CHAPTEREIGHT
Elsy
Elsy groaned as she stirred, feeling something soft beneath her head. Her eyes cracked open, and she rolled over, watching the sun’s rays seep into the room. The pillow under her head was flat, the mattress smaller than she was accustomed to. The blankets underneath her were the wrong color, brown rather than blue. She frowned as she looked around, not recognizing the floor nor the items surrounding her. The curtains were the wrong color. They were red instead of green. There were too few candles sitting on the desk, now melted into the wood. Where were her shelves, filled with her father’s herbs and his old healing books? Where was her trunk? The one near the window was too small, not the one that had belonged to her mother when she was alive. The wood was too light, lacking the intricate details carved into the lid.
She quickly rose, her head spinning. “Where am I?” she murmured as she pressed a hand to her forehead. Her memories were foggy. She remembered leaving the McCormick clan, the carriage ride, and then--
The lock clicked and the door opened, revealing a tall young man with a freckly face and large arms. He balanced a platter filled with bread and cheese in one hand while he pushed the door open. There were garments draped over his other arm, in varying colors of red, blue, and green, yet she hardly took notice of them.What is this man doing in my chamber?she wondered, horror filling her. Her breath halted as she scrambled back, her mouth gaping open. The man perked up, a smile on his lips as he met her eyes.
“Good mor--”
Elsy screamed, her hand flying to the needle in her pocket, but it was no longer there. It must have fallen out while she was asleep, she realized. She grabbed the blankets, twisted around her feet, and pushed them away, searching desperately for her little weapon. Something glinted in the light at the edge of the bed. The needle. She seized it just as the man approached, the tray of food discarded on the table.
“My lady, please,” said the man, Brann, she recalled vaguely as she held up her weapon. Brann placed a hand on hers, slowly lowering her arm. He plucked the needle easily from her grasp.
Elsy wrenched away from him, her hands fisting, ready to hit if need be. “Stay away from me!” she cried. She watched him tuck the needle into the pocket of his tunic, her hope deflating as she realized her one weapon, her one way of escape, was now gone.
Brann lifted his hands, his expression gentle and calm as he watched her. “I mean ye nae harm. Remember? I promised ye last night?”
Elsy blinked, her memories coming back to her swiftly, making her even more dizzy. Her belly seized and her throat constricted as nausea hit her in waves. She groaned and doubled over, pressing her forehead into the mattress while clamping her eyes closed. She had forgotten for a brief moment what had happened. This was not her home. She no longer had a home. These men had killed her entourage, they had taken her against her will and brought her to this rundown fortress. Her plan of escape had failed once more. She had not considered that exhaustion would become her enemy.
With a long inhale, she straightened herself. She could feel another wave of nausea stir her insides, but there was nothing in her belly to heave. Her gaze flew to the platter of food on her desk, but no hunger pained her.
“I brought ye some food to break yer fast,” Brann said gently, grabbing the platter and offering it to her.
Elsy shook her head as she waved a hand in front of her. “I’m not hungry.”
“Best to keep yer strength up.” Brann nudged the platter toward her.
Elsy sniffed at the contents. Her fingers brushed a small piece of bread, and she took it, tentatively placing it in her mouth and slowly sinking her teeth into its stale exterior. It was dry, not the fluffy pieces she used to eat while residing within the McCormicks’ walls. However, it awakened her stomach, making her ravenous. She grabbed another piece, shoving it into her mouth. Without swallowing, she stuffed a piece of cheese inside, loading her mouth with everything she could. She didn’t care if Brann thought her unladylike. It had been too long since she last ate. And he was correct. She needed to keep her strength up if she was going to escape.
It wasn’t possible to escape last night,she thought while grabbing another piece of cheese, but this night would be different. She was no longer exhausted, and with a belly filled with food, she should be able to escape, so long as Brann returned her needle. She only needed to ask. Perhaps he could give her some mending to do.Do brigands care for their attire?she wondered briefly as she scrutinized Brann’s fraying sleeves.Perhaps not.
Elsy wiped the breadcrumbs away, smiling sweetly while she leaned toward Bran. “If ye return my needle, I can mend yer tunic, if ye wish?” She nodded to his sleeves. “Yer garments look a wee bit worn.”
Brann followed her gaze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He shook his head, his brows tenting in confusion as he turned back to her. She waited for him to respond to her offer of aid, but instead he said quickly, “I have gowns for ye.” He gestured toward the garments resting on the chair.
Elsy frowned. She needed that needle, not another dress. “But,” Elsy started uneasily, touching the gown she had dressed herself in the night before, “I already have a dress. I need nae other. But yer tunic, it’s in need. If I have some needle and thread, I can have it mended by the morrow.”
“Aye, ye have a gown, but these are much finer.” Brann held up the crimson gown.
Elsy frowned. He was ignoring her attempts at retrieving the needle. She would have to try something else. Her eyes widened on the gown he presented to her, and she decided to play his little game for now. She crawled forward, tentatively placing her feet on the cool stone, and padded toward the garment. It was quite fine. The threading was intricate, the sleeves long. But red had never been her color. Her gaze drifted toward the emerald garment still lying on the chair. Her fingers hesitantly reached for it, brushing against the smooth cloth.
“Would ye prefer the green one?” Brann asked, lowering the dress in his hands.
Elsy nodded. “Aye.” She glanced in his direction, finding his gentle exterior both alarming and intriguing.
“Aye, tis the better choice,” he said, his face flushing while he turned away from her scrutinizing gaze. “It would bring out yer eyes.”
Elsy steeled herself. She couldn’t allow herself to warm up to this man. They had taken her. They had locked her inside this room, high up in a tower, as if she was a damsel from a tale. She was not their guest.
“Why are ye being kind to me?” she found herself asking, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Why do ye bring me food, these garments?” She hated the quiver in her voice, knowing she was on the brink of either breaking down into a fit of sobs or screaming. “Who are ye?”
Brann winced. “That does not matter.”
“Aye, it matters!” Elsy shouted. She wrenched the gown in his hands and threw it on the bed. “Yer name is Brann, is it not?”
Brann nodded. “Aye, it is.”
