The key fit into the lock just fine, as if it was used often. It took a little muscle to turn it, but the lock popped open on the second try. The hinge complained when I lifted the metal plate, and the wood of the arched lid creaked and popped like an old woman’s knees when I lifted it.
At four feet long and three feet tall, this was as close to a treasure chest as I was going to get. I even imagined gold coins spilling out, but nothing sparkled and nothing shifted in the shadows.
The smell of wood might have been coming from the logs in the stove. You couldn’t burn pine logs without the place smelling like a campfire. But I also smelled leather and tasted some sort of oil, and a lingering odor I could best describe as old newspapers. It wasn’t ink. Just age. And it might have come from the trunk itself. If the wood planks weren’t so thick, it could have fallen into a pile of dust without surprising me much.
Lying on top of the contents was a small round shield I might have seen in a Viking movie. Reddish brown leather was stretched across it and held in place by evenly spaced metal rivets, some of which had little metal points on them.
Something you wouldn’t want to get smacked with, for sure.
It was heavier than expected when I lifted it out. And not as small as it looked. The chest was just larger than it seemed on the outside. I propped the shield against the end of the box and dove back in.
I gasped lightly when I found a huge, deadly-looking sword with no protective sheath. It sat diagonally with its dangerous end buried in one corner. The other end had a fancy steal cage around the cross-section, and the handle was wrapped in leather that was so stained and worn that it had to have been used in real battle.
Probably worth a fortune. Or maybe they weren’t so hard to find in a place as historied as Scotland.
The weapon was triple the weight I expected. I lifted it carefully, by the handle and with my forearm under the flat side to lay it on the table. The light from the window glinted along the edge as I lowered it, and I’d worked with enough professional kitchen knives to know the massive blade was sharp enough to be lethal.
Maybe he used it to chop wood. Or maybe his paranoia was so serious that he kept it sharp to defend himself.
I glanced at the bed and couldn’t imagine this man being that messed up. But then I remembered him bursting through the door, covered in hair and furs and I thought, yeah. Yeti-man could be delusional enough to keep a sharp sword around for his enemies.
Thank goodness he no longer thinks I’m one of them.
Piled along the left end of the trunk were more than a dozen knife handles of various sizes, all made from horn or maybebone, and carved into works of art that I planned to ask him about later. At the top of the center pile was a cloth that matched the plaid one hanging in the barn, but this one was worn so thin I could see the layers. There were short rows of fat stitches where holes had been repaired, then torn again.
It was sentimental then. Maybe it was one of those kilts made in the colors of his clan. If Tara was there, she would know. She was a big fan of Scottish books and movies. I had only heard bagpipes in parades or on TV, and it seemed like being a fan of the country required a passionate commitment that I didn’t have time for.
That Ihadn’thad time for. Now I had all the time in the world. I just didn’t get to choose where I spent it. At least, not for another day or two.
But would it be so bad to spend it in a warm bothy, away from the world, stuck inside with an interesting, well-built, once-handsome man who no longer wanted to tie me up?
No. Not so bad. Especially when the alternative was being frozen like a popsicle inside a snow cave that no one would find until summer.
My stomach rumbled and reminded me that Kee-un MacInnis still needed to fulfil his side of our little bargain. But I could eat a carrot to tide me over until he was lucid enough to tell me how he planned to feed me, or at least tell me where to find his wheat grinder, so I could bake some bread for us both.
Poor guy. He probably felt like I’d broken his nose all over again. And it looked like sleep was the only break from the pain he was liable to get.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sitting on top of that sentimental cloth had to be what MacInnis must have wanted me to find—a red and white box with a bright circle of red, orange, and yellow for a logo—Nurofen.I read the label and it was just as I expected, a European version of ibuprofen.
What I wouldn’t have given to have seen that logo last night, when I was losing my mind!
That heavy kettle of guilt sitting on my chest got even heavier. I’d injured this big tough Yeti-man badly enough he’d offered me access to his most private things if I would just give him something for the pain.
I stopped my snooping, filled a cup with clean water from a non-piss-pot pot, and counted out the maximum dose. A little math told me there was enough to last a man his size for a couple of days.
Kneeling beside the bed, I removed the ice pack and leaned close to wake him as gently as I could. “Mr. MacInnis? Kee-un? I’m sorry to wake you up, but I found your pain pills.”
His eyes moved beneath all that swelling. The bruises were getting darker, but they weren’t as large as I thought they’d be. And his eyes opened slightly wider than before.
I smiled. “There you are.”
He smiled too. “Ye havenae tied me to the bed again, have ye?”
“Nope. But I did find your pain pills. I’ll help you sit up so you can take them. Then you can go right back to sleep.” I put an arm behind his shoulders and tried to lift him, but he did all the work and pulled his elbows beneath him.
He grimaced. “Pure bowfin, are they no’?”
