Chapter
Twenty-Eight
The spiral staircase to Campbell’s room winds upward into darkness, each step dimmer than the last.
My inner fire wavers, but I steel myself, elbows braced at my sides. He’s just a man—flesh and blood—and I will not be daunted.
More importantly, I will not spill his soup.
There’s only one door at the top. It’s ajar, and I’m grateful. I panicked about how exactly I’d go about knocking on one of the massive planks of wood that counts for a door around here. I stare at it, mustering my courage.
Fierce as the sun, her spirit not meek.
“I hear you breathing out there,” Campbell bellows from the other side. “Do you aim to feed me or grow roots?”
Muttering my apologies, I ease the door open with my hip.
He’s seated at a desk, lit from the side by archer’s slits, the sharp light catching every wrinkle. After spending somuch time with the brawny Callum, the laird looks shrunken behind the massive furniture.
He was so brash when I first saw him, but maybe he only seems commanding when there are people around to command. Because now he just looks elderly and tired.
I can’t believe this was my mother’s husband.
His eyes narrow on me. “Well, chit? You’ve some of Aoife’s concoction for me? Best not taste as foul as the last one. Does me no good if the cure is worse than the malady.”
I mutter agreement, and he leans forward, glaring at me. “Speak up, lass. Or are ye dumb as well as slow?”
“Sorry.” I scamper forward and hold the bowl out to him. “Here you go.”
The moment he takes it from me, I turn to leave, but he stops me with a brisk, “Hold. Turn around. Let me see you.” When I don’t budge, he smacks his hand on the table. “Come. Turn, turn.”
My inner fire is seriously sputtering. I hold my breath. Turn to face him.
I expect to be met by anger—by the terrifying laird who’d threatened me with dungeons and beatings—but he looks uncertain instead. Confused.
“You’ll be wondering why I’ve let you roam free,” he begins.
Free? That’s the last word I’d use to describe this place. But I only nod.
“I wanted to toss you in the pit and be done with you. ’Twas Donag who begged me to reconsider.”
She did?
“Those MacGregors are an emotional bunch.” He clears his throat and spits on the floor. “I ken you’re living with the woman. Some relative of yours?” I automatically shake my head, but he peers hard at me, looking for some sign. “Still claiming Campbell blood, are ye?” He waves a hand and says, “Let it pass. I’ve not the energy for discipline just now.”
“Thank you?” I’m not sure what the protocol is when one is spared death by pit.
“She’s nae the only one who’s taken an interest in you. My son is fair captivated.” Campbell spits the words like they taste sour. “I’ve warned him off. But lads like Hamish always find a way to have what they want.” He shrugs. Like he’s discussing the weather.
“Hamish will lead this clan after I’m gone. But the lad is eager to cut his teeth now. He’d have me hunt MacGregors till the ends of the earth, but I’ll not risk Janet’s life.” The old man disappears and the laird comes roaring back, his voice strong and resolute. “Because I ken my wife is alive. I feel it. I’d feel her passing. And you,” he says, aiming his vehemence at me, “you’ve been a sign.” He studies me, eyes eagerly roving my face. “It’s remarkable.”
His expression goes distant, his manner careful, as if I’m a rare bird that might take flight any second. When he speaks again, his voice has dissolved back into that of the wavering old man. “Your face haunts me, girl.”
“My face?”
Instead, of answering, he reaches across his desk. With an exhausted sigh, he places a palm over a decorative box and slides it closer, opening it with quaking hands.
All manner of junky bits are in there—a length of ribbon, a button, scraps of paper. But the lock of hair is what catches my eye. Auburn, a shade deeper than mine, like leaves in October.
