Darkness surrounded her. Above, on all sides, and most terrifying of all, below. Cristie tried not to think about the frigid black depths beneath her small boat. She prayed as she rowed, begging for the courage and strength to endure. It had been a while since she’d set out on her dubious quest. Now, each pull of the oars tore at her shoulders and burned her blistered hands. But she didn’t dare stop, not even for a moment. To do so would mean she had failed.
The eastern horizon would soon brighten, and Tasgall would be on his way to carry out his evil objective. Cristie winced as she looked over her shoulder, relieved to be able to make out some faint detail on the distant shore. It occurred to her that she had been within a short ride from Ravenstone the day before. As had Ewan, of course.
She bit back tears. Would she ever be able to think of him without crying? Undoubtedly, her love for Ewan MacKellar was part of what fuelled her determination to save Ruaidri. But she also saw it a chance to atone for the terrible wrong she’d done, to ease some of the burden on her conscience. She told herself she did not aspire to any kind of romantic reconciliation with Ewan and then silently berated herself. Of course, she aspired to it but, fearful of an unbearable disappointment, she did not dare hope for it.
A sudden, nearby splash made her jump. A fish, perhaps. Or an otter. Wrenched back to awareness, she glanced about again, this time noting a faint glow in the eastern sky. At that same moment, as if to confirm the imminent arrival of a new day, a robin chirped out its sweet winter refrain.
The sound pulled Cristie’s attention to the shoreline once again, where she could now make out more details; a stand of thick pine, a small reed-choked cove, and a rocky outcrop jutting out into the water.
The proximity of the shore weakened Cristie’s resolve to continue rowing. Her shoulders burned and her blistered hands felt as though they had been stripped to the bone. It was still too dark to make out her actual location, but she felt sure she could not be far from Ravenstone. Close enough, certainly, to continue on foot. Decided, she began to look for a suitable place to land and found a small inlet a little further along.
It took all she had to turn the boat towards the shore. A few more pulls, and the wooden hull scraped to a halt on the loch bed. Cristie unfurled her sticky hands from the oars and gritted her teeth against the searing pain. Even in the gloom, she could see the bloody mess coating her palms and fingers.
“You’ve come this far, Cristie Ferguson,” she muttered. “Dinnae quit now.”
Toes to heel, she levered her shoes off and made a somewhat graceless exit from the boat. Ankle deep, the frigid water made her gasp. Seeking relief for her hands, she bent and plunged them into the loch too, the sharp shock making her yelp.
Unbidden, a fierce tremble shook her body, and it was all she could do to retrieve her belongings and paddle ashore. As for tying off the boat, she at least managed to drag the bowline onto land and weigh it with some stones. If the boat drifted, so be it. Whatever fate had in store for her that night, she’d not be rowing back to Dunraven.
Wrapped in the blanket, she settled on a small hillock, pulled on her shoes with her torn hands, and gathered her wits as she surveyed her surroundings.
The night was now in solid retreat. The robin’s solitary song had swelled into a dawn chorus. Like the previous day, patches of mist were forming here and there. The air smelled of pine but tasted salty, the latter often a harbinger of rain. For now, though, the scattered clouds offered no threat.
Then Cristie turned her gaze to the end of the loch, where a distant stand of silver birch had become visible in the gloom; pale, leafless skeletons that, if her instincts did not lie, harboured a sad and terrible secret.
All at once, her aches and pains seemed inconsequential, her hardship trivial. “Dinnae give up yet, Ruaidri,” she whispered, her throat tightening. “I’m coming to take you home.”
A raven cawed a welcome—or perhaps a warning—as Cristie approached. The feathered sentinel, perched atop a lopsided column of stone, cocked its blue-black head and regarded her. She hugged her belongings close to her chest and glanced about.
Little remained of what had once been a Norse longhouse. Built of wood, most of it had been consumed by the fire, and most of the stones from the more recent curtain wall had been reused in the construction of Dunraven. Still, the original foundation lines were still visible, and Cristie’s gaze followed them, looking for evidence of an underground chamber.
There.
Her attention fixed upon what appeared to have been one of the corner bastions, and the remains of a winding stone staircase that jutted into the air, going nowhere. Did that same staircase continue in a downward spiral, into the earth? Heart pounding, Cristie approached and peered over the ruined walls. Yes, the staircase descended.
Into blackness.
The raven let out another caw, startling Cristie. “The Devil take you,” she muttered, blowing out a breath. But the bird’s cry stirred her to action. Tasgall was undoubtedly on his way. Setting the blanket down, she took the tinderbox from the bag, lit the candle, and started down the narrow stairs.
At the bottom, she halted and raised the small flame aloft, but its meagre light failed to penetrate more than a few feet ahead. She seemed to be a narrow passageway, with walls of damp stone and a packed, earthen floor. It was dark, dank, and cold
Like a grave.
A prickle crawled over her scalp. She could not begin to imagine what it would be like to be down here for nigh on six weeks. Alone. Starved of light. She glanced back at the stairwell as if to reassure herself that she had a way out.
“The man is close to death anyway. You’ll be doing him a kindness.”
“Please, God, let him still be alive.” Tears pricked at her eyes as she stepped forward and called his name. “Laird MacKellar. Ruaidri MacKellar.” Her voice echoed eerily into the unknown. “Can you hear me? Will you answer me?”
She held her breath and listened, hearing nothing except the thud of her heart. She swallowed her fear and took a few more tentative steps. A space appeared on her right, like a small cave hewn out of the earth, its rotten wooden door hanging askew on its hinges. A storage room, perhaps, and not one she wished to explore.
Several steps later, Cristie felt a sense of space as the passage widened into what had to be the old cellar. An odour—nay, a stench—caused her nostrils to flare. It was a fetid brew, a mix of bodily excretions and filth that remained undiluted in the stagnant air.
And it was, most definitely, human.
“Ruaidri?” Trembling, Cristie held her puny candle aloft and squinted into the blackness. “Laird MacKellar? Are you here? Will you answer me? I’m here to help you. I’m here to take you home.”
A faint noise came out of the dark; a scuffle, and what sounded like a single, soft breath.
Candle still held aloft, Cristie moved forward again, squinting into the shadows, trying to see detail. The stench intensified, and she swallowed against an urge to retch. Then her light fell upon a metal door, like that of a cage. Square in shape, it sat flush in the wall, its bars rusty but solid. The door was bolted.
And padlocked.
“Laird MacKellar?” Cristie approached and peered through the bars. The candle’s feeble light did not clear all the darkness away, but at first glance, the cell appeared to be empty. A layer of filthy straw covered the floor. A wooden bucket sat near the right wall, while a rough pallet lay on the opposite side. The vile stink brought tears to her eyes.
Christ have mercy. How could they? How could they even think to keep a man in such squalor?
But where was the man? She moved closer. “Ruai—”
A hand shot out, grabbed her robe at her chest, and pulled her body hard against the bars. Cristie let out a squeal and dropped the candle, plunging her into darkness. But not before she’d looked into a pair of mad, dark eyes set in a filthy, bearded face that could hardly be described as human.
“Who are you?” he growled, his foul breath making Cristie gag.
“M-my name is Cristie.” She tugged at his hand. “I’m… I’m here to help you. Please, let me go.”
His grip tightened. “Who sent you?”
“No one.”
“I’ll ask you again,” he said, spraying spittle across Cristie’s face, “who sent you?”
“No one sent me, Laird MacKellar, I swear it. I’m here because I heard a conversation I wasnae meant to hear. Tasgall will be here soon, too, and he’s coming to kill you. He’s going to give you a drink, but it’ll be poisoned, so you must no’ drink it.”
Ruaidri’s hot, foul breath continued to wash over her face. “You’re a MacAulay?”
“I am Alastair’s half-sister,” she replied. “But I came here alone, and only mean to help you, I swear to God.”
His grip loosened a little. “Who hit you?”
“W-what?”
“I saw your face before you dropped the candle. Who put the bruises on you?”
“Al-Alastair.”
“Why?”
Cristie struggled against him. “We dinnae have time for this! Tasgall will be—”
“Answer the question.”
“Because… because I challenged him.”
His grip tightened once more, and then he released her. “Do you have a key for the padlock?”
“Um, nay.”
He laughed softly. “So, what is your plan? Do you meant to tackle Tasgall and take the key?”
“Aye, if… if need be.”
He inhaled. “Then you must have a weapon.”
“Aye, a dagger.”
“Praise God. Give it to me.”
“But what—?”
“Just give me the knife, lass.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Given the chance, I intend to slit the bastard’s throat. You’ll have no trouble taking the key from him when he’s dead.”
“Nay.” She shook her head and stepped back. “I… I dinnae think I can let you do that.”
“You said you were here to help me.” His breath rattled. “So, give me the damn knife.”
“Nay.”
“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered. “What good are you, then? To the Devil with you.”
Cristie crouched and groped blindly around on the floor, searching for the errant candle. At last, she found it and dug in her bag for the tinderbox. “Just dinnae drink anything he gives you,” she said, trying to get a flame.
Ruaidri huffed. “I’d rather drink his poison than stay in this godforsaken pit another day.”
“Dinnae say such things,” she said again, rising as the wick at last flared to life. She shielded the little flame with her hand. “I mean to get you out of here, but I… I’m no’ quite sure how yet.”
There came a scuffling sound from behind, and Cristie’s blanket landed in a heap at her feet.
“Well, to begin,” said a familiar voice, “’tis none too clever leaving clues about your presence lying around outside.”
“Tasgall!” Cristie gasped. Candle in one hand, she groped for her dagger with the other, her blistered flesh making her wince. “Dinnae come any closer.”
Tasgall scoffed as she pointed the weapon at him. “Aye, and what do you plan to do with that? Clean my fingernails? You’re no match for me, lass, with or without a blade. Christ almighty, what are you doing here?”
“She’s rescuing me,” Ruaidri said, his voice weary, “but so far, ’tis nae going very well.”
“Shut your mouth, MacKellar.” Tasgall moved forward, scowling as he regarded Cristie. “How did you find out?”
“I was in the kitchen last night and overheard your conversation with Alastair,” she said, raising her chin while silently cursing the tremble in her voice. “And I could scarce believe it, Tasgall. ’Tis sickening what Alastair has done, letting everyone think Laird MacKellar dead, and you a part of it. How could you do such a terrible thing? And why? It doesnae make sense. You should be ashamed.”
His sword hand curled into a fist. “Who else knows you’re here?”
She held his gaze. “No one.”
“Dinnae lie to me.” He moved closer, his hard features softened by candlelight. His eyes, however, glinted like slivers of black granite. “This place wasnae mentioned last night. So how did you find out about it? And how did you get here?”
Cristie shrugged. “It wasnae hard to guess where a man might be hidden and held captive. There’s no other likely place hereabouts. And I came by boat.”
He looked perplexed. “Boat?”
“Aye. I borrowed Fergus’s rowboat.”
Tasgall grabbed her wrist, causing her to yelp and drop the knife. His jaw tightened visibly as he studied her blistered palm. “Shite,” he muttered, releasing her. He bent to retrieve the knife. “I cannae believe this.”
Still muttering, he snatched the candle from Cristie, went to a metal sconce on the wall, and lit a reed torch, which crackled and snapped as it flared to life. Cristie threw a frustrated glance at Ruaidri, wondering why he’d failed to mention its existence, but the sight of him in the clearer light all but stopped her heart.
What unearthly force, she wondered, allowed this sad vision of neglect to stay upright? Filthy clothes, their colours indefinable, hung loose on Ruaidri’s thin, begrimed limbs. His hair, no less hideous, was a matted mess, as was his lengthy, unkempt beard.
Ruaidri stared back for a moment and then smiled through his tangle of whiskers. “Aye, I’m a wee bit untidy,” he said, scratching at his chin. “You should have given me the knife. After I’d slit Tasgall’s throat, I’d intended to have a shave and make a few beasties homeless.”
“How could you,” Cristie whispered. “How could you be so damn cruel?”
Ruaidri’s brows lifted. “You’d no’ be so accusing if you had a beard crawling with the wee bastards.”
“Nay, Ruaidri, I didnae mean—” She bit back a sob and turned on Tasgall. “Dear God above, will you look at him? He’s near starved to death. Could you not have least fed the man?”
“He’s given food, but barely touches it,” Tasgall said. “And I am looking at him, Cristie. I’m seeing a man who’s lost his mind and has only hours to live. Alastair’s right. ’Twill be a mercy to kill him.”
“A mercy, aye.” Ruaidri sniffed, stuck a hand through the bars and waggled it. “I’m told you have something for me, Tasgall. Hand it over, then, and let me drink my last. I cannae wait to be free of this hellish shithole.”
“Nay!” Cristie dashed away a tear. “Tasgall, please, let me take him home.”
“Home?” Tasgall gave a sardonic laugh. “And just how do you plan to do that, eh? You cannae row the damn boat over the pass, and MacKellar isnae capable of walking very far. You really havenae thought this through, have you? And dinnae dare judge me, either, after what you did. You’re as much a part of this as I am.”
Heat flooded Cristie’s cheeks. “The Devil take you, Tasgall,” she said. “I knew naught of this vile deceit till last night, so I’ve barely had time to think things through. And I’ve yet to fathom the reasons for it.”
“Aye, well, he was never meant to be here this long.” Tasgall unhooked a wineskin from his belt. “Move aside, lass.”
“Nay, I willnae.” Spreading her arms, she backed up a step. “I’ll no’ let you do this.”
“Do as the man says, lass, and shift your arse.” Ruaidri said, his bony hand pushing at her shoulder. “I dinnae want to be alive when that torch goes out again. If you wish to save me, you can pray for my mortal soul, since it’s about to be dispatched to eternal damnation.”
“Nay!” she cried again, but despite her attempt to resist him, Tasgall shoved her aside with little effort.
“Here, lad,” he said, and placed the wineskin in Ruaidri’s hand. “Be sure to drink it all, and quickly.”
Cristie let out a wail as she tried, and failed, to snatch the vessel from Ruaidri’s grasp. “Nay, dinnae drink it, please! Think about what you’re doing, Laird MacKellar. Think… think about Morag.”
Ruaidri froze. “Och, now why did you have to go and mention my sister?” His shoulders sagged and his eyes softened with tears. “The poor wee lass. I promised her I’d return.”
“’Tis not too late to do so!” Desperate, Cristie clung to the bars as she pleaded with him. “She would never want you to finish your life this way.”
“Nay, she wouldnae, true enough, but since she thinks me dead already, she’ll be none the wiser.” Ruaidri pulled the stopper from the wine skin and raised the vessel to his lips.
Cristie let out a shriek. “Wait!” she cried “What about Ewan?”
“Odin’s bollocks,” Tasgall muttered, and pulled his sword. “You’ll say naught else, lass.”
Brow furrowed, Ruaidri paused and looked at her. “Ewan?”
“Aye, Ewan,” Cristie replied. “Ewan Tormod MacKellar. Your brother.”
“That’ll do, Cristie,” Tasgall growled. “I’ll no’ tell you again.”
Ruaidri’s frown deepened. “What of him?”
“You mean, you dinnae…?” Cristie turned to face Tasgall. “Dear God. Has he not been told?”
Ruaidri lowered the wineskin. “Been told what?”
Tasgall snarled and lifted Cristie’s chin with the flat of his blade. “I’m warning you, lass. The next word from your mouth will be your last.”
“Been told what?” Ruaidri asked again, his voice stronger.
Cristie looked along the length of cold steel that was poised to end her life.
“Dinnae make me,” Tasgall whispered. “He’s no’ worth it.”
She met his gaze without flinching. “He has more worth than you or me, Tasgall.”
Tasgall’s nostrils flared. “Dinnae make me, lass.”
“Ewan has come home, Laird MacKellar,” Cristie announced, her voice loud and determined. “He returned to Castle Cathan six weeks ago.”
Tasgall let out a desperate groan as the point of his sword pressed against the well of her throat. “Curse your bones, Cristie Ferguson. You give yourself to one MacKellar, and now you’re willing to die for another? Well, here’s a wee revelation for you before you leave this world.” His face twisted into an expression of pain. “You were supposed to be my bride. Alastair promised you to me. You were supposed to marry me.”
Stunned, Cristie gaped at him. “Tasgall, I… oh, dear God. I wasnae aware. Truly. Alastair never said—”
A haunting cry cut off her response; a primal wail of agony that froze the blood in her veins. She gasped and spun round to see Ruaidri on his knees, head bowed, hands covering his face.
A sudden thrust of panic all but stopped Cristie’s heart as she looked for the wineskin. Och, nay, Ruaidri, you didnae drink it! Then she spotted it on the ground beside him, its contents leaking out into the straw. Thank God. Oh, thank God.
Ruaidri’s dreadful lament faded into silence, although his face remained buried in his hands. Then his shoulders began to shake as ragged sobs tore from him, one after another. Tears leached through his fingers, leaving pale tracks as they washed over the backs of his grubby hands. In all her days, Cristie had never seen such wretchedness. This was the epitome of anguish, she realized, a display of utter despair that clawed at her already-broken heart.
“Let him go, Tasgall,” she said, turning back to the man who still held his blade in readiness to finish her. This, she knew, would be her final plea, no matter the outcome. “If he must die, let him die a free man beneath an open sky. Please, I’m begging you. If you do naught else good in your life, do this one thing. He probably willnae have the strength to return home, but at least let him try. I’ll stay with you if you wish. I’ll marry you. I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all. But please, let Ruaidri MacKellar go.”
Breathing hard, Tasgall stared at Cristie, his knuckles white against the hilt of his sword. Ruaidri’s harsh sobs quietened, although he still wept softly.
“If Alastair says you’ve to marry me, you’ll have no choice but to do so,” Tasgall said, at last. “Ruaidri MacKellar’s fate has little bearing on it.”
“That is true,” Cristie replied, her throat dry, “but if you kill Ruaidri, I’ll hate you forever. If you let him go, I’ll… I’ll wed you willingly.”
“Willingly?” Tasgall gave a soft chuckle and lowered his blade. “Och, I doubt that, lass. See, I ken you care for Ewan MacKellar. I saw the way you looked at him when last I was at Castle Cathan.”
Shocked by his insight, Cristie swallowed. “Well, Ewan MacKellar cannae bear the sight of me, so that has naught to do with—”
“I envy the bastard.” Tasgall gave her a grim smile. “I cannae imagine you’d ever look at me that way, no matter what happens here today.”
“Tasgall, I—”
“Be silent, lass.” He held up a hand. “Just… be silent.”
The torch spat, and Ruaidri continued to weep as Cristie waited. Tasgall closed his eyes for a moment, drew a slow, deep breath, and released it. Then, to her bewilderment, he slid his sword into its sheath, pulled a key from a pouch on his belt, and moved past her.
“I’ll thank you to take good care of Jock,” he said. “I’ve had him from a foal. He’s a strong horse, but obedient, and he shouldnae give you any trouble. I’ll take the saddle, though. You’ll no’ have need of it with two of you on his back. And dinnae forget your blanket. Judging by the salt in the air, there’s likely some rain moving in from the west. Might turn to snow in the mountains.”
The padlock sprang apart as the key turned. Tasgall removed it, slid the bolt back, and tugged the cell door open.
Still confused, Cristie frowned. “Tasgall, what…?”
“Here’s your knife,” he said, handing it to her. “Where’s the boat?”
Was he jesting? Toying with her? Cristie opened her mouth to speak, but merely blinked at him.
“Have you gone deaf, lass?” Tasgall moved toward the passageway. “Where’s Fergus’s boat?”
Cristie took a breath. “But, how will you explain—?”
Tasgall growled. “Just tell me where to find the damn boat!”
“’Tis… ’tis in a wee cove on the west side of the loch. A short walk is all.”
“Right.” He grimaced and scratched his head. “When I get back to Dunraven, I plan to tell Alastair the truth, which means he’ll likely come after you, so I suggest you dinnae linger here too long. God speed, Cristie Ferguson.” A brief smile came and went. “Ewan MacKellar is a fortunate man.”
Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Still unable to fully grasp what Tasgall had done—and what it meant—Cristie continued to stare at the spot where he’d stood moments before, half-expecting him to return.
A noise from behind drew her attention, and she turned to see Ruaidri standing outside the cell door.
“Is it true?” he asked, his cheeks streaked with dirt and tears. “Has my brother really returned?”
“Aye, ’tis true.” The torch spat again, and this time the light dimmed. Hurry, it seemed to say. Cristie approached and took Ruaidri’s hand, ignoring the pain in her own. His fingers closed around hers, and her spirit dared to hope. “What do you say we get out of this shithole, Laird MacKellar? I’ll tell you all about Ewan on the way home.”
“Home?” His chest rose and fell. “Aye, I should like very much to go home.”