Chapter 11 #2
He folded his arms over his chest, pondering her surprising suggestion.
What if he had been hurt while being hunted?
That would change everything. He could be an escaped prisoner of his own clan, or any number of other things.
Were the men he’d seen in his flash memory of being on a boat now also in Sinclair?
His vision of them had not given him any sense of trouble.
He’d thought he was just part of their crew.
Once again, he cursed his lack of memory.
Glimpses and hints did not help him, not when peril surrounded him.
And the fact that he had a memory that might fit with those men?
But the glimpses he’d gotten hadn’t shown him bound, or bound to an oar.
He’d bet he was crew. He’d be wise to keep that to himself for now, but their predicament angered him.
“Ye should ken that the men in the dungeon might recognize ye. If Da finds ye do belong with those men, he’ll move ye there. Maighread willna be able to prevent it.”
Anders had turned to look at the window while Ailsa spoke.
He was glad of it now. She couldn’t see his face and the irritation on it.
There was trouble, and he might wind up in the middle of it.
Likely those were his men. His problem was now compounded by their presence—and how to get all of them, himself included, out of Sinclair.
“They’re being taken care of,” Ailsa continued, still unaware of the effect her words were having on him. “Treated more as guests than prisoners, with good food, water and blankets.”
“So, ye made the decision to put them in the dungeon?” This time, Anders did turn to face her, and he let his displeasure show in his expression.
Ailsa frowned.
Anders realized in all the time he’d been in Sinclair, he’d never once shown her this side of him. Yet she needed to know he was a real man, with real feelings. Not just hopes and longings, but irritation and even anger.
“Raghnall advised it,” she said. “I had to agree. There just wasna any other place to put that many men.”
“Ye couldha let them go.”
“The Laird was away—but we kenned he would want to speak with them. Boden wouldna let them go either, so nor could I.” She stood. “My father will send for ye soon. Mother, Maighread and I spoke to him. He agreed no’ to send ye to the dungeon unless ye cause trouble.”
Anders sighed. Another worry eliminated, though looking at Ailsa made Anders want to cause the kind of trouble that could get him killed. He dared not—for her sake. As long as her father kept his word, he’d keep his hands to himself. The rest of him, too.
“Why now?”
She shrugged. “Ye are different. They wouldna identify themselves save for first names. Ye canna. A man named Tomas seems to be their leader. But so far, they willna name their clan. I dinna ken what they’re hiding, or why, but ’twillna help them with my da.”
“Lass, if they ken me, they could take me home.”
“Is that what ye want?” Her face fell. “Of course, it is. Ye have a life somewhere. No’ here.”
“But here, I have ye to console me,” he told her, trying with his tone to tell her how much she meant to him. He couldn’t use the words he would say if he knew he could have her. If there was no one else in his life. “No’ as much as I could wish for, but leaving ye would be … difficult.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle. “Seeing ye go would … hurt.”
“Ailsa.” He reached for her.
She raised a hand. “Nay, dinna say it. We will deal with that possibility if it comes to pass. I will be happy for ye, but heartbroken as well. And sad that I didna get to ken the real ye, with yer memories intact.”
“This is the real me,” he said, stood, and reached again for her hand. “All we have is now. Nay the past, nor the future. I am the man ye ken. The rest is history and possibility. Nay more than that.”
“Nay? The rest is family, and friends, and possibly a lass of yer own. We canna forget that.”
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I havena. I willna, or ye’d be in my arms instead of standing there.”
She gave him a wan smile, pulled back her hand and turned toward the door. “I should go.”
“Aye, if ye must. ’Tis no’ what I want. Nor ye, I think.”
She took a step toward the door, turned back to him, leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Nor I.”
After riding under escort most of the rest of the day, Stellan wasn’t happy about entering the Sinclair keep as a prisoner, but it was the only way to discover if there were any men being held here, and if they were Sutherlands.
The birlinn the Sinclairs found might not be the Sutherland birlinn, but the coincidence was too great to ignore.
The guard hadn’t indicated it was wrecked.
Perhaps he didn’t know. But if Anders had time to beach it, he and his men were somewhere in Sinclair territory. Or here, in this keep.
He still hadn’t sensed any distress from Anders, so if he was here, he was in no immediate danger.
That gave Stellan some comfort as they passed under the iron-barred portcullis and entered the Sinclair bailey.
Tormund exchanged a look with him that he couldn’t mistake.
This was risky. Perhaps even foolish. If Anders was here, Sinclair held the future of Sutherland within its walls, both heir and spare, possibly along with a significant number of its most valued men.
Sinclair could demand of Laird Sutherland anything he wished, and probably get it.
Another man approached their guards as they dismounted.
Stellan stayed on his horse, so the rest of his men did the same.
For a moment, Stellan thought the new man would be enough of a distraction that the Sutherlands could turn their horses and ride out, but he dismissed the idea.
The Sinclairs would remount and be on them in moments.
They knew their territory. The Sutherlands didn’t.
And they wouldn’t leave any of the men imprisoned behind.
“What have ye here?” The new man frowned at the Sutherland prisoners, still astride their horses.
“Men we picked up in the woods a few miles west. Looking for a missing birlinn and its crew.”
“They’ve come to the right place.” The man turned to regard them.
“I’m Raghnall, the Sinclair chief guard.
Ye lot may as well dismount. Ye’re going nowhere until the laird gives his leave.
I’ll take ye to yer men. Filib, go tell the laird we’ve caught a few more fish.
” He paused and eyed them again. “Nay, no’ fish.
Fishermen, I’d say.” He laughed at his own wit.
Stellan fought not to roll his eyes. “They are here—the birlinn’s crew,” he said, relief a warm blanket thrown over the cold uncertainty of allowing himself and his men to accept being captured.