Page 7 of Fire in his Highland Heart

Douglas nodded. “I promise. Ye’ll be out of here soon.” With one last squeeze of her hand, he left. Arguen took a deep breath and slumped to the floor, finally able to cry freely. No one else was around, as far as she could tell, and no one would hear her. She cried until she fell asleep, but no dreams came. Her mind was black, cold, hopeless. Not even dreams could help her now.

Chapter Three

June, 1623

Arguen kept a faithful account of how many days she’d been locked in the cell. Using the point of a stick as a pen and some dirt from the floor as ink, she faithfully marked every day that passed on the stone wall as soon as the sun had set. Eleven days so far. The summer solstice had passed; that much she could tell. The days grew longer, and she could feel the sliver of sunlight on her face for a couple hours longer than normal. A second stage of heather would begin to bloom soon enough, and it was high time to harvest the thyme in the kitchen garden. Under normal circumstances, Arguen would have snickered at that--”time for thyme.” Her mother had always made lighthearted little puns like that. But now, the best she could manage was a small upturn of the corners of her mouth.

The wildflowers at her mother’s grave were certainly wilted by now. Arguen had left them there the day before Marianne’s debacle, and she had a feeling Douglas was probably too busy to pay their mother a visit now.

He’d visited her about every other day during her imprisonment. Apparently, the laird sent for the magistrate, but he was out in the country, settling disputes between farmers and tradesmen. He had given word that he would travel back to Bruckstone Castle as quickly as possible when finished with his other duties. Douglas kept Arguen updated on all of this. Marianne acted as if nothing had happened--still the same statue of ice around everyone. However, if Arguen’s name was mentioned at all, by anyone, within her earshot, one could see the rage simmering beneath the surface. She never said anything; never ordered anyone to not speak the healer’s name, but her hatred was obvious enough.

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of another guard bringing her food. For a moment, she thought it might be Douglas, but much to her dismay, it was Robert, a mean-spirited lad who’d never spoken a kind word to her. He stopped before the cell, in all his squat, stocky glory, and she half expected him to drop the tray outside the bars, smirk, and leave. Instead, he stood with that stupid smirk, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.

Arguen heaved a sigh and forced herself to smile as coldly as the lady of the castle sometimes did. “Tae what do I owe the pleasure?”

“‘Tis nae pleasure servin’ a witch.”

She stifled the urge to roll her eyes, knowing she couldn’t afford to be on such thin ice. “Ye ken I’m nae a witch.”

“Prove it, then,” he challenged.

Arguen took a moment to analyze him. Here was a man, well, barely a man, who found amusement in the suffering of others, especially those over whom he had some sort of power, whether it was social or physical. In this case, Arguen was every bit his inferior, except in dignity, which she promised herself to cling to no matter what. “I have naething tae prove tae ye,”

He sighed and dropped the tray in front of the bars, like she’d expected him to do in the first place. “Ye’re no fun.”

“Well, being prisoner in yer own home is rarely a joyous occasion,” she said dryly.

Robert’s tone changed instantly. “‘Tisn’t yer home,” he snarled. “Ye live here due tae the grace of the laird. Ye own nothin’. Ye work an’ live in this castle because he allows ye tae do so.”

“Aye, but ye forget that I’ve lived here longer than ye have, Master Robert,” she replied, a teasing edge to her voice on his title, “and I’ve patched ye up more times than ye can probably count. Remember that at the trial,” she added, hoping her voice sounded more even and commanding than normal.

“Are ye threatenin’ me, witch?”

“Are ye afear’d?”

“Enjoy yer meal, witch,” he snarled, spitting out the last word as if saying it caused sourness on his tongue.

Arguen waited until she was satisfied that he was gone, then crawled forward, salvaging what she could. The porridge was all over the floor; there was no way she could scrape it up and eat it. The bread was still there though, and she snatched the little hunk into her cell as if someone would take it from her. She knew it was silly and desperate of her, even though there was no one else in this dank hole who would mock her, much less commiserate with her. She ate the small hunk of bread ravenously, her mind blank. Lack of food could do that to a person, she knew. When she was finished with her bread, she crawled across the cell and rolled the small pewter mug closer to her. It was empty, since Robert had dropped it, but she could at least use it to collect water from the leak in the window. Soon she’d have enough for a sip. As she watched the water slowly collect in the mug, drip by drip, she fell fast asleep. This time, her dreams were vivid.

The wind howled in the trees like she’d never heard it before. Branches whipped about in the wind, and even the thickness of the foliage did not block the torrential rain. Arguen never had an issue with dirt or mud, but right now, it was slowing her down. She could hear the boar grunting not far behind her. Her legs were sore and a dull pain throbbed in her calves with every footfall. She’d made it this far, however, and she was not about to die alone in the woods, gutted by a wild boar. The darkness and the deluge obscured her eyesight, making it difficult for her to find any tree to scale or brush to hide in.

Suddenly, she lost footing and slipped in the mud, falling flat on the forest floor. Try as she might, she could not get up; the fall must have tweaked her knee and ankle. She could only wince as she turned over, fumbling to find her knife strapped to her garter. Circumstances had changed—if she was to die in this forest at the hands (well, tusks and hooves) of a wild boar, she would not go quietly. She’d give the bastard all the might she could, even laying on her back in the mud with a sprained ankle. The boar was getting closer and closer. Even through the rain and wind, she could hear its short grunts and pants. With the next flash of lightning, she could see the glint of the boar’s tusks. She gripped her dagger the way Douglas had taught her, ready to slash at its throat when it pounced.

Only the pounce never came. With a great roar, a bear came crashing through the brush. Arguen watched, terrified, as the bear swiped a great paw at the pig, claws extended. The wild boar howled in pain and tried to fight back, but it was too wounded to do much good. The bear roared again as the pig staggered away, back into the brush, perhaps to die alone. For a moment, Arguen felt sorry for the pig, but only a moment—as a much bigger threat had appeared.

Or so she thought. The bear stood on its hind legs before her. Arguen could hear her heart thudding against her ribcage. Every fiber of her being was frozen; no fight or flight to be found. So this is how she was to die—saved from the boar, mangled instead by a bear. But what happened next utterly confused and astounded her.

“Ye are in great danger, my little bird,” her mother’s voice said. Arguen’s eyes widened. Where could her mother’s voice possibly be coming from? She’d been dead for seven years. Surely…

“I see ye’re confused. Aye, ‘tis your mother. I’m here tae warn ye. Stay away from Bruckstone Castle as long as Lady Marianne retains power.”

The bear. It was the bear. The bear was speaking to her with her mother’s voice. How was that even possible?

“Mother?” she asked, feeling her voice catch in her throat.

“Aye. Heed my words. ‘Tis nae for ye to return until Marianne is gone.”

“What do ye mean gone?”