Chapter Four
Lowri clutched her arms about herself, but it did no good. Her fingers were numb, her scalp shrinking into her skull with cold, and she was hungry, so very hungry. Had they forgotten their prisoner? Was she to starve to death in this wet tomb?
Angry shouting sounded above, then boots on stairs, coming closer. The door swung open, and a man strode up to her bearing a lantern and a moss green bundle over his arm. Lowri blinked against the light, and he slowly came into focus as he loomed over her, saying nothing, just staring, like the black-bearded Allard.
He was younger than her previous tormentors, tall and lean, clean-shaven and with finer features. Large eyes dominated his face – intent, fierce. They roamed over her as Allard's had, not in a covetous way, but with disgust. His face twisted into a scowl that held the same Macaulay belligerence as Griffin and Allard. Lowri’s heart thudded against her breastbone, and her hands curled into fists. The man looked fit to explode with anger, and she feared he might strike her. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, calm and deep, and more threatening because of it.
‘Lass, you have blood on your face,’ he said.
‘What is it to you?’ she replied.
He shrugged. ‘Not much. But it will attract the rats. Tried to have a nibble, have they?’ His tone might be gentle, but his words were pitiless.
Lowri glared and said nothing, trying to get the measure of the man.
Suddenly, he spat on his fingers and leaned in. Lowri shrank back as he rubbed her temple briskly. She batted away his hand. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘As you like.’ He offered the bundle. ‘Take this plaid. ‘Tis a cold night.’
‘Go to hell,’ she said, backing up against the wall, for his presence was overwhelming, and she wanted to shrink back out of the circle of light from the lantern. Lowri was painfully aware that she was filthy, stinking and dishevelled. How he must be revelling in her degradation.
The man loomed closer. There were dark shadows under his eyes. ‘I am Cullen Macaulay, Griffin’s son,’ he said. He pointed to her head. ‘Have they hurt you anywhere else, in any way? If they have, you need to tell me.’ His eyes scoured her all over, and there was a suggestion of something vile and dirty in his words. ‘Has Allard touched you, lass?’
‘No.’
‘There’s no shame in saying it. I will make sure he stops. Tell me.’
‘He just comes and stares at me. If I was free of this chain, I would scratch his eyes out for it, yours too.’
‘Aye, Allard has a way of making folk uncomfortable.’ Cullen Macaulay bit his lip so hard, Lowri thought he might draw blood. ‘I am trying to help you, Lowri Strachan, so mind you keep your claws to yourself.’
She hated her name in Cullen Macaulay’s mouth, and his stifled anger was more menacing than Allard’s open hostility.
‘So, I hear you were reiving my father’s cattle.’
‘Caught red-handed,’ she spat. ‘No point in denying it.’
‘Why would a lass want to do that?’
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Nothing else to do down here but talk to me. Tell me why.’
‘Your father insulted my brother, so I did it as revenge.’
His laugh was laced with bitterness. ‘My father insults everyone. There’s not a laird in all the Marches, he hasn’t crossed. Why risk your life for Peyton Strachan’s bit of wounded pride?’
‘I’ll not explain. You Macaulay vermin would not understand loyalty or love.’ The thought of her brother dammed hot tears behind her eyes. She could not let them fall in front of Cullen Macaulay.
‘There’s not many women who go reiving,’ he said quietly. ‘At least, I think you might be a woman, under all that dirt and hair.’
He smirked, and Lowri longed to punch him. ‘A woman can ride and reive as well as a man,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Yet you got caught. So maybe not.’ His eyes locked with hers. There was no telling their colour in the half-light, but they were hard, weary eyes. Cullen Macaulay sighed. ‘Believe it or not, I am trying to give you some comfort.’
‘No. You are trying to trick me.’
He bit his lip again. ‘Here, just take the plaid for the night is long and cold.’ His voice had turned flinty.
