Highland Thirst (2 page)

“Ye
cannae escape,” the man said, a faint tremor in his voice revealing his fear. “Those
chains are made of silver and, just in case that is a myth, the cage is made of
iron.”

“What?
In case I am fey as weel as a demon?” Heming was not surprised to hear the low
rumble of a growl in his voice, for his anger was running hot and wild. “Ye
have heeded too many tales told to scare bairns.”

“Och,
nay, MacNachton. I ken what ye are—a bloodsucking, soul-eating abomination. I
will
learn all of your secrets, including why ye and yours should be blessed with
such long lives. Here is where the truth of your evil will be fully revealed
and here is where ye will die.”

Watching
the man stride away, Heming murmured, “Nay, fool, the only one marching toward
that fate is ye. Ye are now a walking dead mon.” It was a vow, one Heming fully
intended to fulfill no matter how long it took.

One

He
had eyes like her pets, almost solidly black as if the center had grown so that
he could see more clearly in the dark. Brona Kerr immediately decided that was
not precisely true. The man’s eyes were decidedly far more feral than her dog’s
or even her cat’s. The fact that both of her pets were tense, their fur
bristling slightly, told her that she was not the only one who sensed a
dangerous wildness in the man. Yet she knew her pets were as confused as they
were wary, as if they each sensed a friend as well as a foe.

The
man was caged like some feral animal, thick silver chains holding his wrists
and ankles to the fat iron bars of the cage. Water and a congealed stew sat in
bowls set in one far corner of his cage and a bucket sat in the other. There
was no bedding for him, not even the thinnest of old blankets. Despite the fact
that he was naked, he did not appear troubled by the damp chill of the dungeon.
In the flickering light of the torches she had lit, his skin appeared to be
almost golden yet the wounds she could see on him should have left him as pale
as a ghost. Those wounds should also have bled away the fury she could see
glittering in his feral eyes. Eyes in which she could now see a hint of gold as
the black circle eased back into a more human size.

He
watched her like some stalking predator, his golden eyes narrowed slightly and
fixed unblinkingly upon her. Thick raven hair hung almost to his trim waist. He
was lean and tautly muscular just as a predator should be. Brona did not think
she had ever seen a man like him before. He should terrify her and, in some
ways he did, but she also felt drawn to him. That made no sense to her and she
frowned.

Heming
studied the woman who was studying him. She was an ethereal creature, not very
tall and slender yet possessing lush breasts and nicely rounded hips. Horror
and curiosity were evenly blended in her expression. The flickering shadows
caused by the torches accentuated the fine lines of her face. A thick braid of
pale hair was draped over her right shoulder and hung down to the top of her
thighs. She smelled of woman, of clean skin and a hint of lavender. It was a
welcome change from the damp foul air of his prison.

To
her right sat a very large gray dog and to her left sat a large yellow cat.
Heming got the strong feeling that the animals were as much her companions as
her pets. It surprised him that Hervey Kerr even allowed pets at Rosscurrach.
The fact that this woman had the pets indicated that she was no mere servant of
the keep. Few of the poor had the time or the food to pamper an animal and
these two animals looked very pampered.

“Who
are ye?” she asked, struggling to keep her gaze fixed upon his face and
fighting the urge to look him over, very carefully, from head to toe.

“Sir
Heming MacNachton,” he replied, wondering if she was in league with Hervey and
sought to trick some important truth out of him.

“I
have ne’er heard your name before. Are ye one of my cousin’s enemies?”

“I
had ne’er e’en met the fool ere he captured me and brought me here. And who are
ye that ye dinnae ken that?”

Brona
heard the suspicion in his voice but was not troubled by it. Chained naked in a
cage as he was, the man had every right to be suspicious of everyone at
Rosscurrach. She had a few suspicions of her own about him. She knew her cousin
was not a good man, but she found it hard to believe that he would cage and
torture a man he had never met and who had done no wrong.

“I
am Mistress Brona Kerr, first cousin to the laird,” she answered and could see
by his hardening expression that she had only added to his mistrust. “I heard
some quickly hushed whispers about a prisoner and decided I would see just what
the secret was. No other prisoner has e’er warranted such mystery.”

“Your
cousin has a lot of prisoners, does he?”

“Nay.”
She sighed. “I fear he often just kills those he feels have wronged him. When
he does hold a prisoner ‘tis for ransom, or to torture a few secrets out of him
ere he kills him. What secrets does he think ye have?”

“I
ken naught that he needs to know.”

“That
doesnae really answer my question, does it.” Brona idly scratched her dog Thor’s
ears. “Cousin Hervey is cold and cruel, but he is also lazy. He has obviously
expended a great deal of time and effort to hold ye here and try to get ye to
tell him something. I but wondered what it was.”

“And
why do ye need to ken such things?”

“Knowledge
is power.” Her cat, Havoc, rubbed its head against her leg in a bid for
attention and Brona briefly leaned down to scratch the cat’s back. “‘Tis weel
kenned round here that I dinnae hold with the torturing of a mon, but I doubt
that it is the only reason there is such an effort at secrecy about ye. My
cousin is little interested, and even less moved, by my disapproval of his
actions. Nor are ye here for ransoming as no one has been sent out to take a
demand to anyone.” She shrugged. “I have considered many a reason for this but
each one only raised more questions, so I decided to come here and ask ye.”

“Ah,
and I have told ye. He thinks I can tell him something.”

“But
what? What could he possibly wish to learn that is worth treating ye like this?”

Heming
carefully considered his answer. The woman appeared honestly concerned, even
appalled, over his mistreatment, but he dared not trust in that. Hervey could
be trying to trick him into revealing something. Too many men had fallen victim
to believing in a woman’s softness, in her wiles and words of caring. Even a
few of his kindred had stumbled into such traps. He could, however, tell her
exactly why Hervey had caged him and was torturing him so assiduously. If he
spoke in the right tone of voice, used the right words, he could make her see
it all as utter nonsense. He might even get her to question her cousin’s
sanity.

“He
thinks I can tell him how to live forever,” he said, pleased by the
scorn-filled drawl he was able to produce from his parched throat.

Brona
stared at the man and forced herself not to gape. “Why would he think ye could
do that?”

“My
kin are long-lived. The fool thinks as far too many others do and sees such
strength and health as the result of magic.”

“Does
he think ye have some potion? Mayhap some muttered spell words?”

When
Heming nodded, she frowned, recalling that many of the men in her family died
young and not all from battle wounds, either. It was sad but she had never seen
anything unusual in their deaths. Each one was easily explained. If this man
spoke the truth, however, it could be that Hervey feared some curse or the
like. It would also be just like her cousin to want to find out if some rumor
about a potion for long life was true, even if he doubted it at first.

“Then
‘tis wrong of him to do this to ye,” she said quietly. “Verra wrong.”

A
spark of hope stirred to life inside of Heming but he hastily doused it. Just
because this woman believed her cousin was doing wrong did not mean that she
would help him. Hervey was her kinsman and her laird. Even though her words
implied that she held no affection for the man, going against him to the extent
of releasing a prisoner could cost her dearly. A blood tie would not save her
from punishment for such a betrayal.

“Do
ye think that troubles him?” he asked.

Brona
nearly winced at the bitterness underlying his words. “Nay, not at all.”

“He
will kill me in the end, ye ken.”

“I
ken it,” she whispered.

“And
ye will do naught to stop him?” He felt guilty for trying to push her into
helping him when he knew it would endanger her, but he was fighting for his
life and that of his clan.

“Nay
on your word alone.”

“Fair
enough, but if ye havenae learned anything in the near sennight I have been trapped
here, my word may be all ye have.”

A
pinch of shame pricked Brona’s heart. She had been hesitant, had tried to
ignore the whispers of the others at Rosscurrach and the cries of pain and rage
she had heard in the night. While she had struggled to keep herself safe from
Hervey’s anger, this man had suffered horribly. While she had continued to do
her best to stay out of Hervey’s sight as much as possible, this man had been
tortured and humiliated.

It
was time to stop thinking only of protecting herself, she decided. Her
cowardice appalled her. She had not realized how deeply it had entrenched
itself within her heart. Brona knew her caution around her cousin was
completely justified, but nothing Hervey could do to her was worth allowing
this man to continue to suffer like this if he was truly innocent of any crime.

The
urge to immediately release him from his chains and his cage was strong, but
she resisted it. He could be lying to her, trying to stir her sympathies.
Although what few whispers she had understood seemed to indicate that he was
indeed imprisoned here because of some strange tales Hervey had heard about the
man, it was not enough. Even if this man did not kill her the moment she
released him, Hervey might. Her cousin would certainly punish her in ways she
did not care to even think about.

She
needed more information. This time she would actively seek out the truth
instead of puzzling over the occasional whisper she overheard. Repulsed as she
was by the way Hervey treated men guilty of some crime, she would not free a
guilty man. Hervey was the laird of Rosscurrach and it was his right, his duty,
to punish those who broke the law. The most she would do was protest his
cruelty in meting out his punishments. But, if what this man said were true, then
she would have to do far more than protest; she would have to free him.

A
tremor of fear passed through her at the mere thought of doing such a thing.
Simply protesting Hervey’s actions often brought retribution that left her
bruised and aching. What she was considering could easily get her killed if
only from the severity of the punishment that followed. Brona knew she would
not only have to decide what to do about this man, but make a plan to protect
herself as well. A selfish, terrified part of her told her to just ignore it
all as she had ignored so much else, but Brona silenced it. Some wrongs could
not be ignored.

“I
didnae try to learn anything,” she confessed in a soft voice. “Knowledge may be
power, but ignorance is sometimes all that keeps one safe. Howbeit, now I
will
try to learn something.”

“And
then do what?” Heming was surprised at how hard he had to struggle not to
believe in this woman, not to let his hopes rise.

“If
my cousin is treating ye so cruelly simply because he thinks ye may have some
potion or spell that will make him live longer, then I will set ye free.”

“But
nay right now.”

“I
cannae act against my kinsmon, my laird, on your word alone. I will visit ye
again soon.”

Heming
watched her walk away, pausing only to douse the torches she had lit, and he
fought the urge to call her back, to try to convince her to act now. It was an
odd feeling to suffer from since he knew he should neither trust her nor
believe her. Holding out some hope to a condemned man was just the kind of
cruelty Hervey Kerr would enjoy yet Heming found himself unable to believe that
the fey Brona would have any part of that. He almost smiled when he realized
his inability to believe she was hand in fist with her brutal cousin grew from
the way she acted toward her pets and they acted toward her. It was a thin
branch to hang his hopes on.

He
suddenly tensed as he realized Brona had halted just a few feet away. Heming
knew two men had been dragged down here two days ago and he felt sure she had
halted near their prison. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on listening
closely to what was said. His hearing was far better than any Outsider’s and he
hoped something would be said to help him come to some decision about Mistress
Brona Kerr.

“Why
have ye been thrown down here?” she asked the men.

“The
laird says we have failed in our duty to him,” replied a man with a deep, rough
voice, bitterness dripping from every word.

“Failed,
Colin? How could ye and your brother have failed in anything? Ye work from
sunrise to sunset.”