Cailean didn't know how long they'd been travelling for. He'd woken up when the sun was down, and all he was aware of wasthat he was already far from McKenzie Castle, so at least a day had already passed. Another two days passed between then and now, as they rode swiftly toward a tall, thin fortress that was the home of Laird James O'Sullivan. He was only grateful that he'd been allowed to ride in the carriage rather than forced on horseback, allowing his broken body to heal some over the days they spent on the road here. He felt like he would need all the strength he could get if he were to even hope to survive whatever was coming next.
Where were his friends, his family, now? He was sure that they had escaped; McKenzie would have gloated about their capture if he had managed to get them. Had they returned to Bruce Castle to get reinforcements? It was the right plan, though knowing Maeve, she had probably fought with Darren about it. He hoped she'd listened to him; he did not want her tied up in all of this. He only thanked God that there was no way that she could know that he was being brought to O'Sullivan of all people. That might be enough to break even her indomitable spirit.
His mind briefly flicked to Flora. He wondered where she'd gone. Had she found help? Had she perhaps found Maeve and the others? He hoped so, but something told him that her path led in another direction. He offered a little prayer in the back of his mind, wishing the old woman safety and freedom. She deserved it after all those long years locked away.
But as the carriage jolted to a sudden halt, Cailean was reminded that it was he who was the prisoner now. His friends and loved ones were far, far away, and Flora would have to use her own wits to survive. He only hoped that Maeve and Darren were able to band together to lead the rebels through this—especially as Darren would now one day be king if Cailean did not survive this.
The door flew open. "Out," a guard growled. "Or I'll drag ye out."
Cailean briefly considered fighting, but his body was still not in its best shape, and besides that, he would not sacrifice himself for no reason at all. He may die here, he knew that, but he would not give them any reason to kill him sooner than they had to. He was still a king, and he still had a duty to this country as long as he drew breath.
Five guards waited outside the carriage, and Cailean was jostled into the middle of the group. His hands were tied together, but his feet were free, and so he walked in pace with them as they entered the foreboding castle. It looked out of place in the Scottish landscape, more like the castle of an evil magician from a storybook than of a Scottish laird. Was this truly the place where Breana and Maeve had been raised? It seemed so unlikely that two women of such loveliness and grace could have come from such an ugly, unnatural structure.
The inside of the tower-fort was just as stark and unusual. None of the usual warmth decorated this castle; the walls were lined with imposing portraits of men and women who all looked vaguely familiar. As Cailean was led past them, he realized that these people must be Maeve's ancestors. Indeed, as he looked at their faces, he could see it—a hint of Breana in the chin of one portrait, a brush of Maeve's hair in another, and rows and rows of those startling green eyes, all staring back at him. It made him shiver, imagining his love growing up surrounded by all of these portraits, judging her, imposing upon her.
Reminding her she would never be enough, even though she was mightier than all of them.
They continued through the corridors, up a twisting staircase and through a set of doors, then down another set of stairs, until at last they came to a set of ornately carved doors. They were decorated with scenes of grand battles, each cut into the wood so lovingly that Cailean could only imagine how much of the clan's wealth had been directed into this ostentatious decoration. Hewas not against all finery, but this made him angry—it was clearly new, and clearly unearned. This was not a record of battles fought, but rather an imaginary celebration of victories that Laird O'Sullivan had never actually achieved.
The doors opened and Cailean was pushed through. The great hall of O'Sullivan Castle was decorated even more grandly than the hallways, covered in banners and tapestries proudly bearing the tartans and sigils of the clan, obviously declaring the greatness of O'Sullivan at every glance. At the far end of the room was a raised dais, and on that dais was a grand carved chair in the same style as the entrance doors.
Sitting atop that chair, there he was—green-eyed and pepper-sprinkled chestnut haired and more handsome than any man so evil had any right to be. Cailean would have recognized him anywhere. His features were echoed in the hundreds of portraits that Cailean had passed to get here, but those green eyes would have been unmistakable anyway. Both Breana and Maeve had those eyes, though neither of those women could have ever looked so cold had they tried.
There were two other seats on the dais. The one on the left was empty, placed as a queen's would be. It must have been Maeve's mother's seat, back when she was alive. She had died while Maeve was imprisoned as Malcolm Darach's wife, and Breana had told them that her father had sworn never to remarry, though he had many mistresses.
The other seat, on O'Sullivan's right and a little further back, was half-hidden in the shadows. A woman sat there, or maybe a girl, no older than her late teens. He could see that her eyes were dark, her hair a dusty blonde like Breana's, but he couldn't make out much else.
"Nessa," he said out loud, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
The girl started in her seat, looking up in alarm, then turned to her father, obviously looking for guidance.
"It's all right, pet," O'Sullivan said, though to Cailean he sounded more like he was talking to an animal than soothing his daughter. Indeed, he didn't even look toward the girl, instead staring directly at Cailean. His mouth turned up into a cruel smirk. "So the rumors are true, then. Me useless daughter is dallyin' with the would-be king. That fool McKenzie didnae even recognize her by yer side until it was too late."
Cailean did not answer the taunt, though fury surged through him at O'Sullivan's words.
"That's right," O'Sullivan went on, laughing coldly. "I ken that she was the one who was with ye when ye stormed Darach Castle and stole it for yer pathetic wee rebellion. Did ye take the other with ye as well? Are ye keepin' them both as a wee harem?"
"Ye're disgustin'," Cailean said quietly. "Tae talk of yer own daughters in such a way."
"I have one daughter," O'Sullivan replied, "And two whores who couldnae stay loyal tae their husbands. Of course, I'll expect them back. Women like them have one value, and it's me right as their father tae claim them and sell them off tae the next husband who'll take them, sullied as they are. But dinnae worry yerself about returnin' them tae me. I'll claim them meself once I've crushed yer pathetic rebellion intae the ground."
Cailean shook his head and snorted, deliberately making himself sound as derisive as he could to drive it home to O'Sullivan that his threats did not cause any fear. "Me men and women will slay ye where ye stand before ye could even try," he said. "Ye're nothin' tae their heart. Their spirits. This is our country, and we'll take it back."
O'Sullivan laughed again, longer and with more callous mirth than before. "Yercountry! And who areye, Cailean McNair? What are ye, but the last remnant of a broken bloodline?"
"My bloodline isnae broken. It still courses through me veins," Cailean told him, standing tall.
"And when I spill that royal blood of yers in an execution in the name of our king, what will it be then, lad?" O'Sullivan leaned forward. "McKenzie told me men how ye've named that Bruce child yer heir. Heir tae what? I'll tell ye—heir tae ash. Heir tae dust."
Images flashed in Cailean's mind—that same dream. The burning castle. His lost home. His lost family. Ash and dust.
"So it's tae be an execution, then," he said. He didn't phrase it as a question; there was no question here.
"Dinnae look so glum," O'Sullivan told him gleefully. "I willnae chop off yer head with me own sword here and now. Nay, I have somethin' much more grand than that planned for yerroyalself."
"A public execution?" Cailean asked, making himself sound ironically bored, though his heart rate picked up and a new kind of fear flooded him at the thought. He was not so scared of his own death, but to leave the country behind before he'd had a chance to save it—to leave Maeve behind without being able to tell her that he loved her one more time…
"A message must be sent, ye see," O'Sullivan told him in an almost conversational tone. "A true message that will quash these whispers about ye and yer so-called uprisin' once and for all. There will be nae lost prince tae follow once numerous clan chiefs and the king's own advisor have seen the last McNair whelp lose his inflated head."
