“I can tell you exactly how much value my life holds. And it goes up significantly if you kill me. Between the MacKinnons, the MacLeods of Lewis and Raasay, and the Bruce, I’d say it’s far more than you can afford. Add an unprovoked attack, then holding hostage and attempting to kill a laird? I’d say it’ll only take the time for the Bruce to learn the news before the MacKinnons own most of this island. Is there room for you all on Harris? I doubt there will be by the time Kieran’s done.” Abigail exaggerated her examination of the Great Hall, turning all the way around. “I haven’t seen Dun Ringill yet, but I can see myself tossing out those rags on the wall and replacing them with the MacKinnon colors. I think Ronan will look quite intimidating in your chair come spring. This will make a fine MacKinnon stronghold.”
“You talk a lot,” Gordon growled.
Abigail grinned, wrinkling her nose. “I know. Kieran tells me that all the time. But he also says I come up with the most novel ideas.”
“My idea is to toss you back into that cell with your bastard husband,” Cormag barked.
When Abigail shrugged yet again, Cormag banged his fist on the table, but it didn’t stop her. “One more tale of woe to tell King Robert. I’m certain Queen Elizabeth will make it known to her husband how aggrieved she is to learn aboot her lady-in-waiting’s mistreatment. She can be very convincing.”
“Take your seat, eat your meal in silence, and pray I don’t have my wife sew your lips shut,” Cormag ordered. Abigail decided she’d antagonized him enough for one evening. But she understood her posturing held the same significance as what passed between lairds before a battle. She wouldn’t appear weak and servile to any of these MacLeods. She would remind them that she was equal to all the laird’s family, and that her captivity could only result in their loss. She took her seat beside Cecily, who sat to Cormag’s left, while Gordon had taken his seat once again to Cormag’s right.
She heeded Ronan’s warning, drinking none of the wine placed before her and eating only the food that was served to the laird first, preferring bread and cheese over the rest. When Cormag leaned forward and smirked, she knew he recognized her tactic. She raised her eyebrows as if to ask him if he could blame her. For a moment, Abigail thought she saw respect flicker in his eyes before his expression became mocking once more. She spent the rest of the meal in silence, eager to return to the chamber they had given her. She slid thesgian dubhunder her pillow and fell into a light sleep. She woke each time the guards switched at her door.
Twenty-Three
Ronan’s teeth chattered as he pushed himself to sit up. He’d tried unknotting the rope at his wrists, but he’d only chafed the skin. His shoulders burned from his arms being bound behind his back. His belly’s rumbling echoed in the cell, but he doubted Cormag would order him fed. He expected to go days without food since his clan wouldn’t know where he and the other guards went. They expected him to return with Abigail after the new year, but they would accept that foul weather might delay them. It could be at least a sennight before they became alarmed, and then they wouldn’t know where to look. His men would form search parties to travel along the shore and likely even to Stornoway, but none would know to look for him at Dunvegan. He hoped they would grow suspicious of the MacLeods quickly and assume he was a captive here.
Ronan’s mind constantly returned to Abigail and his consuming fear that Cormag already ordered her death or was abusing her. While he wanted to believe Cormag possessed enough sense to see the danger in harming Abigail, he didn’t hold the same faith for Gordon. The man had a reputation for being brutal on and off the battlefield. Ronan easily imagined what Gordon would do with a beautiful and spirited woman like Abigail. Gordon would attempt everything he could think of to bend her to his will, and Ronan knew Abigail would not snap easily.
Just after they took Abigail from his side, he whistled his call, saddened to only hear a handful in return. The guards threatened them, but his men knew he lived, and he knew how many survived. He hadn’t been able to see if any swam to shore. If any men made it to land, they would find themselves in MacLeod territory. It would be a miracle if they could traverse their enemy’s land, let alone cross most of the island on foot after nearly drowning. But it was Ronan’s only hope that word would travel to Dun Ringill to guide their rescue.
With no way to free his hands and no way to predict what the next day held, Ronan allowed himself to sleep. He knew resting his mind and body would be his only defense in the days to come. His head still ached from being bashed on both sides. His last thoughts and all his dreams were of Abigail.
“Lazy bastard.”
Ronan opened his eyes to the sound of voices and the lock turning. He couldn’t be certain, but he suspected it was morning. He pulled his feet in and pressed his back against the wall, prepared to push onto his feet if he needed to defend himself. But a piece of bread flew toward him and landed in his lap. “Good luck eating that. Mayhap I should watch the mighty Laird MacKinnon eat like a dog.”
Ronan didn’t move. His legs remained prepared to stand, but he would wait out the guard’s interest in him. When he didn’t respond to any of the man’s barbs, the guard grunted and pulled the door shut, leaving Ronan alone again. Just as the guard stated, Ronan felt like a dog as he bent forward and grasped the heel of bread with his teeth. He dragged it higher until it rested between his knees and chest, and where he could gnaw on it. It was nearly too hard to eat, and he suspected it was more than a day old, but it was food. If it was all they would give him that day, he wouldn’t turn it down. His belly was so empty that the stale bread made it churn.
Once his stomach calmed, recognizing the bread as fuel for his body rather than poison, Ronan felt some of his strength return. Able to stand without growing dizzy, Ronan rose and slid his back along the wall as he made his way around the cell. The feel of sludge seeping through his leine made bile burn the back of his throat, but he lived with his disgust when he found a spot on the wall jagged enough to saw the rope against. He knew it would be slow going, and any time he heard a guard approach, he dashed back to where they’d last seen him sitting. He would give them the notion he’d given up and accepted his imprisonment.
It took him hours of working on the rope before it began to fray. His wrists were raw, and the rough stone left several nicks from when Ronan tried to adjust the angle at which it cut through his bindings. When he whistled to his men again, he did so to learn if they were together or in separate cells. He grinned to learn that they were in pairs. Most warriors could communicate through birdcalls and whistles, but their meanings were unique to each clan. It kept their messages secret even when surrounded by the enemy. The pairs would sit back-to-back and loosen each other’s ropes. He suspected they were already free of them while he had to work on his alone. But he much preferred solitude if it meant Abigail was out of the cell.
It surprised him when a guard with a waterskin returned just before evening. He entered with three men to protect him. He laughed at the man, mocking him for not coming in alone if Ronan was still restrained. But he knew his men did the same when they entered any prisoner’s cell, always expecting a hidden weapon or the captive finding a way out of his bindings. When they stripped him of his weapons earlier, they found those sheathed in his boots, in his wrist bracers, and the three hanging at his waist. They even found the one strapped to his thigh, but they hadn’t lifted his plaid high enough to see the two sheathed beneath his belt and the wool. Nor had they found thesgian dubhsheathed at the small of his back. That blade was his sharpest, but it was also the shortest, no longer than the width of his belt.
He wouldn’t make a move against his captors until he learned where Abigail was and whether his men still carried any of their dirks. He complied when the man put the waterskin to his mouth and tipped it to drink. Ronan expected any number of liquids, but he hadn’t expected fresh water. He drank his fill, turning his head before he drank enough to make himself ill. The guard grunted before putting the stopper in it and tossing it beside Ronan. He supposed it was the only concession to his status. He doubted his men received the same mercy. The four MacLeod men retreated from Ronan’s cell in silence. As desperate as Ronan was to learn about Abigail, he would wait until the guards genuinely believed he’d accepted his captivity. They would give him information to mock his loss of freedom and inability to save her. But it would be knowledge, nonetheless.
* * *
Ronan’s mouth felt parched despite struggling with the waterskin as the guards watched him the previous night. He hadn’t touched it, wanting it to last until the next day, but the guards returned to harass him. He had to continue pretending that his hands weren’t free, leaning sideways to pull the stopper out with his teeth then lift it with his lips sealed around it. But he drank the rest of the water without dribbling any. The guards entered his cell and retrieved the waterskin, making certain he’d drained it. Leaving him throughout most of the next day without water was now their form of torture. They’d tried to raise his hope only to slash it away, but since Ronan hadn’t bothered to hope for food or water, there was no disappointment.
His mouth could no longer produce saliva, and his lips were chapped and cracked. His belly once again filled the cell with echoing grumbles. However, despite his discomfort, he could hear the low voices of his men talking to one another. It reassured him that they hadn’t sapped the last of their strength. When guards arrived that day, he suspected it was already late afternoon, and his second night in the cell approached. He let his head loll to the side, his eyes half shut.
“Nae so mighty now,” one guard scoffed as he kicked Ronan’s boot. It forced the man close enough to Ronan that he could have pounced, once more prepared to lunge. But he reminded himself that he wouldn’t enact any plan to escape until he knew about Abigail.
“Ma wife?” Ronan didn’t have to pretend to make his voice croak.
“The daft bitch nearly drove the laird mad last night. Yer cock in her mouth must be the only thing that keeps her quiet.”
Ronan held his breath, keeping himself from snarling as the man’s vulgar reference to Abigail. He shifted his gaze when another man spoke.
“Haughty wench, crowing on aboot how her bluidy brother will come to yer rescue, how the king will be angry. Nay one’s coming to get any of ye lot.” The man’s laughter reverberated against the walls, and the others soon joined in. “She’s lucky all the laird did was lock her in her chamber today. Softer prison than ye have, but a cell all the same.”
Ronan expected taunting and more crude comments, but he’d gained the information he needed. If Cormag or Gordon had abused her, it would have been the first thing the men would have crowed about, knowing it would drive him mad. He was confident Abigail drove home the significance of her relationship to Kieran and her time as a lady-in-waiting. He prayed it bought her peace for the time being. He relaxed his tense muscles as his heart slowed. He was still on guard, but much of his anxiety eased.
“She just better keep her gob shut at the evening meal, or Gordon’s likely to shut her up the same way ye do,” another guard mused. Ronan’s clenched his jaw, forcing himself to not take the bait, even if it enraged him to think of Gordon forcing himself on Abigail. He wished for at least the hundredth time that she still had her longer dirk on hand. When the man’s comments didn’t get a rise out of Ronan, the four MacLeods trailed out of the cell, slamming the door extra hard, reminding Ronan of exactly where he languished.
Twenty-Four
