Chapter Four

“Here is your own key, so ye can bathe in peace,” Merida Sinclair said and nodded toward the four buckets of water that the thick-waisted warrior had carried up to the tower room, the whole time huffing, turning bright red, and wiping his brow. “Just heat the water on the fire, and ye will relax your sore muscles.”

Ella’s hand curled around the heavy iron key, its weight giving substance to Merida’s promise that she’d be left alone, but she didn’t trust her. No doubt there were more keys on the outside, since she was a prisoner.

“Why would you care about my comfort at all?” Ella asked, and she watched the warrior march out the door, two hands pressing against his lower back as if it pained him.

Merida came forward, her white hair swooped around her head. She stared hard into Ella’s eyes as if searching for secrets, and then her gaze moved along Ella’s face. “I lived with Alec Sutherland for ten years before driving him mad enough to send me away.” The woman was known as an insane witch at Dunrobin. Many older maids passed the sign of the cross before them whenever she was mentioned.

Merida caught her wispy hair together and moved it to one side, turning around. On the nape of her neck was a brand, a wild cat, clan crest of Sutherland. She dropped her hair and turned back, her mouth quirked. “He liked to mark his property, did he not?”

Ella’s fingers moved, without thought, to her own scar that marked her as her father’s possession. She swallowed hard, remembering the searing pain that came with the burn as his trusted men held her down. She was only seventeen when she’d picked the lock on her bedroom door to find Jamie and flee the brutality that surrounded her at Dunrobin. But she’d been caught, and her father had branded her with the Sutherland crest in punishment. Ye are mine. Wherever ye go. His words still haunted her.

“That does not mean you wish me well,” Ella said softly.

“True,” Merida said, nodding. She tipped her head back and forth as if weighing her words. “Trust needs to be earned, and that takes time. Outward appearances are not always truth.” She grinned. “As ye have surely heard about my time at Dunrobin. The masks men and women wear for the world can be quite the opposite of what lies in a person’s heart.”

“I have no interest in knowing what lies in Sinclair hearts. I will not be at Girnigoe long enough to confirm the evil that lurks here.” Either she would escape, die trying, or be executed by Cain’s brother, Bàs. But she wasn’t planning to stay long.

Merida’s grin increased to show her little teeth. “We will see,” she said knowingly, and a chill ran up Ella’s arms. If the woman truly had the sight to see the future, would she know when and how Ella would try to escape?

The door clicked shut behind her, and Ella heard a second key turn in the large iron lock. Who else had a key to the room? There was no board to place across the door and nothing of weight enough to shove against it.

She plucked at her dirty shirt. Sweat and dust coated her skin. Bits of leaves tangled in her hair, and the dried scabs on her palms needed cleaning. She sighed. “If I am to die, I want to die clean,” she said to the sparsely furnished room that sported three broad, glass-paned windows and several transoms higher up. She grabbed one of the heavy buckets and lugged it to the iron grate over the fire.

…

“Mackay is demanding to be released,” Gideon said to Cain as he threw himself into a chair opposite him before the cold hearth in the empty great hall.

Even though the stones kept the interior of the keep cool, the summer temperatures made a fire unnecessary. Would Ella be cold in the tower room? He would make sure that Thomas, the loyal warrior who guarded the stairs, had started one for her.

“He wants to come above to argue for his release.” Gideon took a haul off his tankard of the fine summer ale Merida brewed.

“As soon as he orders his men to deliver enough oats to make up for the field he burned,” Cain said. Clan Mackay had been a thorn in their side, swaying between ally and enemy over the years. Hew Mackay was the young chief who had taken the reins of the clan last year, although it was said that his steward, Randolph Mackay, often acted as leader while Hew was sleeping off his whisky.

The young chief’s latest attempt to make trouble was to burn Sinclair fields in hopes they would starve or become dependent on them come winter. But Hew was an incompetent fool. His small band of loyal and misguided warriors had been caught and thus identified, so he couldn’t blame it on the Sutherlands. The two Mackays who had survived had been sent back to Varrich Castle, seat of the Mackays, with Sinclair demands for retribution. So far, the only retribution that Cain’s father had seen were letters demanding Hew’s release. Something George Sinclair would never do, and neither would Cain.

Cain might not tolerate torture under his command, but he wasn’t going to release the bastard without recompence. The arse had taken their grain, so he needed to pay for his freedom with grain. If the elderly couple had died, he would have paid with his life.

Gideon pulled his freshly stitched arm around where blood seeped through the wrapping.

“Does it pain ye?” Cain asked. None of his brothers would complain about a battle wound. They’d been trained by their father to brag about their scars as proof of their invincibility in battle.

“A bit,” Gideon admitted quietly, trusting Cain not to rib him for it. “But Merida has cleaned it with tinctures and slathered it with salves. I doubt it can become tainted. She is likely brewing feverfew tonight just in case.” He smiled.

“Because I need my Justice, especially now that I am the chief,” Cain said. He gave him a half grin. “And I know that ye would feed every starving mouth. Well, as long as they were Scots’ mouths.”

“Ye make me sound like a foking mother bird.” Gideon snorted. “I have never liked that particular part of Revelations. I do not want to bring famine.”

Cain chuckled, picking up another arrowhead. “Most people do not like any part of Revelations.”

“And I would amend feeding every starving mouth, not to include that Mackay fool below,” Gideon said. “Shall I schedule a trial for him?”

Cain worked a strong thread around the steel arrowhead, attaching it to a long shaft. “He will lose.” Three arrow shafts sat upright in the basket at his feet for him to finish. An archer must never run out of arrows. His father’s guidance floated through his mind even though he was dead and laid out behind him. The next day they would celebrate his life and bury him in grand style north of the castle, in the churchyard where Cain’s mother was resting for eternity. Then his warriors would pledge their lives to Cain as the new leader of Clan Sinclair.

“Aye, he will lose,” Gideon said. “All ye have to do is call the farmer and his wife as witnesses, and he will be back in the dungeon until the Mackay oats arrive or ye get tired of his whining and have Bàs silence him with a blade across the neck.”

Gideon liked to keep everything as fair as possible. To him, people were either good or bad, and raids were either warranted or crimes. Of all the brothers, he was the most suited to be the third horseman, and Cain was lucky to have him as an advisor.

“Schedule one if ye want,” Cain said. “I will leave it up to Justice.” He dropped the completed arrow in the basket and caught another shaft between his fingers, picking a molded tip from a bowl set on the chess table between them.

“What will ye do with the lass?” Gideon glanced toward the archway hiding the tower stairs.

That particular question had bred more and more questions until they buzzed in Cain’s head like angry bees. Even the calm that usually came as he wrapped arrows had failed to break through the chaos of too many possibilities. Yet he had no answers, except one. “I am not ordering her executed, no matter what she wants.”

“Why?” Gideon asked, moving the bowl of arrowheads from the ancient family chess table before Cain, fixing the few toppled pieces to play.

“Because a peaceful takeover of the Sutherland clan will save property and food they would burn if we lay siege. Their warriors will die when they could be turned to add to our defenses. And although I do not believe they would slaughter their horses, many would die in the battles to take Dunrobin. Ella’s death would only make them hate us more, giving them strength to raise arms for her as a martyr.”

“What if she were a man?” Gideon asked, moving a pawn two spots forward.

Cain dropped the incomplete arrow into the basket and lifted his arms to cup his head. He frowned. “She would be dead already.”

Gideon nodded with a smug smile. His brother could sniff out a lie like no other, so it was no use in uttering one that he would prove false. “So, she is alive simply because ye desire her,” Gideon said and indicated the board to make Cain place his pawn.

Cain mimicked his brother’s move, his mind full of responses that proved Gideon’s statement wrong. “Nay,” Cain said. Gideon raised his eyebrow, and Cain glared at him. “Nay,” he repeated. “A woman being killed is viewed differently by her people. Their hate for us will make them stronger and delay our victory over them.”

“She is their chief who ordered the killing of our father and laird.” Gideon moved his bishop.

Cain leaned forward. “Ye know as well as I do that Da took risks as if he wanted to die, especially in battle. Thin armor and no shield, just his sword. And Merida even warned him. I will not punish Ella for Da thinking he was invincible.”

“But…” Gideon tipped his head, a grin growing on his lips. “If she were a man, she’d already be dead.”

Cain threw himself back in his chair, grabbing his poorly carved king from the board to fist in his hand. The wood was hard, unbreakable, and there was no fire into which to throw it like his father had often done when angered.

“I would not ask her to wed me if she were a man,” Cain said. “A siege would be the only way to gain Dunrobin Castle and the Sutherland people. Since their chief is a lass, there is another choice, and I have made it.” He tossed the king in the air, catching it to set back on the table. “She will wed me and join the clans under my rule.”

“Except that she refuses to say the vows. For it to be a solid union, witnesses must hear her speak the oaths to wed ye.”

“I will woo her,” Cain said and picked up his ale next to his chair to take a drink.

Gideon laughed. “Woo her? What do ye know of wooing a lass, big brother? All the lasses ye have known fall into your bed with a mere glance.”

It was true that he hadn’t had to work at swaying a woman into a tryst before, but that didn’t mean he was a wet-behind-the-ears lad. “I could say the same about ye,” Cain said.

“Ah, but I am not attempting to woo a lass who would rather stab me than kiss me.” Gideon moved his rook.

Cain took another drink, moving another pawn. “I will create and employ a strategy like any other conquest.”

“Oh?” Gideon said, his brow rising. “How so?”

Cain set the tankard back down by his chair leg. “I will challenge all her reasons for finding me wanting. She will see my charm and strength. I will gentle her like an unruly mare and take her to my bed.” Cain crossed his arms over his chest. “I will win her love like I win everything else.”

The side of Gideon’s mouth turned upward into a lopsided grin. “I do not know much about women,” Gideon said, “at least the marrying type. But it seems women do not respond well to gentling. They are not horses.”

“True,” Cain said, moving his knight. “Then I will treat our interactions like battles, for we are at war.” He nodded, his mind calming with the familiar set of strategies he used in combat. “I will determine what resources I have to woo her, anticipate her defenses, circumvent them, and press forward.”

Gideon stared at him, his mouth open, his smile skewed with humor. “This will be fun to watch.”

“I will start by giving her a reason to live.” Cain was feeling better with each word he spoke. Aye, this was a battle of a different kind than he’d fought in the past, but it was a battle, nonetheless. “Have the wedding banns posted on the chapel door near Dunrobin and read each Sunday for three weeks in our own. The young pastor, John, can read them at each chapel he visits. I will convince her to wed me before he finishes reading them the third time.”

Gideon smiled. “So confident.” He raised his tankard, saluting Cain. “As usual, I am in awe.”

Cain grinned, too. “‘Wooing Ella Sutherland is just another game, and I win every game.”

…

Ella was in and out of the soaking tub within minutes, washing so quickly that water sloshed over the side. But she was now in the smock that Merida had left for her. The woman had also brought a set of stays, stockings, and a simple blue dress made of soft wool, taking away her trousers, breast bindings, and tunic to be washed.

Ella didn’t know what to make of the woman. She’d grown up hearing wild stories of the Sinclair Witch, brewing concoctions and talking to ghosts that no one saw. Could she have been acting the whole time to get Ella’s father to release her from the marriage?

“Bloody hell,” Ella whispered in the small empty room. She should have acted insane, too, but would Alec Sutherland have fallen for the same ruse in a daughter, a ruse that he had witnessed before in a barren wife?

The room was warm with the fire and relatively bright despite the deepening darkness outside. No one had bothered to bring her food, but Merida had left a cup and a pitcher of weak ale.

Ella unbraided her hair, running fingers through it, and rolled up her sleeves before tipping her head forward. The ends of her hair skimmed the surface of the water in the tub, and she watched it lie on the top, coiling like grasses in a pond. If she had to, could she drown herself in a bath?

But was death just the easy way out? She would be buried outside the church grounds, shunned for taking her own life. The Sinclairs would then lay siege to Dunrobin, killing all who stood in their way. Her father’s strength and keen strategy had kept Cain’s father at bay these past years, but now both chiefs were dead, and she bore the responsibility for keeping her people alive, for keeping young Jamie alive.

“Mo chreach,” she said to the water and sighed. She could do nothing to help her people while locked up in a Girnigoe tower. She must escape. If she died trying, it would not be a sin. But how could she keep her oath to protect Jamie if she was dead? Guilt twisted inside her, and she took a deep breath.

Leaning forward, she submerged the heavy mass of hair in the warm water. Her knees pressed into the damp bathing sheet under her as she worked into her tresses the scented soap Merida had left, her mind still spinning from her capture. Ella’s heart squeezed. Kenneth, Jamie, and Florie must be so worried about her. Could she get word to them that she still lived?

She worked through knots and picked pieces of leaves out of the mass. Leaning far over until she was completely upside down, she submerged the hair up to her forehead into the tub for a final rinse.

Rap, rap.

The two short bursts of sound on her door made her jerk partly upright, her soapy hands slipping on the edge of the tub. She lost her balance, falling forward.

Splash.