Chapter Seven

“’Tis grave news, grave news indeed,” Murgo groaned. Seated in his great carven chair in the study, he seemed to have sunk in upon himself, all the lines that scored his face leaping into high relief.

Malcolm hated seeing that look on his father’s face. Moreover, he hated being the bearer of news that put it there.

The sickness that roiled in his gut every time he so much as thought of Mercien, still languishing in Latham’s dungeon, rose once again.

He loved his father with unqualified devotion and had watched him take blow after blow these past years—the loss of Malcolm’s beloved mother. The deaths of two sons, Malcolm’s brothers. The turning of his fortunes and the harshness of his king’s actions against him.

And for the first time, to Malcolm, his father appeared old. This news of Mercien’s imprisonment had gutted him. Murgo could not endure yet another loss.

What if he succumbed to grief? Malcolm could not fathom the loss of his father. But the terms he had laid forth over the past hour—the same with which Latham had presented him before he left Dun Ballan—were not likely to ease Murgo’s mind.

Murgo lifted stunned eyes to meet Malcolm’s. “This is a hard thing to countenance. Yet your brother must be saved. How will you go forward?”

Malcolm’s heart thudded within him. He’d traveled the long weary miles home from Dun Ballan longing only to place this terrible burden in his father’s hands and ask the question, “We canna’ possibly do as Latham has demanded—Father, what shall we do?” Now this man, upon whose wisdom he’d always relied, left it squarely with him.

He shook his head. “There must be options. We might appeal to the King—”

Murgo grunted and got to his feet, moving like a man in pain. “And would His Majesty listen to aught we might say?”

There was the question. As he’d told Tansy Bellrose on the trail, Latham lay in the King’s pocket. “Surely he would ha’ to hear a petition for wrongful imprisonment.”

“And how long would that take? Weeks? Months? How long can your brother endure in that bastard Latham’s hands?”

Malcolm made no reply, but the sickness inside him redoubled. He watched his father take a restless step around the chamber before pausing to gaze into Malcolm’s face.

“I canna’ lose another son.”

“Mercien is strong.”

“But not invincible.”

“No man is invincible, Father.” Flesh, as Malcolm well knew, could be damaged and endurance broken. Only loyalty lasted—and perhaps love.

“Malcolm.” Murgo laid a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Tell me what you underwent at Latham’s hands. Show me your wounds that I may learn from them and so measure Mercien’s agony.”

Without question, for he had always obeyed this man, Malcolm shed his weapons, laying them with a clatter on the stone floor. He shucked his leather jerkin and the tunic beneath, stripped his body one garment at a time, until he stood clad only in kilt and leggings. He spread his arms in an eloquent gesture and met his father’s gaze.

“By God! By God,” Murgo breathed. He muttered something more, half under his breath, in Gaelic, words Malcolm had not heard since his youth—imprecations to a deity far older than the Christian God. “What did that? Fire?”

“Hot irons.” Malcolm could say no more. His jaw quivered, and for one terrible instant he feared he would break. He hauled on his stoicism, the same that had got him through the terrible moments when iron met flesh.

“And your brother—Mercien—endures this yet?”

Far worse. But Malcolm would not admit that to this stricken man who had once represented all he knew of strength.

He spoke only one word through clenched teeth. “Aye.”

“My son! My son—you maun win him free.” Murgo captured both Malcolm’s shoulders between hard hands. “Whatever it takes.”

“Latham made it clear he will accept but a single ransom in exchange for Mercien.”

“Catha.”

“By God, Father, I do no’ think I can do it.” Now Malcolm pulled away from his father and took a restless turn about the room. “Her father was your friend. She has almost no protection in the world.” Mercien loves her.

Malcolm knew that for truth, the way he knew the color of his brother’s eyes and what might prompt his smile. Catha was part of Mercien, blood and bone. All the while they fought together in France, Mercien had dreamed of her and prayed she would not accept the hand of another before he reached home again.

“Mercien,” he said with certainty, “would rather perish in that dungeon than see Catha in the hands o’ that monster.”

“I do no’ doubt it,” Murgo agreed heavily. “Your brother is a man of honor and courage. But Malcolm, I would not rather see it. I ha’ already lost two sons.” Murgo hesitated one painful moment. “I impugn you to meet Latham’s terms and win your brother free.”

Now Malcolm turned on his father. “You would have me abduct an innocent woman, like a thief or a highwayman, and turn her over to that black-hearted skagan? You ken full well he only wants her lands. She has held out this long while—”

“I ken that fine, aye.”

“And you know how Latham treats his women. There was that scandal wi’ young Lacey MacMaster. Even the King got involved then.”

Murgo wheeled and shouted, “I wish the young woman no harm, but we are speaking o’ your brother’s life! I ken he has feelings for Catha—”

Both Mercien and Malcolm had feelings for her, truth be told. Catha, with her strawberry-blonde curls, rose-petal complexion, and impish smile, had long held a place in Malcolm’s heart also. Wed and widowed as a girl of fifteen, she’d sworn to accept no other husband. But since her father’s death last winter, she was a prize well sought.

Including by Donald Latham of Dun Ballan. Though Latham had not come out and said so, Malcolm had the distinct impression he’d presented his suit to Catha and been spurned. Latham was no man to accept refusal kindly, and his lands marched beside those of Catha’s father.

Malcolm wondered why Latham did not merely seize Catha himself. Quite plainly the man had no scruples. Did he think taking a woman by violence would cause her to harden her heart against him? Far better to force the deed upon a man she’d trusted all her life—a childhood friend. Yet once delivered, Latham needs must force the lass into marriage. Malcolm did not see how Latham could win.

Nor how he could.

“I truly believe, Father, that given the choice, Mercien would sacrifice himself for Catha’s well-being.”

Murgo howled, “He is no’ being given the choice. Now, son, will ye do my bidding or no’?”

Pain speared Malcolm’s heart. “Da,” he said. He had not used that name for this man since the age of eight, but he needed now to reach his father’s heart. “You ha’ no idea what it cost me to leave Mercien there and ride awa’. I ha’ looked after him all his life.” Three years older than his brother, he’d always felt protective. “I believe Latham, understanding the relationship between us, used that against me. Despite that, I beg you not to ask this task of me. Catha MacGunn trusts me.”

“As do I.” Flint had entered Murgo’s eyes. “In this life, son, we maun sometimes do distasteful things. Go and see your wounds tended. But be prepared to leave here as soon as ever you can. Each moment you delay costs your brother in agony.”

Malcolm made one last attempt. “We might attempt an appeal to the King—”

“The King has gone mad, pursuing witches all over the country.”

That made Malcolm spare a thought for the fey lass he’d brought back with him. Where was she now? Disappeared into the bowels of the keep, destined for servitude?

Somehow he could not see Tansy Gant yoked into service. Tansy Bellrose Gant. But he had little time to concern himself with her now, witch or no. And he had half a conviction she just might be a witch after all.

“Do as I ask, son. Act howe’er you must to free your brother and bring him home.”

Malcolm nodded heavily. “Aye, Father.”

“And go wi’ God.”

Ah, one thing Malcolm knew for certain—God had no part in this.