Chapter 3
POURED AND FORGOTTEN
The prisoner’s words followed Laura back up the stairs and into the Great Hall.
It had felt like a lifetime since she had spoken of Taryn, let alone met someone who knew her.
Though, Laura couldn’t claim to know who Taryn McGregor was anymore.
She was heartbroken for the woman in the cell. Laura saw so much of herself in Sorcha.
There had been a time when Laura would have bet her very breath that Taryn would come for her; that Taryn wasn’t the kind of friend to leave Laura imprisoned.
But the days had soon turned to weeks and months.
Now, three years later, Laura was still serving ale in Lord Dudley’s Great Hall, dodging the drunken leers of the men he invited to dine.
Pitcher in one hand, she used the other to steady it, careful not to spill a single drop as she poured more into the cups of the Englishmen who were already far too gone.
She had spent two weeks in the same cell Sorcha was in now after some other Baron had blamed her for spilling his wine.
Baron Dudley banished her a second, or perhaps it was a third time, for wearing a dress the wrong color.
As much as she loathed it, she played his game.
Her hair stayed pinned back behind her dowdy cap, making her look far older than her twenty years.
She was only allowed dresses in gray or brown wool, the same color as the stone walls.
And it was against those walls that she pressed herself to, trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
“I will find some way to escape, some way out of here. And when I do, I will take ye with me. We will escape together.”
Sorcha’s promise, her claim of escape rolled around in the back of Laura’s mind as she scanned the room looking for more cups to fill.
Laura had given up any dreams of escaping this estate long ago.
The Baron was not a man easily thwarted.
Having been given to the Baron by her own Laird, there wasn’t anyone coming to save her from this fate.
There would be nowhere to run to even if she did manage to get free.
With a deep sigh that rose from somewhere within her soul, Laura moved across the room, ready to pour more ale.
Her eyes hung briefly on the streaks of blood that marred the floor.
She had spent weeks drying and tying the rushes together, weaving the straw with sprigs of rosemary and chips of cedar wood to fend off the smells of castle life.
All of her hard work would need to be thrown out and replaced before the Baron rose tomorrow if she had any chance of avoiding his wrath.
All because the vile man couldn’t seem to help himself from beating those he thought inferior to him.
“No more.”
The quiet order held enough authority in it that Laura’s hand froze, the tilting jug sloshing its contents around in its more than half empty walls.
She glanced at the man’s face, needing to assure herself that she had heard him correctly.
More often than not, the Englishmen her captor invited to his home shared the same level of greed with the Baron and were more than happy to drink him dry.
In all her years of serving the Baron’s table, she had never been told “no more.” But the warm glow of the Marquess’ eyes assured her that she had heard correctly.
She nodded hastily and bolted back to the wall, waiting for the next man to call her over, summoning the wine more than they were her.
It was a blessing, she knew, to become invisible so easily.
Men paid attention to women like Sorcha, like Taryn—those with beautiful hair and even more alluring eyes.
She reminded herself for the hundredth time that she didn’t want the attention of these men.
She didn’t want the attention of any man.
She could be content in this life so long as she was left unscathed.
The lie lay in her thoughts like a sleeping dog—better left untouched.
“More! We need more!”
Lord Dudley’s demand echoed throughout the Great Hall as he stood and swayed on his dais, the men he gathered cheering on his antics.
A quick glance at her pitcher told her that she had already poured all the wine she had brought from the kitchens.
A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she scurried back to the warm hearth under the guise of obeying the Baron’s orders.
“Have they drunk it all already?”
The cook’s quirked eyebrow studying the jug that landed on the messy counter with a thunk that answered her question.
“Aye,” Laura replied anyway. “The Baron has called for more.”
“This is the third time you have been sent back to the kitchens, Laura.” One of the kitchen maids regarded her, a smug, knowing look in her eye.
“If you are not quick about it, the Baron will notice your absence and punish you. Although, I hear this time, you might have some company in the cells. That would be a nice change of pace for you, would it not?”
Laura bit back the words forming on her tongue. She didn’t dare admit how much she was itching to get back down to the dungeon, an endless list of questions begging for answers from the prisoner. The first of which was about their shared friend.
As much as Laura was loath to admit it, she missed Taryn—desperately.
These long three years had been made bearable only through her memories of the days she spent at home.
Every day, she would summon the images of her parents’ and her brother’s faces, if only to ensure she didn’t forget them completely.
Taryn’s face would often appear alongside her family, despite the mix of emotions that always accompanied it.
To Laura’s dismay, the details of her loved ones had long since grown hazy. She knew that her brother, James, had the same green in his eyes, though his always seemed to glow with a vigor for life that she could no longer summon. Her mother had bequeathed Laura the muddy yellow color of her hair.
There had been a point in her life where she could remember feeling beautiful.
She had never been much compared to Taryn’s golden spun hair and crystal blue eyes.
Even still, Laura knew she carried her own unique beauty; at least, she had.
Three years of life in and out of a dungeon cell, toiling away for a cruel master, has robbed her of anything lovely.
Even the skin on her hands was cracked and brittle, hard callouses on her palms rough on her gaunt cheekbones.
“After being on me feet these last few days for the master and all of his unruly Lords, I am sorely tempted to land myself in a cell, if only to get a few days’ rest,” the cook quipped, breaking the strange air of tension that had risen with the heat from the hearth.
“Och, aye,” the housekeeper added. “It’ll be ages before the soreness leaves these old feet.”
She propped the offending appendages on the chair across from her, rubbing the tired, aged muscles of her legs.
“I will make ye my poultice tonight, if ye would like, Mrs. Hall,” Laura offered quietly. “It will ease the ache.”
“Ye are a gem,” the housekeeper gushed, her eyes sparkling with affection for the girl.
The warmth Laura saw nearly brought tears to her own eyes, shocking her with the sudden wave of homesickness.
She had gotten over the worst of her longing for home just after her first year on the estate.
It had been many more months since she had last shed a tear for the family she had been stolen from.
Her heart was cold and hard, an iron forged by the fires of separation that had cooled, cementing her place in the world.
At least, she thought she was impervious to the rushing waves of grief until someone like Mrs. Hall looked at her with such warm affection.
It was no secret that Laura was the odd one out amongst the servants. For starters, she was one of the few Scots the Baron allowed on his lands. And that said nothing for the fact that Laura was a prisoner here, unable to leave and move on should she wish to do so.
The rest of the servants came to better themselves, to make a life for themselves.
They came because it was the best life had to offer them.
And then, once satisfied with the skills and the reputation that they had built for themselves, they would leave in search of a more benevolent master.
Or to marry their childhood love. A handful of the most complacent servants stayed put, Mrs. Hall amongst them, roots too deep in the Baron’s land to leave.
But Laura had no hope to expect anything other than the cruel treatment from the Baron.
It was a blessing to be forgotten because that meant that at the very least she wouldn’t be the object of his jeers.
She would never be allowed to leave his estate, to venture back home for the holidays, or to tell her aging parents goodbye.
A husband and family of her own, once her dearest held dreams, had been decimated by the bargain struck between the Baron and her Laird.
And that made her, to all the other servants, the lowest ranking person in every room.
She had resulted to trading favors, using her skills as a seamstress to pick up new ones, like making salves for wounds and basic healing talents, to get in the good graces of those around her.
She was only acknowledged when someone needed something from her or when the Baron believed that she had done him some misdeed.
To the rest of the world, she was merely a means to an end. To everyone except Brandon.
The stablemaster nodded over to the far kitchen of the corner. He had snuck in while she was too busy refilling the pitcher of ale to notice.
“Let me bring the wine in,” he offered, half-pleading and-half demanding. “I will put it on the table in front of the Baron, and he can serve himself.”
“Brandon,” she softly chided. “He will nae like it.”