He waved the spoon in the air. “Here is what I think. My father and I torched the fields when we came here. While we didn’t torch them all, I imagine he’s worked hard to make sure that his allies don’t trade or sell to any of the rebellious clansorthis place. Ye know what that means?”
She said nothing, but he shot her a grin anyway.
“It meansfamine,” he whispered. “Not enough food, too many mouths—it's a tale as old as time.”
“We are doing fine,” she responded tartly.
He shrugged. “There are barley kernels in this porridge. My guess is that the kitchen is running out of supplies and had to rush to supplement the porridge with something else. Since I’ve been here, the pottage has gone from being rich and full of meat and vegetables to being a thin sort of stew. There are more mushrooms, since those can be found in the forest, but fewer vegetables and certainly less meat.”
Una kept her face impassive. “An interesting theory. If it were true, it would give us more motivation to destroy yer father once and for all.”
He chuckled. “As if ye could. Tell me, lassie, why do ye all resist so much? The Highlands have always been divided. United, we’d be a force to reckon with. We spend all of our time bickering between clans, when we could be joining together. We could march on England. We could sail overseas. We could goanywhere, do anything. We’d be unstoppable. We only need the right leader to unite us.”
She dropped into a crouch, peering through the bars at him. Struan kept his gaze fixed downwards on his porridge bowl. There was something mechanical about his words, almost like they were memorized.
Does he really believe this?
“And ye think that Laird Dickson is the man to unite us?” she said at last.
“Undoubtedly,” he answered immediately. “Ye need a strong leader.”
“A leader who sends out raiding parties with the express orders of committing murder, rape, theft, of sowing salt in fields, and of leaving innocent folks in terror?”
Stuan clenched his jaw. “Sacrifices must be made.”
She dropped into a crouch, peering through the gloom at him. “Ye think that is an acceptable sacrifice?”
She expected to hear a determinedaye, to hear him defend his father at all costs.
Instead, there was silence.
In the silence, Struan began to cough, a dry, rasping cough that he did his best to smother behind a hand. He glanced up at her, eyes angry and watery, as if he were angry that she’d seen him weak.
“That cough of yours isn’t getting better,” she remarked.
He shot her another glare. “I am fine.”
“Ye wouldn’t let the healer take a look at ye.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Nay,” she admitted, “but this place is making ye sick. It’s too damp down here. Ye need fresh air.”
His eyes glittered. “Aye, so I do. Ye ought to let me go, then.”
She gave a mirthless laugh. “Very funny.”
She heard the cellar door open, and male voices drifted in. She knew who would be there. Finnegan would be crouched at the top of the stairs, alert as always, and Janson would be making his way down, flanked by at least half a dozen men. Glancing back at Struan, she saw that he’d risen to his feet, eyes sharp and wary.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, an edge in his voice. “Ye have planned to execute me at last, then?”
“This is a convent, not a jail,” Una responded. “The Abbess has judged that being confined down here will cause yer health to suffer. Ye need to be above ground. Ye need fresh air.”
He stared at her, bewildered. “Ye are taking me for… for a walk? Like a pet?”
“Like a human,” Una snapped back. “It wasn’t my idea, but nobody argues with the Abbess. Ye are not free to leave or wander at will, but nor will ye rot down here.”
Stuan’s gaze was dark and unreadable, fixed on her in confusion. For a moment, she couldn’t interpret his thoughts. Why was he looking at her like that? She imagined that he was looking forward to his first breath of fresh air in a month, but she’d told him quite clearly that she had had nothing to do with that.
