‘Because you are rich, and you are a man.’
‘I doubt there is any way I can make amends for that, though I might try if we met under different circumstances. I am not a bad man, Maren.’
‘I would be a dunderhead to believe that.’
Maren looked down, picking at a nail, and smiled a little. ‘I also sing to banish the ghosts that haunt this place,’ she continued. ‘The other lasses are more superstitious than me, and they say that evil seeps from these walls. There’s many a woman executed within this jail, some for witchcraft many generations ago, falsely accused by men who had a grudge. ‘Tis said that the naked ghost of a witch, called Agnes, lives here, her head shorn bald as an egg, stripped and tortured after being accused of witchcraft. She is said to roam these cells at the witching hour calling for vengeance against men.’ Maren poked a finger at Bryce. ‘So you had better watch out.’
‘I’ve no doubt that there’s many an angry woman out for revenge who is coming for me. Poor old Agnes will have to get in line behind a hoard of them.’
Marem smiled again. ‘Now that, I can believe,’ she said. She looked him up and down, and their eyes met and held, neither wanting to look away first. Bryce felt a pulse of lust so strong it took his breath away, but before he could work out why, Maren spoke, breaking the spell.
‘You’ll get out of here soon enough, and you’ll not seek my company after that nor care about my fate, will you?’
‘And what might that fate be?’ he said.
She grimaced. ‘Nothing good.’
The lass swallowed hard, and, for the first time, there was vulnerability in her expression. It sweetened her face, and she seemed younger all of a sudden.
On impulse, Bryce tore off his plaid and threw it across to her. ‘It will keep out the chill. See. I told you I am not a bad man, lass.’
Maren leaned over, snatched it from the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. To his surprise, she gave a little smile. ‘You have my thanks, Bryce Cullan.’
He had not expected gratitude, and though he was a good deal colder now, Maren’s smile had warmed his heart a little and was strangely soothing.
Chapter Five
Dawn brought the fresh hell of their jailor clanging a ladle on the bars of their cell to wake them. The fat clerk in the waistcoat hissed that he was called Maggot and was best not to be challenged as he had a violent streak.
Bryce rose stiffly to his feet. ‘Water, if you please,’ he yelled out, not heeding the clerk’s warning and getting a painful smack of the ladle on his arm for his trouble.
‘What is my offence? Why am I here?’ he shouted.
‘If you don’t know, damned if I do,’ slurred Maggot, who was blessed with neither looks nor manners, being bulbous-eyed and stooping under a twisted back.
‘Well, I know there was whisky - lots of it, with which I sought to douse some great bitterness eating at my soul,’ said Bryce. ‘And I think there was a fight of some kind, for I am covered in bruises.’
‘Say what?’ slurred Maggot, slack-jawed and uncomprehending. His hand tightened on a cosh at his belt. Bryce’s head hurt so much it felt like the lout had already used the weapon on his skull.
‘Might I trouble you for water?’ said Bryce, holding out a coin he had found in the pocket of his breeches.
Maggot’s face softened from its sneer, only making him uglier but at least friendlier. He held out the ladle, and Bryce drank quickly.
Bryce extracted another coin. ‘Take this and send word to the magistrate for me.
‘He doesn’t talk to the likes of you,’ replied Maggot, snatching the coin.
‘Tell the magistrate that a wealthy prisoner is here and wants to talk to him. Tell him….’
‘Not here,’ interrupted Maggot.
‘Where is he?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone where?’ Bryce rolled his eyes. At this rate, it would take all day to have a conversation.
‘Inverness.’
