“Youwilllet me through!” Heather Spencer demanded, faced with the crossed pikes of the dungeon guards. “I would look into the eyes of my brother’s murderer, as I will do on the day that he is marched to the executioner.”
The guards exchanged a worried look. Clearly, they had been instructed to forbid Heather from passing into the underbelly of Gallagher Castle.
“It is no place for a lady,” her father would have said, as he had said countless times since returning from Scotland a week ago. Indeed, every time she had made the request to visit her brother’s killer, she had been met with condescension and resistance, as if seeing such a man would somehow make the situation worse.
Of course, Heather would not be dissuaded. She was no fragile flower who needed to be cosseted and protected. At least, notwhere the vile Scots were concerned. They deserved to feel her fury.
“I’ll take her through,” a voice interjected from the drafty stone hallway behind her. “She won’t relent until she’s seen him with her own eyes, and I think it’s only right that she’s allowed.”
Heather turned to find Brandon Watson approaching. The tall, somewhat handsome, dark-haired young man might have been the perfect suitor for many a young lady, but he was more like a second brother to Heather.
“His Lordship said we weren’t to let her down there, Mr. Watson,” the first guard faltered.
Brandon tapped the side of his nose. “It shall only be a moment, my good man. His Lordship needn’t know of it. I promise, we shall be there and back within ten minutes. No longer than five-and-ten.”
“Please.” Heather clasped her hands.
The second guard sighed. “Five-and-ten minutes. No longer, else it’ll be our necks on the block as well as that Scot’s.”
“Thank you kindly,” Heather replied, mustering a smile. Such an expression felt peculiar upon her lips, for she had not had any reason to smile since discovering that her brother would never be coming home. Not alive, anyway.
With that, she weaved her arm through Brandon’s offered one, and allowed him to lead her down a set of narrow, winding steps. A cold wind whistled up from the depths of the dungeons, chilling her to the bone as she descended further and further into darkness, until a passage appeared. Torches flickered at intervals, but the shadows between were impenetrable and, once or twice, she feared she might lose her footing.
Eventually, she spied the end of the passageway, marked by a glowing brazier. A wooden door, embedded in the wall, stood half open on the left, while the very last cell occupied the right-hand side.
“I believe this is him,” Brandon said quietly, gesturing toward that last cell. “Are you certain you wish to see him? We could pause for a moment, pretend we have seen him, and make a much slower ascent to the top again?”
Heather shook her head defiantly. “I will not be granted this opportunity twice, I fear.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“My own curiosity led me here,” he explained. “So, I cannot be heralded as a saint for getting the guards to let you through. It was not entirely selfless.”
Heather shrugged. “Nevertheless, I am glad I do not have to proceed alone.”
Taking a deep breath, she edged the last few steps that would bring her directly in front of the iron bars of Owen McCulloch’scell. She had overheard his name being spoken by her father, though he had also referred to the man as “Laird Dunn,” so she was not sure how she ought to address the wretch. Was a Scottish Laird above an Earl’s daughter? In her world, even a murderer had to be addressed properly.
She gasped at the sight before her. Sitting up against the far wall, one leg outstretched, one bent at the knee, was a man of such obscene handsomeness that he looked rather like a portrait. Although, his Scottish heathenry was clear to see by the way he sat so slovenly, with his calves showing where there should have been stockings. He very much looked as though he was wearing the garments he had worn in battle: woolen breeches, a filthy shirt, and an open doublet.
His beauty merely hides his evil,she told herself, as she looked upon fiery red hair that fell in waves, past his shoulders. His eyes shone in the powerful glow of the brazier, but she could not decipher their color. A lighter, short beard that blended red and blond framed a full mouth, leading up to a high nose. Angular cheekbones added a hardness to his appearance; the kind a sculptor might have relished.
“So, you are the one,” she said, more to herself than to the prisoner.
The handsome man glanced up at her, and an expression of astonishment moved across his exquisite face. His brow furrowed slightly, and he rubbed his eyes, as if he had just awoken from slumber. It was only then that she noticed the bruising around one of his eyes. She wondered if her father wasthe one who had inflicted the dappling of purple and black and yellow and green, when he had discovered this wretch after the fatal deed had been done.
“The one?” the man replied, in a deep, husky voice. “I daenae ken what ye mean by that, Miss.”
“LadyHeather,” she corrected curtly, refusing to be swayed by his handsome face and gravelly voice.
He nodded. “Aye, I ken that sort of mistake all too well. I assume ye already ken, but it wouldn’ae be polite nae to make an introduction.” He got up, revealing an immense height and breadth. His shoulders looked like they could be twice as wide as hers, while he towered over Brandon by at least a head, and Brandon was considerably tall.
“There is no need, Laird Dunn. I know who you are.” Heather avoided looking at his half-open shirt, which exposed bare, tanned skin and sculpted muscle, almost to his navel.
He paused by the door to his cell and nodded toward Brandon. “I daenae ken ye, yet.”
“Brandon Watson,” Brandon replied, eyeing the large, calloused hand that Laird Dunn put through the bars. In the end, however, he decided to shake it, though Heather would not have done such an appalling thing, even if her life had depended on it.
Why are you shaking the fellow’s hand? Have you forgotten what he has done?She could not help but be furious at the amenable gesture.
“If ye’re Lady Heather, ye must be the Earl’s daughter. Does that mean ye’re her brother, Brandon? Her cousin? Her… husband?” Laird Dunn appeared to hesitate on the latter, as if it was a difficult question to ask.
