Chapter Twenty-Four

“I wish to see your master.” Suffused with worry and hate, Malcolm stood in the wan sunlight of the new morning and stared into the eyes of the guard who faced him. The man had come down from the bridge tower, a sword in his hand and insolence in his demeanor. Others, as Malcolm knew full well, peered through the openings in the stone.

The night just past, black and seemingly endless, had nearly undone him. Had Latham meant to keep their bargain, Mercien would have been released by now. Ah, but had Malcolm truly expected Latham to keep their bargain?

Fool. Now he’d placed Catha in danger and yet stood no closer to freeing his brother.

Catha and Tansy. He could scarcely bear thinking on the wee lass for fear of what might befall her in the fortress. He wanted to rip Latham apart with his bare hands. He wanted to kill, as he never had even in his fiercest battles.

But the die was cast; he’d sent Lionel and his men back to gather Catha’s household guard. Fool or otherwise, he stood alone.

The guard took time to spit before he replied. “I will need to ask Master Latham what manner of scum he would ha’ us admit to his dwelling.”

Malcolm smiled, a smile with all his hate behind it. “You do that, since you’ve no brain o’ your own, and he has sapped your will.”

“Wait here.”

Wait. Malcolm began to hate the word. He’d waited through his duty in France, to go home, waited in that damned purgatory of a cell inside this place, waited for Mercien. He needed to know what went on within. Did Mercien yet live? Did Catha and Tansy even now carry out whatever plan they had hatched together?

He cooled his heels while the watery sunlight grew in strength around him, and his anger built. When the guard returned, he brought two other men with him.

“You will have to hand over your weapons if you mean to come in.”

“Nay.” Last time they’d been taken from him by force and returned only when he was released—the sword that had traveled with him to France, the same that had freed Tansy from the pillar at Slurt. Now he sneered in the guard’s face. “Do you fear one man so much you maun disarm him?”

“Master Latham’s orders.”

Malcolm eyed the pile of black stones before him. What might he not trade for those so dear to his heart?

Fool, his mind whispered again as he handed over the sword, making no move to relinquish the dirk secreted in his boot. But his heart urged him on.

For all that, his stomach turned within him as he followed the guard across the plank bridge and into the keep. Pain lay within this place, the remembrance of horror and darkness.

He shuddered inwardly when the portcullis lowered behind him. For an instant, he was back in the hopeless dark of the cell, tasting pain and smelling his own skin sear. Then a vision of Tansy Bellrose Gant came to him, dancing before his mind’s eye, silver gaze agleam. He drew a breath and walked on.

Latham chose to receive him privately, which surprised him. As he knew, the bastard loved a grand spectacle, and the members of his household, as Malcolm could hear full well when he passed the hall, were at breakfast. But the guard led him to the study where Latham liked to linger and brood.

And when it came to it, the man did not appear particularly well. The morning light flooding the room showed him in a state of half undress, and with a grayish tinge to his skin.

Had the guard roused him from his bed? Surely Malcolm did not catch the man off balance at last?

But Latham’s eyes grew hard when they lit on Malcolm. He dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand before he spoke.

“Ah, Montgomery. Did you no’ ha’ enough the last time you stepped within these walls? Would you offer yoursel’ up for more of my hospitality?”

“I ha’ come to collect my brother.”

“Your brother?” Latham feigned surprise and did a poor job of it.

“We had an agreement. I ha’ delivered on my part of it.”

“Have you, indeed?”

“You wished for Mistress MacGunn in your hands, and so she does lie.”

“She does.” Latham heaved himself to his feet. “And a bonus along wi’ her. I maun thank you for that. I enjoyed her wee companion last night.”

Tansy. Rage suffused Malcolm, searing in its intensity. For an instant he saw himself drawing the dirk from his boot and slitting Latham’s throat where he stood. That would not get Mercien free, his head reminded him, even as he strove desperately to mask his reaction.

He could not let Latham see how much he cared for Tansy, dared not lend him such a weapon.

He shrugged. “A woman is a woman, aye? When it comes to it, all are much the same.”

Latham’s eyes narrowed. “Except for Mistress MacGunn. I am thinking you and your brother ha’ held her in affection for some time.”

“She is a family friend. Yet I ha’ delivered her to you as promised.”

“Have you?” Latham questioned it once more. “She appeared at my gate on her own.”

“Summoned hence by me. Do no’ split hairs, Latham. Release my brother to me, and I will be off wi’ him, leaving you to both women.” Over his dead body—or rather, over Latham’s.

The bastard seemed to ponder it. “I maun admit I will enjoy having the wee dark lass again, until I tire of her and toss her to my guards.”

Malcolm managed a shrug.

“She is no’ beautiful, but there is a certain wildness I find entertaining.” Latham watched Malcolm closely. Curse the man and his instincts. He had a nose for vulnerability.

“Do as you will, so long as you keep your side o’ our bargain.”

“A bargain, was it?”

“You ken so.”

“Ah well, then I suppose I maun do as you ask. This begins a new era between us. Once I unite my lands wi’ those of Mistress MacGunn, I will be one o’ the most powerful men in Scotland. As such, we maun forge good relations.”

Better with a snake. But Malcolm nodded blandly. He hoped his Da might live forever, but when he did pass, he, Malcolm, would inherit Crag Corvan. And he’d go to war with this man before forging ties.

“In the spirit of good will, you will dine wi’ me tonight,” Latham declared, “before you leave.”

Malcolm grunted.

Latham’s eyes gleamed. “You and your brother will dine wi’ me. And, of course, the bonny Mistress MacGunn.”

“You will release Mercien from your dungeon and set him at your board?”

Latham pretended to consider it. “Of course, you would perhaps first like a chance to see his wounds tended. Let me prepare a chamber and lend you the use of my dispenser—still in the spirit of good will.”

“Release him, and we will be awa’ from here. I will tend my brother on the road.”

“I fear he will be much too weak for travel. I maun insist you stay.” The word “insist” came accompanied by a gleam in Latham’s eyes that screamed threat.

Malcolm drew a breath. What best to do? “I wish to see my brother at once.”

“Then come.”

****

Their descent into the bowels of the keep turned Malcolm’s blood cold and brought back all the emotions he’d felt when here before—helplessness, agony, and anger so sharp he might slay the man beside him with it. Naught had ever gone harder with him than leaving Mercien here in darkness. Yet every step now stole his breath. Would Latham keep his word? Would he instead force Malcolm back into the cell, now that he had what he wanted?

Catha. And Tansy.

Had the brute hurt her? Catha, as he’d assured himself, carried a measure of protection due to her importance. Tansy possessed none. Latham might do anything to her.

But he could not let that deter him from rescuing Mercien.

The guards in the lower level met Latham’s arrival with a flurry of activity.

“Bring a light,” he ordered them. When the torch had been lit, Latham fished inside his tunic and produced a key. Malcolm waited in silence, heart pounding, while he applied it to the door of Mercien’s cell and swung wide the door with his own hands.

The odor hit Malcolm first, thick and suffocating, bringing back the memory of suffering with such potency he gagged involuntarily. He knew full well that the only time light entered this place, pain followed, and he wished he could shield Mercien from such anticipation.

He called out, “Brother, I am here.”

Stepping into the cell took all Malcolm’s courage and was, he knew, a calculated risk. Latham could well slam the door on him and lock it once more. At least then he’d be with Mercien, an agony halved.

Or doubled.

The light revealed his brother then, and he forgot everything else. Mercien hung in manacles against the stone wall, in an attitude of pain. All but naked, he wore only a stained, filthy kilt, and the floor beneath him bore spatters of his blood, as well as piss and excrement. When the light found him, he raised his dark head, and Malcolm gasped again.

“By God! What ha’ you done to him?”

“There was a small mishap during one o’ our…sessions. The iron slipped.”

Malcolm turned from the unbearable sight of his brother and launched himself at Latham, the sheer impetus taking them both over onto the filthy floor. The hard hands of the guards plucked him off. More men rushed in from outside to subdue him, and Latham, an ugly look on his face, scrambled up.

“I will excuse you that,” he said, “as your emotions are stirred.” To his men he added, “Get him out of the shackles and bring him upstairs.”

“Nay.” Malcolm barked the words. “No one touches my brother—no one but me.”