With those final chilling words, Agnes swept from the room, the key turning firmly in the lock.
Heavy footsteps,the sound of boots scraping across the stone floor, and the mean laughter of the guards woke Lucy from a fitful sleep. Surprised she’d been able to fall asleep at all, she yawned, then stretched, working the kinks out of her shoulders and neck.
She made no pretense of sneaking, and simply walked to the door, peering out into the corridor.
“Toss the Scots bastard in here,” one of the guards chuckled.
Another kicked the man, who seemed to be unconscious. “Why must we wait? I say hang him now.”
She stayed in shadow, listening as the guards debated whether to kill the Scottish prisoner or not. From what she gathered, he’d been tied with a chain to the floor like a dog in the manor house to amuse Agnes.
The door shut and the guards trod down the corridor, talking amongst themselves. At least they hadn’t killed the man, though the glimpse she caught of him almost made her gasp. His face was bruised and swollen, one eye completely shut. When they’d lifted him, his tattered shirt rose up, and she winced seeing the bruises and cuts across his torso.
When the mercenaries left, Lucy waited until it was quiet.
“Hello? Are you okay?”
It was quiet, not even a whisper of movement, making her think they’d conked him over the head.
That afternoon, when the door opened and a different servant brought food, Lucy caught a glimpse of a powerfully built man with shoulder length, dark hair leaning against the wall before he collapsed onto the floor with a pained grunt and the door slammed shut.
She must have dozed off, for when she woke, it was to an angry voice, the burr of Scotland filling the air.
The guard who’d threatened to give her a black eye shoved the man who somehow managed to stay on his feet as he faced the guards, fury etched across his bearded face.
Lucy caught a glimpse of fierce green eyes before the guards slammed the door closed. One chuckled darkly as he locked it securely.
“We’ll be back, you Scotch devil.”
“I’ll no’ be giving you the satisfaction of hearing me scream, ye bastard,” the Scot spat.
Another guard peered through the small barred opening. “You’ll hang soon enough, dog.”
Lucy kept quiet, waiting until the guards left. Too much time had passed, she had to find a way out. The servants were too scared, the guards obviously were well paid and enjoyed inflicting misery, so that left the horse thief as her only option.
When it had been quiet for a while, the sound of dripping water loud on the stones, he spoke, his voice rough making her think of heather, the highlands, and those cute cows.
“I saw ye.” He cleared his throat. “Ye were slung over a horse like a sack of grain. What happened?”
A long sigh escaped as Lucy leaned against the cold wall. “It’s a long story.”
“It’s not like we’re going anywhere,” he said, a laugh in his voice.
Grateful to have someone else in the prison with her, Lucy cleared her throat, careful to keep her voice down.
“Are you alright?”
“Aye, lass. I’ve had worse knocks to the head than those wee English gave me.”
He told her how he and his traveling companion had been set upon by bandits, how the merchant died. Then how he’d stolen Roland’s purse and horse and had the misfortune to run into the man and the mercenaries on the road. There were too many. They’d captured him, and here he was, awaiting the noose at their pleasure.
She quickly told him that she’d been kidnapped, and the abbreviated version of events that had transpired, ending with Agnes threatening to kill her husband.
“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked when she had finished.
“Lucy. Lucy Merriweather.” It came out without thought, and she didn’t correct herself to tell him she was Lucy Merriweather Brandon, Lady Blackford. “And yours?”
“Callan Graham, at your service, lady,” he said with a grin.
