him, befuddled. Of course, they wouldn’t understand. Brom considered writing it down, but there was no guarantee that these men could read. Anyway, it would waste time.
He shook his head wildly and took off running again, feeling the stares of the confused prisoners burning into his back.
He took the secret passage because it was faster, ignoring the horrified stares of the soldiers standing guard at the top when he burst out from behind the tapestry.
He needed to find Laird MacPherson, and quickly. He needed to tell him. He would be in his council room, talking to his advisors. The room was just down this hall, and then…
“Where are ye going, then?”
Brom stopped dead at the sound of Lady Tabitha’s voice. If it had been any other advisor, he would have just kept going, but not her.
He turned towards her, signing rapidly, grateful that she could understand him.
Missing prisoner. Must find the Laird.
Lady Tabitha pursed her lips. “A missing prisoner? Ye have never lost a prisoner before.”
I know!
She chuckled at the expression on his face. “Who is it?”
A soldier, Gregor.
“The name rings a bell. What is his crime?”
Attacking a woman.
“He sounds like a degenerate, all right. But perhaps we shouldn’t bother the Laird with this now.”
Brom blinked. He must have misunderstood. Tabitha sighed, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening.
“Laird MacPherson is going to the Sinner tonight. He’s taking a woman with him. She’s not what I’d want for him, but at this stage, I’ll be happy for him to marry anyone. This woman… well, she interests me. I believe that there’s hope there. The clan needs an heir.”
So what?
He was glad that Lady Tabitha could interpret his brusque signs. What Brom meant, of course, was, “What does that have to do with the escaped prisoner?”
Lady Tabitha laid a hand on his shoulder.
“If he learns of this escaped prisoner, he will immediately go out to search for him. He won’t go to the Sinner, and he won’t spend time with the lass.
If he knows nothing, this man, a degenerate, a vile man, will just disappear into the countryside to live a squalid life and die in a ditch.
It’s an injustice for him to escape, but this little trip of the Laird’s could be for the greater good of the clan. Do ye understand?”
Gods help him, but he did. If anyone else but Lady Tabitha had said this, Brom would have replied with a crude hand gesture that required no interpretation, but it was Lady Tabitha, and he had a great deal of respect for her.
Very well.
Lady Tabitha smiled. “Good man.”