"He's a damned MacKenzie," her brother said. "Why do you care?"

  She'd heard about the past blood feud with the MacKenzies years ago. "He's injured."

  "Aye, and he's going to be even more injured before I'm through with him." Elrick gave a malicious grin.

  Images of war and carnage flashed through her mind. "Nay, you must not harm him further or you will bring another feud to our clan," she warned.

  "Don't think to order me about, sister! Take her inside!"

  "What do you intend to do with him?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable.

  "Get her out of here. Now!" he ordered.

  One of the burly guards picked her up, tossed her over his massive shoulder and carried her up the steps. She pounded her fists against his broad back, fighting to escape, but kept her gaze on the MacKenzie stranger. She had to help him!

  But how?

  "I cannot wait until she's married and gone from here," her brother grumbled loudly.

  Chuckles followed.

  "The wee witch is naught but trouble," her brother's sword-bearer and war leader Hamish said.

  After the guard carried her into the great hall, the entry door slammed, cutting off the rest of the conversation about her.

  "Damn you! Release me!" she told the guard.

  He gave a brief laugh and tossed her to her feet. "Do not place a curse on me, witch. I'm only following orders."

  "I am not a witch," she said through clenched teeth and tried to dart around him toward the door.

  "Nay." He jumped in front of her and blocked the door.

  She hastened across the room to the narrow window that looked out over the barmkin.

  Her brother slammed his fist into the MacKenzie man's stomach and he doubled over.

  "Stop it, Elrick," she grumbled. Shouting at him would do no good. 'Twould only make him angrier. How could he be so vicious? He was nothing like their dear, departed father or her other brother, Neacal.

  Elrick stepped back to converse with three of his advisors. Her gaze locked to the dark-haired stranger. He needed the healer and probably some food. But 'twas something beyond his immediate needs that drew her attention. Something that made her want to run to him and protect him against her own clansmen.

  She sensed he was a man who would be important to her.

  ***

  As Shamus stood in the walled barmkin, pain lacerated every part of his body. He ground his teeth to keep from groaning and showing weakness before these bastards. He blinked, trying to maintain full awareness.

  The chief and his men talked of ransom and how much they could get for him. If that was what they intended, they wouldn't kill him at least. But they wouldn't care how many injuries they gave him on top of the ones he'd endured in the ocean.

  His throat dry as sunbaked sand, he swallowed and tried to remain still as he puzzled over why the chief's sister had come to his defense with such vehemence. They'd called her a witch. Could it be true? One thing was certain, her lustrous dark hair and fair face were the only rays of hope and beauty at Bearach Castle.

  "Take him to the dungeon," the young MacDonald chief commanded. The whoreson appeared younger than Shamus' own twenty-eight summers.

  When he didn't move fast enough, the two clansmen dragged him by the arms. Pain stabbed through his shoulder.

  "Bastards," he growled as they pulled him toward a doorway.

  In retaliation, they yanked on his injured shoulder extra hard. Once in the dungeon, they cut the ropes binding his wrists, tossed him onto the hard-packed dirt floor of the cell and slammed the iron door shut. Pain smashing through several parts of his body, he lay still, his teeth clenched tight, praying the agony would go away.

  What the devil had he done to deserve this?

  The aches wracking his body eased away bit by bit in the silence after the men left. He inhaled a deep breath of the dank, mildew-scented air and opened his eyes. The only weak light came from a torch in the stone corridor further along.

  Where were Fraser and the rest of his clansmen? Had they survived the galley wreck or were they all dead, drowned, and washed upon some other clan's shore? And what of Dermott, his crew and galley?

  Shamus' stomach ached with fear for his brothers. The pain in his head throbbed so severely, nausea rose up within him. At the same time, his mouth felt parched and dry as a ten day old bannock.

  How long would they leave him here? And how would they get word to Cyrus that he was being held? He hoped they would send a messenger soon.

  ***

  "Tavia, gather your supplies," Maili whispered to the clan healer a short time later, then glanced over her shoulder at those in the great hall. Neither her brother nor his closest men were present and it was not yet time for midday meal. "We must see to the stranger's injuries."

  "Who is he?" Tavia asked, keeping her voice equally quiet. Though she was more than a decade older than Maili, they had been close since Maili had broken her arm as a wee lass and Tavia had set it.

  "The MacKenzie chief's brother. A gentleman of the clan. If Elrick kills him or injures him further, I fear what the MacKenzies will do. Come down on us with fire and sword, without doubt."

  Tavia lifted a mischievous brow, her green eyes twinkling. "Are you certain that's the only reason you wish to help him? Or is there something else?"

  Maili frowned. "Is that not enough?"

  "Of course." Tavia grinned. "But I'm thinking you're drawn to the mysterious stranger."

  "Well…" Maili rolled her eyes. "I could not even tell if he was handsome or not, with his face so swollen and bloody," she said, trying to pretend she had no interest in him. "His shoulder was bleeding badly. While you're preparing your herbs and supplies, I'll go fetch him some food from the kitchen."

  "Are you sure the chief will allow us into the dungeon to help him?"

  "If he does not, I'll appeal to the elders and the council."

  A portion of the clan was already dissatisfied with Elrick's leadership skills, or lack of them. He was too hotheaded and impulsive, they said. 'Twas sad her other brother, a year younger than Elrick, had left the clan several months ago. She did not even ken whether Neacal was still alive. Every day, she prayed he was, for she missed him. He had always treated her with kindness. He had a dark and tormented soul and could not abide the castle walls. He'd told her he had to leave to save his own sanity.

  After gathering a few bannocks and a jug of ale for the stranger, along with a woolen blanket for warmth, she met Tavia in the great hall and they proceeded out to the sun-warmed bailey where a high, thick stone wall surrounded them. Lifting the hem of her plaid arisaid, she stepped over a puddle of water which remained from last night's storm as they strode toward the entrance to the dungeon.

  "We've been sent to see to the prisoner's injuries," Maili told the two guards.

  The massive guard, Gegrim, wearing leather armor and helm, crossed his arms over his chest. "The chief mentioned naught to us about it."

  "What are you about, Maili?" Elrick yelled as he crossed the courtyard.

  Stiffening her spine, she waited until her brother stopped a few feet away. "We're trying to make sure your prisoner survives. What do you think the MacKenzie chief will do if his brother dies here at your hand?"

  "Not at my hand, my daft sister. He was already badly injured when my soldiers picked him up."

  "Do you think the MacKenzies will believe that?" she challenged.

  Elrick narrowed his eyes. "I don't give a damn."

  "I'll ask the elders what they think we should do, then," she said.

  "Nay, not a word to them," Elrick growled. "Go. See to the whoreson, and be quick about it." He turned to the guards. "Watch them and make certain the prisoner does not escape."

  Gegrim gave a sharp nod and stepped aside. Maili proceeded down the stone steps into the darkness below, Tavia following.

  Good lord, how Maili hated the dungeon. She could distinguish little until Gegrim brought forth a torch. Then she saw that the prisoner lay on his side on the filthy dirt floor of the cell. The second guard unlocked the door and she entered with Tavia.

  "We need better light," Maili said, motioning Gegrim forward. He entered the cell and stood near them, bringing the torch so close the heat of it warmed her skin.

  Maili knelt on the floor beside the dark-haired man. "Master MacKenzie, we're here to dress your wounds. And we brought food."

  He turned his bloody face toward her and his swollen eyes opened a crack. "Thirsty," he whispered.

  "Of course." Damn her brother and his men for beating him so badly. "I have some ale," she said in a soothing voice. After uncorking the stoneware jug, she tilted it to his mouth. He drank heartily, some of the liquid running down his cheek and spilling onto the floor.

  He lay back, breathing hard. "I thank you, m'lady," he whispered.

  "What is your name?" Maili asked.

  "Shamus MacKenzie." His voice was a bit stronger, not as raspy.

  "I brought the healer to tend your wounds. Are you in much pain?"

  When he didn't answer, she grew concerned. "Master MacKenzie—"

  "Shamus," he murmured.

  "You will not harm us, will you, Shamus?" she asked.

  "Nay."

  Kneeling, Tavia set about removing his doublet and shirt while Maili stood beside the guard holding the torch and tried not to watch. But Shamus was a lean and finely-hewn man with broad shoulders and defined muscles in his chest and arms. She had accidentally glimpsed a few men of her clan, distant cousins, taking swims in the loch at sunset once but none would compare to Shamus.

  The healer cleaned the wound on his shoulder and rubbed healing salve on it before bandaging it. Once she was done, she helped him put on his shirt and doublet again. Next, she cleaned the cuts and bruises on his face and head, then smoothed the salve on them.

  For once in her life, Maili envied the healer, for she had good reason to touch him. Maili had never wished to touch a man before, nor even be near one.

  "There we are, sir," Tavia murmured and arose from her knees. She then took the blanket Maili had brought and covered him with it.

  "I appreciate it," he said.

  Maili moved forward. "Would you like to eat? I brought bannocks."

  "Aye." He turned onto his side, facing her.

  She dug into her satchel, crouched and handed him the oatcake.

  "I thank you." His raspy voice grew stronger. "You are the chief's sister, are you not?"

  How had he figured that out? From her and Elrick's argument in the barmkin earlier?

  "Indeed."

  When he finished the bannock in three bites, she handed him another one. He must surely be starving.

  "How long since you've eaten?" she asked.

  "I know not. 'Haps a day."

  With his injuries, 'twould be best if he didn't overeat at this meal.

  Though she wished she could stay longer, she feared 'twas time for her and Tavia to take their leave. "Do you have need of aught else?" she asked him.

  "Aye, my freedom."

  Well, of course. If only she could grant that to him, she would. She arose, stepped back and glanced at the scowling guard who held the torch.

  "Can you arrange it?" Shamus asked.

  She couldn't believe the slight grin on his swollen lips. Was he mad?

  "Nay, I fear not."

  "A pity," he mumbled.

  Saints, but he was a teaser. How she wished she could've met him under far different circumstances. Regret tensing her muscles and her stomach in knots, she moved toward the cell's door and prayed her brother would not kill him before he gained his freedom.

  Chapter Three

  Shamus slept, he knew not how long. The loud clanging of metal awoke him. He squinted at the bright torch outside the cell's bars.

  "Wake up, Laird MacKenzie! I have your supper feast." The guard dropped something onto the ground, turned and left him in near darkness.

  Bastard! Shamus couldn't believe he was in the MacDonald clan's dungeon. He ground his teeth against the soreness slicing through his body at the least movement.

  He must have slept for several hours for he was again hungry. He forced himself to endure the agony of getting to his feet. His head throbbing, he swayed, limped to the iron bars and crouched.

  Expecting the worst—moldy bread and rotting meat—he untied the worn cloth bundle to find a generous amount of fresh bread and cheese and a skin of ale. Pleasantly surprised, he smiled. Had the lady prepared this for him? He wished she would've brought it to him.

  He devoured it, thankful he had good food at least.

  After eating, he tested the strength of the iron bars, as well as that of the door. Neither budged. "Damned MacDonalds," he muttered. Except for her, of course, and her healer.

  The lady was a wee fae creature with dark hair and wide-set pale eyes. He guessed they must be blue or green, though 'twas hard to tell in the torchlight.

  How soon would the chief send his messenger to Cyrus? He hoped 'twas soon. Cyrus would be furious with the MacDonalds, and with Shamus, too, for getting himself into this fix.

  What about Fraser and the rest of his crew? He prayed they had not drowned. Surely, if they'd washed up on shore alive, the MacDonald scouts would've brought them in and imprisoned them, too.

  Prior to this, he had never been to this castle and didn't know how strong their defenses were. The walls he'd glimpsed when they'd hauled him in appeared to be thick and well repaired.

  The chief's sister haunted him… her image teased at his overburdened mind. What was her name? Mayhap he could convince her to secretly help him escape. There had to be some way out of here.

  Pains shot through his left shoulder, and his head ached with a dull throb. Thankfully, his legs hadn't been injured, just a few scrapes and bruises from bumping against the rocks in the ocean. And his sword arm was still good. If he could get out of this hell-pit, he could travel north on foot, or mayhap find someone with a galley to take him back to Dornie.

  Could he convince the lass to help him? Would she even visit him here again?

  ***

  Hours later, voices echoed from some distant part of the dungeon. Shamus opened his eyes to see light from a torch barely illuminating the darkness. How long had he slept? Was it night or day?

  When he turned onto his back, soreness shot through his muscles like sharp arrows. He gritted his teeth and suppressed a groan.

  "Have you checked on him?" asked a female voice. 'Twas her. The fae lass.

  "Nay," growled the guard as they descended the steps.

  Lying still and pretending sleep, Shamus squinted, watching as they approached the cell door.

  The guard shoved the torch into a wall sconce and turned to leave.

  "Unlock the door," she said.

  "Nay. The chief said you are not to go inside." He clomped away.

  "Bastard," she hissed in a low whisper as she stared after the guard. When a distant door slammed, she turned her attention back to him. "Sir? Shamus… are you awake?"

  "Aye." Clenching his teeth against the pain, he pushed himself to a sitting position.

  "And how are you feeling this morn?"

  'Slud, that much time had passed? "As if I was trampled by a herd of red deer," he grumbled, trying not to let her see exactly how much he hurt.

  "The guard won't let me in to check your wounds."

  "I heard."

  "Are you able to rise to your feet and come over here to the bars? I've brought you food to break your fast. I wanted to return last night but Elrick wouldn't allow it. Did you get the food I sent?"

  "Aye and I appreciate it."

  He could understand her brother not allowing her to return. Shamus certainly would've never allowed his sister, Isobel, to visit a prisoner without a guard present.

  The MacDonald chief was a damnable tyrant, but still not half as formidable as Cyrus. His brother would chew the whoreson up and spit him out first chance he got.

  Trying not to groan, Shamus slowly pushed himself to his feet and straightened. His head and shoulder pained him greatly. When a wave of dizziness struck, he grabbed onto one of the iron bars, thankful his sword arm was uninjured.

  "Here are three bannocks." She offered them to him through the bars.

  "You are too kind." He accepted the oat cakes and took a bite. He savored the freshly baked, buttery flavor.

  She turned her head sideways, trying to view his shoulder injury in the low light where his doublet and shirt were torn. "The bandage is bloody again. I must have the healer return."

  "'Tis healing," he muttered between bites. At least he hoped it was. He needed to be out of here and away. Never had he been imprisoned in a dungeon before. "But I would appreciate it." He would accept any hospitality she was willing to offer, and mayhap he could devise a way to escape.

  She eyed his face carefully. Damnation, but she was a beauty, her creamy skin taking on a golden glow in the torchlight. Her pale blue eyes were bewitching and almost mystical. Though she wore the cowl of her arisaid over her head, some of her loose midnight hair draped forward. But her lips… saints… they were dark and luscious like a ruby bow.

  As for himself, he well knew he looked atrocious, for one of his eyes was still swollen almost shut. His face felt as if it were covered in bruises where her brother and his men had beaten him.

  Looking as he did, he could never seduce his way out of here. Still, she did seem incredibly concerned about him.

  After finishing the last bite of the bannocks, he swallowed. "I thank you for the food." The more he moved, the more the pain in his limbs abated. Even his head felt clearer. Aye, movement was what he needed.

  "I brought ale, too." She held up a stoneware jug decorated with the face of a bearded man, vines and leaves.

  "'Twill not fit through the bars."

  "You will have to drink from here." She tilted the jug up to the bars.

  He moved closer, placed his mouth against the lip of the jug and drank. He enjoyed the warm and nurturing feeling that spread over him because she gave him ale this way, similar to feeding him by hand.

 

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