After only an hour of feeling her slender body so close to his, catching her sweet scent each time he breathed, Ewan knew he needed to distance or distract himself. “Is today the first time ye have been in a battle?”
“Aye,” Fiona replied, fighting the urge to nestle back against him. “I have been in a few wee fights, e’en wounded a mon or two, but I have ne’er killed a mon.” She shivered as the image of the man’s empty, staring eyes filled her mind.
“He was about to take Simon’s head from his shoulders.”
“I ken it.” Feeling chilled and her back aching from the struggle to keep a distance between them, Fiona cautiously began to relax against him. “There wasnae any other choice. E’en if I could have borne letting Simon die, I still had to do it. Once Simon fell, the mon was coming for me.” She sighed and relaxed against Ewan’s broad chest a little more. “I always feared I would hesitate when it came to actually killing a mon.”
“But ye didnae.”
“Nay, God save my soul, I didnae. My brother was right. When confronted with someone who wants to kill me or kill someone I preferred to keep alive, I was able to find the stomach to do what I needed to. I just wish he had been wrong about how I would feel after I was safe again.”
“Twill pass. Your brother sounds a wise laird.”
She laughed softly as she felt her weariness begin to weight her limbs. “Nay always wise, but he kens how to keep us safe.” Fiona had the unsettling feeling she had just given Ewan some small hint about who she was, but was too tired to worry about it. A small hint would not help him much, and she would simply be more cautious in watching out for a trap. Too many carelessly dropped small hints could quickly add up to enough of a whole to end her game. After she had rested, she would try to recall all she may have let slip already, and be more wary in her answers and her conversation with everyone. As she closed her eyes, she prayed exhaustion would keep the dark dreams away for a little while.
Ewan grimaced as his body responded immediately to the soft woman resting against him, but then he smiled. Fiona was not so very skilled at deception. She could not hold all the truth inside. He would not need threats to gain the truth, just time. When at ease, Fiona spoke freely, unable to guard her tongue as closely as she needed to. He would warn everyone to listen carefully to all she said. It would take time, but he was certain that, piece by tiny piece, Fiona would reveal who she was, whom she belonged to, and where she was from. When he slipped his arm around her small waist to hold her steady, he told himself he was pleased. He sternly told himself he would be glad to see her leave and ignored the sneering inner voice that called him a liar.
Chapter 4
Intimidating was the first word that came to mind when Fiona got her first look at Scarglas. Dark, eerie, and lonely were her next impressions. The way it loomed up ahead, cold and somewhat threatening, tickled at a memory in Fiona’s mind. It made her think of sorcery and murder, but she could not think why. If she had ever heard of Scarglas or the MacFingals, the memory was proving obstinately elusive at the moment.
Scarglas Keep sat on a small rise in the midst of a brutally cleared area. Its outer walls were thick and high. A wide moat encircled those walls, and she knew it was probably dangerously deep. Several yards outside the moat was an encircling berm as tall as a man, yet another barrier an enemy must cross before reaching those trecherously high walls. Off in the distance, in a direct line with the four corners of the keep, she could see the tops of four wooden watchtowers. Everything about Scarglas bespoke a keep under constant siege.
The passage through the high berm was barely wide enough for a wagon. Fiona was not surprised to find that the bridge over the moat was the same. No enemy could approach the tall, iron-studded gates of Scarglas in any great number. The somewhat narrow strip of land between the edge of the moat and the base of the walls was cluttered with small stone cottages. Another obstacle, Fiona realized. Even if the thatched roofs were fired, that would impede the attackers far more than the defenders, and she doubted such fires would do any damage to those walls.
She wondered how long the MacFingals had held Scarglas. To build such a place would take many years and a lot of coin, something few Scots had. If the clan had been upon these lands for a long time, then why had she never heard of them? Fiona knew her knowledge of the various clans was not very extensive, but any clan so contentious it was surrounded by enemies would surely have been talked about. Yet, she had never heard one word about them, or could not recall one.
A brief glimpse of a village to the north of the keep, and an intriguing circle of standing stone to the south, softened the stark look of the place, but not by much. Fiona repressed the urge to shiver as they rode through the gates. Scarglas was certainly strong enough to protect her from Menzies if he was ever able to track her to it. Unfortunately, it seemed that hiding from one man was putting her in the path of many another eager to raze this place to the ground. It might be time to rethink her plan.
Ewan was just setting her on the ground when a tall man burst out of the keep. He flung open the heavy doors so ominously decorated with iron spikes as if they weighed nothing. Although his hair was white, the resemblance to Ewan was unmistakable. Fiona prepared herself to meet the man who apparently bred children and enemies with equal abandon. She was annoyed when he completely ignored her.
“Been in a fight, have ye, lad?” the man asked, glancing only briefly at Simon. “Lost the boy, did ye?”
“Nay, Simon is but wounded,” replied Ewan. “Twas the Grays.”
“Set a trap for ye?”
“Nay. I believe they but stumbled upon us and thought they had enough men to beat us.”
“Hah! The Grays were always fools. So, got yourself a prisoner, eh?” The man frowned at Fiona. “She doesnae look much like a Gray.”
“We didnae take her from the Grays,” Ewan began.
“Ah, so ye have finally found yourself a bride. That pleases me, laddie. I was beginning to get concerned.”
Fiona noticed the heat of a blush darken Ewan’s cheeks. “Concerned about what?” she asked, but both men ignored her.
“She isnae my bride. We found her, lost and on foot. Decided to hold fast to her until she tells us who her clan is. Then we can ransom her back to them.” Noting the telltale licentious glint entering his father’s eyes as he studied Fiona, Ewan held her by the arm and tugged her a little closer to his side. “Father, this is Fiona. Fiona, my father, Sir Fingal MacFingal.”
“Fiona what? Of where?” demanded Sir Fingal, scowling at Fiona.
Fiona scowled right back. “Just Fiona. Tis all I am willing to say.”
“Tis for the best she isnae your bride, I be thinking, Ewan,” said Sir Fingal, looking Fiona over in a way that made her want to strike him. “Too small, dresses like a wee lad, and she is scarred.”
It was not easy, but Fiona resisted the urge to cover her scarred cheeks with her hands. The man was insulting, arrogant, and rude, but that was not the reason she was beginning to heartily dislike him. It was the way the man acted concerning Simon that had her aching to kick him. Sir Fingal had appeared completely unmoved by the possibility that the boy, his own son, was dead. He had barely glanced at the boy and, when told that Simon was only wounded, had not even asked where or how badly.
“We need to get Simon into a bed,” Fiona said, looking up at Ewan. “I need to look at his wounds.”
“Mab will see to the lad,” Sir Fingal said and he looked toward the keep.
Following