Arran shuffled his feet as he walked to the table, flanked by two brutish warriors, their hands digging into his upper arms. When they showed at the door this afternoon, he hadn’t known what to expect, and clearly, the healer didn’t either. To his surprise, she had attempted to keep them from taking him, declaring that he was barely able to get out of bed by himself, much less do the laird’s bidding.
Her words had gone unnoticed, however, and Arran had felt every pull on his body as the guards had forced him to his feet. The lack of food was starting to wear on him, and even in the short distance he had walked thus far, the majority of it had been with blurred vision.
As much as he would like to overpower the warriors and make a break for the entrance, he knew he would not get far in his condition. The healer may have stitched him back together, but he was nowhere near where he should be in terms of his strength.
Arran detested feeling weak.
The laird was seated at the head of the table. Arran’s stomach grumbled at the display of food laid out on the scarred surface, the smells making him ravenous with hunger.
“Ah, there he is,” McDougal stated with a grim smile. “Please, sit.”
Arran debated his options, but before he could make a stance, the warriors were depositing him into the wooden chair, the force jarring his body.
The other laird waved the guards away, reaching over to pour a tankard of ale for Arran. “Drink, eat.”
Arran stared at the other man in surprise. “Do ye think I dinnae know wot ye are going tae do?”
McDougal chuckled, picking up Arran’s tankard. “Ye think I am tae poison ye.” Arran watched as the man took a large swallow of the ale he had just poured before replacing it with more and sitting it in front of Arran. “There, see? There’s nothing wrong with it.”
Arran knew he did not have the willpower to turn down the ale or the food, his strength dimmed because of the lack of a proper meal since he had been captured. If he wished to find a way home, he would have to rebuild it.
Slowly, he picked up the tankard and placed it to his cracked lips, taking a long draw of the liquid. It wet his parched throat, bringing his taste back to life after days of nothing but broth and water that the healer had provided.
McDougal speared some meat from the platter before him and placed it on Arran’s plate. “The food is not poisoned either. I prefer mah prisoners tae be tortured, Mcaiwn. Surely ye know that by now.”
There were no utensils beside his plate, so Arran picked up the meat with his dirtied hands, placing it in his mouth. It was tough and tasted faintly rancid, but he chewed it anyway, washing it down with some more ale. Once his plate was clean, Arran sat back in his chair. “I have supped at yer table, McDougal. Now tell me why I am here.”
The laird smirked, wiping his hands on his tunic before filling Arran’s tankard once more. “Ever the thinker are ye Mcaiwn? Aye, I have brought ye here for a reason. I’ve sent word tae yer brother that ye are dead. No one is coming for ye.”
Arran did not let his expression betray the sense of both anger and concern about the news. First, his ma would throw herself into mourning as well as the entire clan. They had already likely thought the worst after finding his men’s’ bodies, but he knew she would hold out hope until the last moment.
Until there was none to be had.
Second, Malcolm would immediately move from grief to revenge. Arran knew his brother would want to avenge the wrongs that had been wrought upon their clan and would likely do something stupid, like raise another army to storm this keep.
His brother was not strong enough to lead yet. He would not know how to keep his emotions guarded and focus on the task at hand.
McDougal would swallow him whole before he ever got the chance. “Please,” Arran said softly, “dinnae kill mah brother. He is no warrior, not like ye and I.”
The laird looked at Arran with a thoughtful expression. “Never did I imagine the day that the mighty Laird Mcaiwn would be begging me for anything. Ye know I dreamed of this when I watched yer warriors cut down mah own, that one day I would have the upper hand. And it seems that I have.” He then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Though I do believe it will take longer than I had planned tae break ye. Ye and I are a lot alike in the fact that we dinnae give up easily, and for that, I can appreciate ye.”
Arran curled his hand into a fist. The other laird’s words meant nothing. He had seen firsthand his cruelty, and Arran could beg to no avail on behalf of his brother.
That left only one recourse. He had to break free of this keep and warn him.
“I’m afraid I must do this,” McDougal continued, drumming his fingers on the table, “for I imagine yer brother will not give the keep over willingly. Violence, ye see, is the only thing that can sway one into anything. That and loss. I fear ye have lost greatly, Mcaiwn, and ye really should be thanking me as I bring ye closer tae death.”
Arran leaned forward, keeping his expression neutral. “And when can I expect this death tae occur?”
A satisfied smirk crossed McDougal’s face. “Two days. Two days to absolve yer sins and prepare yer soul for the journey to Tír na nÓg.”
Two days. That was all Arran had left to find a way out of this keep and back to his family so he could save his brother from a certain death himself.
McDougal motioned for the hovering warriors to approach the table. “I’ve enjoyed this little interlude, but I have plans tae make, Scot. A laird’s work is never done.”
The warriors reached for Arran, but he was already standing, glaring at them. “I can find mah own way back.”
McDougal chuckled and waved them off. “Let him walk alone. He cannae escape this keep or the fate that has been decided.”
