Highland Thirst. Lynsay Sands
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cursed. “The old laird was such a good mon. How could he leave us with this bastard as his heir?”
“He couldnae make Mistress Brona the laird, could he? I like to think the mon didnae really ken what sort of mon Hervey Kerr is, e’en if that makes the old laird sound a bit of a fool.”
Obviously Hervey Kerr was not the usual sort amongst the Kerrs of Rosscurrach, thought Heming. If he ever did reach his kinsmen he would have to make it clear that it was Hervey Kerr and his first who were their enemies. Them and a few of Hervey’s men. For all that he ached to avenge this treatment at Hervey’s hands, he could not allow the innocent to be caught up in that.
“Sweet Jesu, Colin, I hope she does get us out of here and soon. I dinnae want to be dragged afore that demon and have my soul eaten.”
Heming inwardly cursed. A beastie and a demon that ate souls. It was obvious the two men did not share Mistress Brona’s doubt concerning the claims about him and his clan. If there was a rescue, he might not be invited along, especially if the decision was left up to those two.
“Weel, thinking it all o’er I am nay certain he is a demon. Mistress Brona is right. Where is his power if he is a demon, eh? Why hasnae he sent those bastards straight to hell? If ye heed all the Godly men say then that mon down there shouldnae be just setting in that cage letting them torture him every night. He would be ripping those bars apart and killing the men who think themselves so strong they can torture one of the devil’s minions. Aye, and e’en if he stayed a wee while, letting the laird and his men stain their souls nice and black by their own actions, wouldnae he be trying to woo us into sinning? Into giving him our souls?”
“I heard them say he is bound by silver chains and in an iron cage. Mayhap that is what has trapped him.”
Colin’s heavy sigh echoed through the dungeon. “Och, I dinnae ken, Fergus. I just dinnae ken what to think. I saw Peter. I heard the laird say the mon or whate’er he is drank poor Peter’s blood and it healed his wounds. Yet a part of me thinks that, if a mon like our laird can capture and torment a demon, then why are we all told to be so afraid of them? Our laird is no a great warrior.”
“Aye, true enough. Yet what mon drinks another mon’s blood, Colin?”
“A verra thirsty one?”
Heming was almost able to smile as the two men laughed. Unlike so many others Colin was at least trying to reason out what he had seen and heard. Too many heeded the dark tales about his clan and ne’er searched for the truth, simply hated and feared them. It was a shame that Colin’s ability to hesitate before hating would do him little good. Heming needed a free man, a strong one who would know how to get him out of Rosscurrach. Colin was not that man.
“Get some rest, Fergus. I dinnae ken if the lass will be able to help us, but ’tis best if we stay as strong as we can. This place sucks the strength and life right out of a mon, so resting is e’en more important.”
There followed only a few sighs and soft grunts as the two men obviously tried in vain to get comfortable. Heming closed his eyes, unable to fight the weakness anymore. He was cold and the pain in his body was so unrelenting he wanted to howl until his voice died.
The soft sound of something dripping caused him to open his eyes enough to look down. A small part of his mind was pleased that his ability to see in the dark still lingered, but what he saw chilled him even more than being naked in a cold, damp dungeon. He was still bleeding. It was a slow bleeding, one small drop at a time, but it was an ominous sign. His wounds should have closed enough by now to halt his bleeding.
Heming realized that he might well die in this cursed place. He had thought it before a time or two but had been able to push the thought aside. It was impossible to do that this time. Unless he got some blood soon, he would die. A bone deep chill in his body told him he had lost too much blood to simply rest and recover this time.
Closing his eyes again, he gave himself over to the encroaching blackness as despair swept over him. He did not want to die this way, but it was time to make his peace with it. His kinsmen would avenge him. That infuriated him, for he wanted to kill Hervey with his own hands, wanted to watch the bastard quiver with terror just before he ripped his throat out, but Heming could see no hope of accomplishing that now. He prayed that Tearlach fared better than he. At the moment his only hope of getting out of the trap he had fallen into, of escaping the torment, was a wee lass named Brona. Heming decided it might be time to make his peace with God.
Three
Her heart was pounding so hard, Brona was surprised she could not see the front of her gown moving from the force of it. She could hear the rapid beating inside her head as she crept from cell to cell in the dungeon. Hervey had few prisoners, which made her search much easier. She did not have to keep trying to see if the huddled pile of rags and misery in the corner of each cell was Peter or some other poor soul Hervey felt had wronged him in some way. It also meant she did not have to make any hard decisions about who should be freed and who should be left behind. It appeared that the four men she intended to set free were the only ones in the dungeon.
Finally the light from the lantern she carried fell upon the huddled form of a man. The fair hair falling in soft waves to a pair of broad shoulders told her that it was probably Peter. His face was pressed against his upraised knees so she could not be certain of that yet, however. It was no surprise that the man was curled up so tightly, either, for he was naked. Brona decided she did not wish to know or understand why her cousin had stripped the poor man of all his clothes. She had brought two shirts and two sets of breeches for Sir Heming, but would now use one set for Peter.
“Peter?” she called and was a little startled by how quickly the man responded to her tentative call, moving his head up enough to stare at her.
“Mistress Brona?” he asked in a raspy voice and even in the wavering glow of light from her lantern she could see him blush.
“Aye, Peter. I have brought ye some clothes. I didnae ken ye would have none at all and had brought two sets of clothing for the other mon, but I think they will fit ye as weel.” When he did not move, she turned her head away and held the rough woolen breeches and jupon in through the bars. “Get dressed and I will let ye out of there.”
She heard a sound as if he was dragging himself across the floor and it was several moments before he took the clothes from her hand. Brona resisted the urge to look at him and try to see why he was moving so slowly. She had the sinking feeling she was going to need Colin and Fergus to help with Peter as well as with Sir Heming, and hoped the brothers had not weakened from the lashes her cousin had given them.
“I wish naught more than to flee from this hell, mistress, but I dinnae think I am strong enough to do so.”
“Are ye dressed now?”
“Aye, mistress.”
Brona looked at him and had to hastily swallow a gasp of horror. She knew she had probably gone nearly as pale as Peter was for she could feel all the blood draining from her head. For a brief moment she had to clutch at the bars of his cell to steady herself. Peter’s throat was not really torn out, but there was a gruesome wound there. She wondered how much of that injury had been caused by her cousin and how much by Sir Heming, but now was not the time to satisfy her curiosity.
As her horror and dizziness eased, her ability to think clearly returned and she frowned. Peter wore no bandage and had no stitches, yet he did not bleed. In truth, he should be dead, having bled his life away soon after the wound was made. Horrible as the wound looked, it was closed tight, not even oozing a small drop of blood now and again. There was livid bruising and a raw, ragged mark, but the skin was not open at any point along the wound. Since he had been wounded only a mere two days ago and she doubted he had any care taken of his wound, that made no sense at all. She was abruptly yanked from her thoughts over that puzzle when Peter began to sink to his knees, the simple matter of tugging on his clothing enough to weaken him badly.
“Nay,” she said, putting as much authority into her voice as possible, “dinnae ye go and faint on me now, Peter.