Chapter 3
He really wasn’t coming back, then.
Melody paced up and down the narrow cell, trying to make sense of where she was.
“I broke into a stranger’s castle,” she mumbled. “Just to flee my future. Well, more like postpone it. It was just supposed to be a little adventure.”
One last adventure before she married Lord Sinclair and had to stop reading and travelling and having fun…Being herself altogether.
“I got caught instead, and now I’m in the dungeon. For trespassing? Or worse? If he thinks I’m a spy…” she trailed off, shuddering.
Was the law different in Scotland? She thought it might be. Would she get executed? Oh, heavens.
“I suppose if I escape, I can go to visit Victoria and tell her all about this,” Melody mumbled. “And if I’m kept here as a prisoner and never sent back… well, then at least I won’t have to marry a dull, bald man that I do not love.”
A key clanged in the lock, quite without warning, and Melody spun around, eyes wide.
The door shuddered open, revealing the same stone-faced jailor who’d brought her a couple of neatly folded blankets earlier. Melody had not quite decided whether she was being rescued or was about to face a new horror before the man stepped back, revealing the oldest woman she had ever seen.
She was not sure if the woman had ever been tall, but now age had hunched her over and shrunken her spine until she was almost child-sized. Layers of shawls and blankets draped around her, and she rested heavily on a gnarled birch stick as a cane.
The jailor hovered assiduously at her side, one hand poised to assist her. The old woman ignored him, preferring instead to twist her head up to look at Melody with unrestrained interest.
“Me Lady, it is very cold and damp down here,” the man begged, after a moment of silence. “Let me escort ye back upstairs.”
“I’ll go upstairs when I’m ready, lad,” the woman snapped testily. “I want to see the English lass. Although, lassie, I heard ye talkin’ to yerself in here. That’s the first sign of madness, as they say.”
Melody flushed. “I… I don’t normally talk to myself.”
“Well, ye ought to. It’s the most sensible conversation ye will hear, in me experience.”
“B-But madness…”
“All the best folks are mad. Take it from me. Heavens, is this where me grandson has put ye? Straw for a bed, damp walls…” she trailed off, tutting.
A spark of hope flared in Melody’s chest. She took a careful step forward, twisting her fingers together.
“You are the Laird’s grandmother, then? He thought you’d… you’d sent me.”
The old woman tilted her head. Her eyes, filmed with age, had a sharpness to them that wasn’t often seen. Melody had met countless women and men, the same as this woman, perhaps even decades younger, who had long since lost that sharp spark of intelligence, that zest.
“Well, I certainly did nae send ye,” the woman observed. “I am Lady Sophie, although ye can call me Sophie. He didnae tell me yer name, though.”
Melody’s nostrils flared. “No, he did not, because he did not ask it! He merely shoved me in here, like an animal, and refused to listen to any explanation at all.”
Sophie gave a hoot of laughter, flinging back her head. “What fire! It’s been a while since I encountered such a vivid spirit. Folks tend to act strangely around ye when ye are from a family like mine. So, then, Miss Fiery English Lass, what is yer name?”
Melody swallowed, somewhat taken aback by the woman’s amusement. The jailor was glaring at her, and she was pretty sure that she’d spoken too freely.
Remember that you’re the one still locked in a cell, she thought nervously. Nobody knows that you’re here, except maybe the Marzipan Twins, and they are not likely to be of much help.
“My name is Melody Bolton,” she said at last. It seemed better to leave off the lady part of her title.
“What a pretty name,” Sophie said, nodding thoughtfully.
Her gaze, sharp as a knife, slid all over Melody, missing no detail.
She had the strangest feeling that if she even thought something, the old woman would know it.
Ridiculous, of course, but she certainly gave the impression of somebody who held all the cards.
“It’s me fault ye are here,” Sophie said briskly.
“I want me grandson to marry, as befits a laird. Heirs must be got, after all, but he’s stubborn.
I thought if I nudged a few pretty lassies toward him, he’d remember his duty and his interest in women at the same time.
He’s stubborn, as I said, and he got that from me.
Neither of us gives up. He rejects the women as quickly as I send them, and we’ve had many an argument about it.
It’s my reckonin’ that ye bein’ here is just bad luck.
Ye were the lass who broke the camel’s back, and he throws ye in here to punish me. ”
Melody swallowed, smoothing down the grubby front of her apron. “I… I have a family. They’ll worry about me.”
Sophie tilted her head. “A pretty wee English lass with fine, soft hands and a cultured accent? It’s fair to say ye have had a comfortable life, which generally implies that ye are bein’ cared for.
But then, if ye are so cared for, how did ye come here?
Oh, aye, lassie, there are a great many questions on me mind when I look at ye.
One way or another, I’ll get me answers. ”
Was that a threat? Melody didn’t dare ask.
At least they don’t think I’m a spy. Surely, the Laird cannot still believe I’m here to seduce him.
“Well, I… I shall endeavor to give satisfaction,” she stammered. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
The old woman eyed her for a long, thoughtful moment, her gnarled old hands resting on top of each other on her cane.
“I think ye will do very nicely, Melody Bolton,” she murmured, so quietly that Melody had to lean forward to hear. “Aye, ye’ll do very nicely indeed.”
“Do? Do for what?” Melody managed, baffled. “I don’t understand.”
Sophie blinked and gave herself a little shake, as if unaware she’d been speaking at all.
“Forgive me, lass. As I said, speakin’ to meself is sometimes the only way I can hear a wee bit of sense.”
Before Melody could respond to this, heavy footsteps echoed through the hallways. The jailor jumped, paling, and swung around to face somebody.
“What’s the door open for, Jacob?” came a familiar male growl.
“Ah, here he is,” Sophie remarked comfortably. “Come on in, Callum. We’ve been waitin’ for ye.”
The Laird himself appeared in the doorway, ducking his head and turning his broad shoulders to the side to fit through the narrow door.
His sharp gaze fell on Melody first. An odd shiver rolled across her skin when he looked at her, his eyes dropping from her sensibly booted feet and all the way up to her grimy cap.
The shiver dissipated when he dragged his gaze from her and glowered at his grandmother.
“Are ye meddlin’ again, Grandmother?” he demanded, his voice an angry snap.
“Meddlin’? Me? I would never,” she responded amiably. “And that is nae how a man speaks to an aged relative even if he is a laird. Who’s the tray for?”
Melody blinked, and it suddenly occurred to her that he was carrying a wide, battered tray in his hands.
There was a bowl of something savory-smelling, a curl of steam rolling up into the air.
A chunk of black bread sat beside the bowl, and there was a cup of what was probably water, or perhaps beer.
Melody’s traitorous stomach growled loudly, reminding her that she hadn’t had much to eat during the interminable stagecoach ride to Scotland.
She looked up to find Callum staring at her, his brow knitted. Heat washed over her face, and she flushed, glancing away.
“The food’s for her,” he said, jerking his chin in Melody’s direction. “I’m nae a monster, am I?”
“So kind of ye to bring it yerself,” Sophie murmured thoughtfully. “But come now, I have told ye that I didnae send her. She told ye herself that she’s nae here to seduce ye. Why, look at the poor wee lass. She could nae seduce a broomstick.”
Callum blinked, rocking back on his heels.
Melody bridled. “Am I meant to be seducing broomsticks?” she retorted, wary of offending her only ally but simultaneously very hurt.
Sophie ignored her. “Well, then, give her the food.”
“I am nae sure I want to, nae now that ye are here to help her escape,” Callum shot back. He stepped forward, pushing the tray toward Melody without looking at her. She took it, since it seemed very likely that he’d drop it otherwise.
“Daenae throw such accusations around, Callum” Sophie soothed. “There’s nay talk of escape.”
“There had better nae be. I am Laird of this Keep, and nobody has the right to supersede my authority.”
There was a brief silence after that, with Callum and his grandmother’s gazes locked together, the air simmering between them. It seemed a bad idea to break the silence. So, of course, Melody did just that.
“Lord… um, Laird MacDean, isn’t it?” she ventured tentatively, “Lady Sophie never said anything about taking me out of the cell. I… I rather think she was just making sure that I was comfortable.”
Shimmering gold-green eyes swiveled around to rest on her, glowering. Swallowing, Melody forced herself to hold his gaze.
“Oh, ye just think, do ye?” he responded, his voice cold. “Since ye are the root cause of all this trouble, I’d suggest that ye stay very quiet for a minute or two, lass.”
The injustice of it all scraped at Melody’s insides. Putting down the tray with a rattle, she took a step forward, lifting her chin and glaring at him.
“I’d say that you are the cause of all this trouble, Lord—Laird—MacDean, since you have entirely overreacted.”
“Overreacted?” he spluttered.
“Yes. I told you why I was here…”
“Actually, ye didnae,” he interrupted. “Ye told me why ye were nae here. That’s nae the same thing.”
She flushed. “Still, I am not here to seduce you, if that’s your concern, and your grandmother has confirmed my story.
Now, if you intend to leave me here to languish in this cell, I’d appreciate a little privacy.
I have a feeling that I will be sleeping here tonight, and as sleep will doubtless be impossible, I’d best get a head start on it.
If you intend to stay here and scold me, then I must insist that somebody fetches a chair or stool for Lady Sophie, as she seems very unsteady on her feet, and nobody would wish her to fall over! ”
She ended her impassioned speech with a sharp intake of air.
Callum blinked slowly, like a cat.
Well, very cleverly done, Melody. Now, instead of one night in this awful cell, you’re probably going to be left here for a week. They’ll probably take your blankets away, too. And why is his gaze so intense?