Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Though Christopher knew that he wouldn't actually be able to have a conversation with Morag until they met in their secret courtyard that night, he spent the whole remainder of the day desperate to catch a glimpse of her.
However, despite him haunting the areas of the castle that she usually frequented, Morag was nowhere to be found.
He didn't find her in the main library, though he spent two hours there trying and failing to concentrate on a book.
He didn't find her in the gardens, nor in any of the sitting rooms, nor anywhere else he could think of.
By the time he went to lie down for a few hours before supper, his skin was itching with his impatience to see her again.
Just a secret smile between them would be enough to fuel him for the rest of the night and any task he might have to face.
Christopher slept for three hours before supper, accepting that he needed some rest if he was to continue Morag's nighttime lessons—and, of course, he had no intention of giving those up.
He wasn't quite refreshed when he woke up, but he roused himself quickly and washed his face, preparing himself for supper.
Morag would be there with her father, and perhaps he would be able to catch her eye and communicate to her somehow that he had been able to learn something. He looked forward to seeing Ian, too, hoping he could somehow deepen the real bond he had felt growing between them today.
Alistair sent a servant with word that it would be another large meal in the Grand Hall, which suited Christopher just fine.
If there were many people there at supper, he would have a much better chance to speak without attracting attention from anyone he did not want to hear.
These thoughts cheered him, making him feel more awake and eager as he finished dressing for supper and made his way downstairs.
But as supper progressed and Christopher sat in his usual seat two to the right of Alistair, it quickly became apparent that things were not going to work out the way he had hoped.
The table closest to the head table, the one where the Caindachs usually ate, was empty.
Robert and Morag Caindach were both missing, and when Christopher casually inquired of a servant if they knew where they were, nobody seemed to have any idea.
Though he was troubled and disappointed by Morag not being present, Christopher might have been able to distract himself with the other part of his goal, had the seat next to him not also been empty.
Ever since he had arrived at the castle, he had avoided talking directly to Alistair whenever he could help it. However, with Ian missing, there was nobody else he could ask. He leaned over the empty seat and said, "Father, where is me brother?"
Alistair smiled at the use of the familial title, as had been Christopher's intention. It disgusted him to refer to Alistair Campbell in such a way, but he knew that it was an essential part of keeping the horrible, legacy-obsessed man's trust.
"Murdoch, me lad, dinnae fear. Ian is just fine. He and several of our men are off arrangin' another victory for our family. He should be back soon, and I, for one, cannae wait tae hear of his triumph."
Alarm flooded through Christopher at the bright glee with which Alistair said those words.
What could possibly be happening at this time of the evening that would cause such excitement and clear impatience in this man?
How had Ian failed to mention whatever this mission was during the whole morning they spent together?
Something felt off, and the fact that Christopher couldn't even fathom what it was made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat.
He ate his supper without tasting it, his mind far away.
He knew that Alistair was talking to him, and he knew that he was answering, but he could not recall any details of the conversation even immediately after they'd been spoken.
As soon as it was even remotely acceptable to make his excuses and leave, he did, heading back to his room as quickly as he could.
He paced back and forth, knowing he would not get the few extra hours of sleep he had hoped to grab between supper and midnight.
His heart was yearning for Morag and his mind was whirling with questions about what Ian's mission could be and what it would mean for the people that Christopher was trying so hard to protect.
A quarter of an hour before midnight, Christopher was already in the secret courtyard, practicing with a polearm as he waited for Morag to arrive for sword training.
The polearm was still his main skill, and he had the feeling he would need to keep himself sharp in those skills as well as in swordplay for whatever was to come.
He kept glancing at the large turret clock that he could just about see from the courtyard, impatient for time to pass so that Morag would arrive and he could find out if she had any more information than he did on what was going on…
and, well, just to see her. He knew that one sight of her smile would quell the worry in his heart enough to at least let him think things through.
But fifteen minutes passed without any sign of her.
Then another quarter hour, then another.
Christopher's anxiety grew with every passing minute, and as it got closer and closer to one in the morning, he started to despair.
What was he supposed to do? Should he go inside?
No. He couldn't, because what if Morag arrived and thought he'd abandoned her?
But he couldn't stay either; what if something was wrong? He needed to make a decision, but his fear and unrest and confusion made him stand frozen in place, not even able to practice anymore as the weight of indecision held him down.
The bell tolled in the tower above to indicate the passing of the hour, and as it did, a woman's figure appeared in the entrance to the courtyard. Christopher's heart leapt and he hurried to meet her, but his feet slowed and his throat constricted as he realized quickly that this was not Morag.
This woman was vaguely familiar with her tree-bark brown hair and dark eyes, but it was hard to make out any of her distinguishing features as she was hidden in a cloak.
She lowered her hood and he saw that, behind a mass of freckles, the young woman's face was paler than milk and her expression was twisted in fear.
In a flash, he realized how he knew her.
This was the quiet lady's maid who followed Morag around during the day, silent and obedient, though he had often noticed the two women exchanging smiles.
Nevertheless, she was officially a servant of Robert Caindach, and so Christopher was immediately on his guard.
"Please," the maid said. "Ye must listen tae me quickly, before Laird Campbell notices I've slipped away. Me name is Mary, and I need ye tae ken—"
Christopher folded his arms. "What secrets could ye have tae tell me? If ye're here tae spy—"
"I'm nae!" she protested. "Lady Morag needs yer help!"
He paused, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. What if this was a trap? Had Caindach noticed how much time he and Morag were spending together? He had to be very, very careful.
She seemed to realize that he wasn't going to answer her, and she grew frustrated, actually stomping her foot in annoyance.
"I'm nae part of yer lairdly games! I just want ye tae help me friend!" she snapped. "Please, Christopher!"
Her passion caught his attention, but it was the last word that had him convinced.
Christopher, she'd called him. Not Master Murdoch or Campbell.
She knew. And the only way she could know, the only possible way she could be appealing to him like this, was because Morag trusted her. If Morag trusted her, then so did he.
Then the rest of what the girl had said filtered through, and a new kind of fear shot down his spine.
"Where is Morag?" he demanded urgently. "Where is she?"
Mary's passion instantly faded back into a dread that seemed to weigh her down where she stood.
"She's in trouble."
Morag had once accompanied her father south on a tour of the English courts, and in the royal Tower of London she had glimpsed a collection of strange animals kept in cages from faraway lands.
She remembered the she-lynx most of all, prowling in her cage, frustration in every movement of her muscles.
Aged just twelve or thirteen then, she'd silently prayed that an accident would befall the tower and let the animals go free.
Her hope had been shattered when a lion roared in fury and the keeper retorted with a crack of a whip.
She understood that lynx now as she paced the confines of her room, around and around in endless circles as if on one pass she might at last find an escape.
What had happened to that creature? Whenever she thought back on that day, she liked to imagine that the lynx had somehow gotten free to return to the Iberian Peninsula to hunt and breed and live free as she pleased.
But Morag was no longer a child, and she knew that neither the lynx nor she herself lived in a fairy story. No doubt the wildcat had wilted in her cage, succumbing before her time in the dark, with no sight of the sun again.
Morag sank down on the edge of her bed as hopelessness consumed her. Was that to be her fate? Was she to return to the Caindach dungeons and live and die there, never seeing the sun again? She wasn't sure she would survive even as long as the lynx had.
At least she had protected Christopher. If she was to lose everything, then at least she had lost it doing something worthwhile with the last stroke of her freedom—defying her father, condemning the evil Laird Campbell, and giving Christopher a chance to thrive.
If Morag could be proud of just one thing she'd done in her entire life, it would be that.
That would be the fire that kept her going, no matter what her father did next.