The Scotsman (19 page)

Two pairs of eyes glittered in the fitful light, and chains clanked softly. “Welcome, my lord Devlin.”

The Scottish burr grated on his temper, and Nicholas took several steps closer. Adam de Brus stared back at him, unblinking. There was no hint of surrender in that hot-eyed stare, only hate.

“I would ask how you find your lodgings, de Brus, but as ’tis much like the Scottish hovels you are used to, I doubt you would recognize the difference.”

“What else have you English left us, but hovels? You burn field and forest, slaughter our women and spear our children, then think us ungrateful. Yea, ’tis true enough that I find little difference in this stinking hole and the devastation visited upon my homeland, but ’twill not be true for long.”

“No? As intriguing as I find that comment, I shall not take you to task for it. I have come for another reason.”

“More torture?” Chains rattled again, and there was the sound of shuffling straw as de Brus tried to rise. He managed it clumsily, as his wrists were manacled to rings
in the wall and tethered by short links. “I am ready. Leave the lad alone this time … he has had more than his share.”

Nicholas was startled. He had not thought torture would be used against them. But as light filtered across de Brus’s face in unsteady shafts, he saw fresh scars and dried blood, cracked lips that looked well chewed. De Brus wore only a thin sherte with a ragged hem that barely covered his privates. A glance toward the boy revealed de Brus’s dirty red plaid wrapped warmly around thin limbs. Young Fraser also showed evidence of harsh abuse, but he, too, struggled valiantly to his feet to face his tormentor, eyes blazing with a hatred far too adult for so tender an age.

Not for the first time, Nicholas felt a wave of shame at his father’s actions. Adam de Brus was a man full-grown, but this lad could not be much more than thirteen or fourteen, too young to be much of a threat. Old enough to bear arms, perhaps, but immature enough to be bested easily by any man able to wield a sword. No, Fraseas brother should be sitting around a fire listening to tales of war, not enduring the hardships of torture and imprisonment. It was galling that Scotland’s refusal to accept their rightful overlord led to its youth being slaughtered like helpless sheep.

He turned back to Robert Bruce’s kinsman. “I want from you what no torture could extract, de Brus. Guidance.”

Incredulous laughter greeted this comment as Adam de Brus stared at him in the capering light. “Guidance, my lord Devlin? What game do you play now, I wonder, to come and taunt me with such blather.”

“’Tis no game, de Brus.” He moved closer, choking a little on the stench of filth and unwashed body. The straw at his feet was heavily soiled and matted in clumps.

When he kicked at one of the dirty mounds, it let out a squeal and scuttled away. De Brus laughed softly.

“You have annoyed my pet, Devlin. Or my dinner, should I be fortunate enough to snare the beastie.”

Bile rose in his throat as Nicholas looked up to meet de Brus’s ironic gaze. “Tell me what I need to hear and I can promise you better fare, de Brus.”

“Can you promise our freedom?”

His brow lowered at the mocking reply and he shook his head. “Nay, I cannot. It would be a lie to say I could.”

“What ho, an Englishman who is reluctant to lie? Can this be possible?”

“At times.” His mouth quirked in a faint smile as he regarded de Brus. “As in Scotland, it depends upon the man.”

For a moment de Brus stared at him. His hands opened and closed, and dull light glinted off the iron manacles around his wrists. Then he said tightly, “What advice do you seek, Sassenach?”

“Information about Alex Fraser.”

The youth’s head jerked up, and he snarled something fierce in Gaelic, but de Brus shook his head and replied in the same language. After a short, heated discussion, his eyes shifted back to Nicholas.

“Tell me what counsel you seek about Alex Fraser, and I will tell you if I can answer it.”

“Fraser holds my sister hostage against the return of you and the boy. It is unlikely that the earl will agree to an exchange. I want to know what may persuade Fraser to release Lady Catherine unharmed.”

Soft laughter greeted his words, and Nicholas waited without reaction. It was said de Brus was hot-tempered but had a fondness for children and women, and he prayed it was so. For no other reason would he have swallowed his pride to come here, defying his father’s
orders and his own belief in his king. But something must be done, for time was growing short and he feared for Catherine’s welfare.

Again, the young Fraser growled something in Gaelic, and again de Brus replied. This time, it was Fraser who responded to Nicholas in a hoarse burr: “Alex willna gi’ up tha’ which he doesna want tae gi’ up, Devlin. ’Twill do ye no good tae offer less than he demands. ’Tis a waste o’ yer time tae try.”

Nicholas drew in a deep breath that stank of despair and dampness. “I thought a letter from you might persuade him to consider ransoming the lady. I can do nothing about your freedom, but I can better your circumstances here.”

The boy laughed. “Wha’ more can we ask? We hae water, a roof o’er our heads, and fresh meat should one o’ the rats come too close.”

Beneath fierce bravado, a tremble lurked, and Nicholas recognized weakness. But he merely shrugged as he moved to the doorway and halted in the opening. “Mayhap you have forgotten what roasted mutton smells like. And hot bread, and flagons of ale. After I remind you, we will talk again.”

He left then, the echo of the slamming cell door a hollow ring in his ears as he moved back down the narrow corridor. Such human misery, such squalid quarters—and he had never given it a thought while dining above with fine linen and endless courses of meats and breads. It moved him to pity, but not to surrender. Whatever it took, he would find a way to retrieve Catherine.

Once de Brus and young Fraser had ample time to breathe in the tempting aromas of roasted meat, bread, and stews, he would return and see if perhaps they were more agreeable. It would be another kind of torture, to see and smell the food placed just out of their reach, and
perhaps harder to bear than that which the earl had visited upon them.

It occurred to him as he mounted the narrow winding staircase that led upward that he had more of his father in him than he would like to acknowledge. For he knew that he, too, would be ruthless in achieving his purpose.

“Checkmate, milady.” Alex leaned back in his chair, gazing at Catherine with satisfaction. Her face was flushed pink where her palm rested against her cheek as she focused upon the chessboard. Long, slender fingers toyed with the carved playing piece, and her brows knit in a frown.

Then she sighed and looked up at him. “I concede.”

He grinned. “Concede or no, the game is done. And now my prize.”

Despite a mutinous set to her mouth, she took a deep breath and said firmly, “King Edward is a—”

“Caitiff and a bogle …” he supplied when she faltered.

“Caitiff, bogle, and skyte. And Robert Bruce—”

“King Robert.”

She scowled at his interruption, but said, “King Robert is a braw….”

“Callant.” He grinned. “A pretty man, brave and stalwart and true. Say it.”

Rebellion glittered in her eyes, and she muttered the words so quickly they came out as one. When he nodded with approval, a flicker of amusement tugged at her mouth.

“You are not easily pleased, sir.”

“Nay, I am not. Nor am I easily beaten at chess. You are a lovely player, but a poor one, milady. You must learn patience and strategy before you can hope to win.”

Lifting her cup, she took a sip of wine, gazing at him
over the rim. A branch of candles cast flickering light over her face. There was something softer about her of late, a new bearing that intrigued him. She still argued with him about the merits of English politics, but there was a difference. Somewhere in her deep violet eyes lurked a new respect for him. It was as intriguing as it was baffling.

And disturbing.

It had caught him off-guard, this new softness she presented, and the erratic tenderness that he had begun to feel for her. That was the most disturbing, that he found himself weak enough to be susceptible, to let her under the guard he had kept intact for twenty-nine years. Few had pierced his barriers and forced him to care, and those were kin to him by blood. For this one female—a daughter of the enemy—to manage it was daunting.

She sat back on the stool, rolling the pewter goblet between her fingers, still studying the chessboard. “It seems to me that you made an unwise move, sir. How did you yet win by giving up your bishop?”

“To win, one must be willing to sacrifice. Even the queen if necessary.”

“But not the king.”

He smiled. “Again, the victor must weigh all risks and advantages before making such decisions.”

Her brow lifted. “Are we still speaking of chess, Sir Alex?”

“I am. But I sense your mind strays to other topics.” She was so obvious at times, and yet he could not decipher her reasons for her actions. Female mystery and lucid honesty, a lethal combination.

“What of my father?” she asked softly. Her eyes caught his gaze and held it. “Has there been no word?”

“You know there has not.” It was a sore subject with him. Near two months had passed without the arrival of
an envoy, only a single message sent by courier to inform him that the earl still waited on his monarch’s reply. He was left with the untenable option to either do as he had warned Devlin he would do, or accept defeat. Neither was tolerable.

A slight frown puckered her brow again, and she traced the goblet rim with a fingertip, slowly, studying the liquid inside the glazed cup as if it held a secret she wished to know. A log popped in the fire. Gray light barely lightened the glazed windows of the small chamber filled with books.

After a moment of silence, she gave a soft sigh. “On the morrow, ’twill be the feast day of Saint Nicholas.”

“Yea. ’Tis not long now until the celebration of Christmas.” He hesitated, thinking he knew what must distress her. “’Tis customary to observe certain rituals, milady, which I am certain are familiar to you. There will be dancing, singing, feasts and merriment, and on the day of Christ’s birth, a special mass said in the chapel by Father Michael or another visiting priest.”

“Advent has begun,” she murmured, and glanced up at him again. “But ’tis not that which pricks me, sir, though I am glad that there will be familiar festivities. On the morrow, it is my brother’s feast day as well.”

“Ah. Nicholas.”

She nodded. “Yea. I realize you hold no fondness for him, but he has oft been the only light in my life. I miss him. This will be the first we have been apart on his feast day, save one year when he was still being fostered by the Earl of Hereford.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “Hereford. The de Bohuns have been a thorn in Bruce’s side for far too long. ’Tis to that family that Edward I gave Bruce’s lands of Annandale and Carrick when he was deseisined and a hunted fugitive.

Now that Edward’s monstrous pup is king, he has given the Bruce domains in Essex to the de Bohun family, as well. They are accursed.”

“Did you not say that ofttimes a queen must be sacrificed to yet win all? Perhaps this is the same.”

He stared at her. There was no mockery in her tone or face. “Do you equate ancestral lands with chess, milady?”

“Nay, but I do compare strategy. It is the same, I think, with war. Am I right? Is not war just another, more deadly form of chess?”

She surprised him as much as she irritated him, and he rose from his chair. “Yea, lady, but with much larger stakes than an idle wager.”

Restless, snared by his fierce desire to free Jamie and his fierce need for this woman, he was caught between the two. How did he reconcile the dual nature of his wanting? He could free Lady Catherine. And Jamie would die. Or he could hold her and pray that the earl would relent and consent to exchange hostages. And Jamie might still die.

Or he could ease the hunger she stirred in him, and nothing would be reconciled but his driving need
.…

It was not that he had not considered it, for he had. Countless times had he gazed at her and felt the hot surge of desire in his loins prompting him to take her to his bed and taste her sweetness to the full. But he had not allowed himself to do more than touch her casually, a flick of his fingers against her cheek, a caress of her uncovered hair, a lingering stroke on her back as he guided her beside him. He had not trusted himself to use restraint the next time he was so unwise as to hold her naked, shivering body in his arms.

But was the need to bridle his desire still relevant? There had been no word from Warfield or Devlin, nothing
but silence from the men who held his young brother’s life in their thrall.…

Frustrated anger rose hot and high in him, and his hands clenched into fists at his side. Curse the impetuosity of a youth who had gone out after de Brus, and curse himself for making war seem grand and noble instead of teaching his young brother the reality of it, the stark horror of men dying and horses screaming, and all around there was the sound and smell and taste of death … but he had not told Jamie that. Nay, he had spoken of past exploits of his own and of Robert Bruce, of the Fraser men before them, fighting beside noblemen and kings; dying at times, but living on in tales of glory and valor. Yea, that much was true enough, but he had dwelled too long on the homage instead of the inhumanity one man did to another, and because of his failure, Jamie was now in a dark cell awaiting a cruel death. He should have told him the truth, told him how a man oft soiled himself in battle, and how when he died his bowels emptied—if he still had them. That might have dissuaded him from running after glory, from being so eager to follow the hotheaded de Brus into a skirmish with Warfield.

If he had only told him.…

“Sir Alex?” Catherine rose gracefully to her feet, and the fresh fragrance of lavender wafted over him. New soap, a gift to her from James Douglas before he had gone. How had Douglas known what would delight a woman when he had not? It had never occurred to him that scented soap would so please her, and it had not occurred to him how furious he would be that Douglas had thought of it first.