Chapter Fifteen
Always acknowledge a fault frankly. This will throw those in authority off their guard and give you a chance to commit more.
—Mark Twain
Calum pulled his wrists upward with a hard yank and the drapery ties fell away. He untied his feet and stood up, then searched the floor for his glasses. They were lying near the shattered whisky glass. He hooked the spectacles over his ears and shoved them up the bridge of his nose, then ran through the doors. He made for the east wing, blotting the small stream of blood on his forehead with a neatly folded handkerchief as he ran.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement and stopped. He looked up the stairs.
Near the stair landing, Kirsty’s small and curly blond head poked out from behind a thick newel post.
“What are you doing up?”
“Someone stole the MacLachlan plaids, Uncle Calum. I saw them.” Her voice lowered to an excited whisper. “Are they thieves?”
“Get yourself back in bed, lassie.”
“Why aren’t we sleeping in our beds?”
“The rooms aren’t ready. Now get yourself in bed.”
“Where’s Father?”
“He’s busy. Go to bed.”
“Why?”
“This is not your worry.”
She planted her hands on her small hips, raised her small chin, and frowned down at him. “I’m a MacLachlan too.”
Aye, he thought. Pure, stubborn Scot. “And are you forgetting who’s your laird, my MacLachlan lassie? Surely you wouldn’t be so foolish as to disobey an order from the laird of your clan?”
She seemed to think about that, then eyed him for a moment, appearing to weigh the consequences of her decision. She slowly turned and brought herself back up the stairs like someone dragging a boulder. Halfway up she paused, then looked down at him with almost a too-serious look for a child. “You’re right, Uncle Calum. I should be in bed.” She raised her chin, took a deep breath that puffed her small chest out and held enough drama for the stage, and she marched up the stairs, then disappeared around the corner.
He heard the upstairs door click shut and ran down to his brother’s rooms. He threw open the door.
Eachann sat in a huge chair surrounded by a few months’ worth of his usual clutter. He was hunched over, his hands bound to his feet, and there was an apple stuck in his mouth.
Calum didn’t say the first thing that came to him when he realized his brother had an apple in his mouth while trussed up and sitting in his pigsty of a room. Although, as he crossed the room, he thought it was enough to make him believe that God had a keen wit about Him.
Calum pried the apple out of his brother’s mouth. Eachann grunted, then worked the numbness out of his jaw while Calum bent down and untied his hands and feet,
“Are you hurt?” Calum pulled free one of what looked to him like thirty or more tight knots.
“No.” Eachann stared at Calum’s forehead. “Are you?”
“It’s nothing.” Calum untied another knot, then stared at the rest of them. He held them up and asked, “She wanted to make certain you didn’t get away, didn’t she?” There looked to be twenty odd knots left.
“How’d you get free?”
“The blond lass only tied one knot.” Calum pulled the ties loose. “And a bow.” He looked at Eachann and shook his head.
Eachann stood quickly, rubbing his wrists and scowling at the door. “Did you hear that?”
Calum turned around. “What?”
“I thought I heard something.”
