After a shorttime, hoping Alex had other duties to attend to and was gone, Keely risked opening the door to her chamber. There was so much commotion going on belowstairs, she hoped to slip away unnoticed. After all, she’d done so before, in the middle of a wedding feast. No one wanted her here. If someone did see her, why would they alert the guards? The sooner she left, the better for Clan MacKay.
But much to her disappointment, two guards were posted in the corridor.
“Lady Keely,” one said. “What do ye need?”
“I-I…” she struggled for an excuse. “Food. Water for a bath. Please.”
“Laird MacKay has already seen to yer comfort, milady. A lass from the kitchens will be here shortly.”
“Thank ye,” she said, braving a step into the passageway.
“I’m under strict orders to keep ye in the chamber. Please doona make any trouble.”
“Trouble?” she arched her eyebrows, not understanding why this stranger would believe she’d cause any problems. “What has Alex told ye? Do ye have a name?”
“Craig MacKay.”
“Tis good to meet ye, Craig. And yer friend?”
The other soldier frowned at Keely. “Cavas.”
“Cavas?” she asked curiously. “Tis an Irish name, is it not?’
“Aye,” the guard confirmed. “My mother is a MacKay, my sire, a MacMurra.”
“Would ye deny a lass a bit of fresh air?”
Cavas shook his head. “Ye’ve had plenty of air from what I’ve heard, Lady Keely. Tis better to keep to yer room until the laird says otherwise.” The young guard gestured for Keely to return to her bedchamber. “If ye require anything, doona hesitate to ask.”
Cavas was bolder and less congenial than his cohort. Convincing him to turn a blind eye while she ran away would be near impossible. “I require use of the privy.” Perhaps she could kick out the back wall and escape. Or she’d feign illness and linger in the privy for hours until the guards gave up and went for help. Anything was better than passing time alone in the bedchamber that used to be occupied by Alex’s mother.
Though Keely wasn’t superstitious by nature, even she could feel a presence in the room. Good or evil, she couldn’t say. But there was something or someone there, and she preferred not to find out.
“The laird had the good sense to foresee such a request,” Craig said. “See, milady?”
He picked something up off the floor and then offered it to Keely.
She stared at the bronze chamber pot. “Alex is a considerate man,” she said severely, her hope of escape shrinking by the moment. “What about my bags?”
“Aye,” Craig said. “I am to tell ye that a maid will attend to yer things as soon as possible.”
“Very well.” She withdrew inside the bedchamber, and Cavas gave her a triumphant look as he closed the heavy wood door. Though it hadn’t been barred from the outside, Keely knew she was a prisoner, not a guest. At least in the dungeon the darkness shrouded her from the humiliation she experienced whenever a MacKay stared at her in judgement.
As for the general discomfort of the room, her gaze zigzagged from the bed to the hearth, the padded chairs in front of it, to the dressing table in the corner, the narrow window on the far wall, to the high ceiling, where someone had lovingly painted colorful flowers and the sun. It felt strange, as if she was intruding on someone’s privacy. “I doona want to be here,” she whispered. “And if ye’re here, whoever it be, could ye kindly tell the Lord all I wish for is freedom.”
Nothing stirred, and Keely took a deep breath, relieved and surprised by the ridiculous fear inside her. Spirits were for children to believe in, not grown women, and surely not the educated daughter of a laird. She claimed one of the chairs in front of the fire, tucking her legs underneath her gown, letting the heat melt away her disappointment.
Perhaps God had put her here for a reason. To help Alex, to aid Clan MacKay. Their greatest enemy had provided food and shelter for her—asking little in return. Only that she provided companionship for her dearest friend, Helen Sutherland, and to sometimes pay special attention to Earl Sutherland’s illegitimate son, Struan.
Struan remained ever respectful, but his eyes told a different story. The thought sent a chill spiraling down Keely’s spine. The man had a way with words, could soothe the wildest mare, even quiet a crying child. But when Keely had been alone with him, their conversation more personal, more honest, she’d sensed the restlessness inside him, seen the resentment on his face. Struan Sutherland did not like living between two worlds.
His father, the earl, had seduced Struan’s much younger mother, a visiting, distant cousin. After she died on her birthing bed, the earl had taken pity on his helpless son, claiming him—gifting him with the Sutherland name. But that rare mercy had cost Struan. As a nameless bastard, little would have been expected of him. But as a true son of the earl, though he would never inherit a title, he was expected to serve his father as loyally as his other two, legitimate sons.
It left Struan wanting more, and Keely had involuntarily become his confidant, often left for hours in the great hall listening to his secrets.
Why she was so focused on Struan she couldn’t say. Only that she’d grown accustomed to his presence every day, and now that she was alone and surrounded by silence, it made her regret ever leaving Dunrobin Castle. For she truly missed Helen. And the earl had treated her as his own daughter.
But in the aftermath of the destruction of the MacKay village, the memory of the burned-out cottages, the smell of ash, and the eerie absence of people and livestock, forced her to reconsider her purpose with the Sutherlands. Just why had the laird taken her in? Why had he forbidden her from communicating with her father and clan? Why had he refused to send word to John MacKay?
