Highland Thirst (5 page)

Colin’s
heavy sigh echoed through the dungeon. “Och, I dinnae ken, Fergus. I just
dinnae ken what to think. I saw Peter. I heard the laird say the mon or whate’er
he is drank poor Peter’s blood and it healed his wounds. Yet a part of me
thinks that, if a mon like our laird can capture and torment a demon, then why
are we all told to be so afraid of them? Our laird is no a great warrior.”

“Aye,
true enough. Yet what mon drinks another mon’s blood, Colin?”

“A
verra thirsty one?”

Heming
was almost able to smile as the two men laughed. Unlike so many others Colin
was at least trying to reason out what he had seen and heard. Too many heeded
the dark tales about his clan and ne’er searched for the truth, simply hated
and feared them. It was a shame that Colin’s ability to hesitate before hating
would do him little good. Heming needed a free man, a strong one who would know
how to get him out of Rosscurrach. Colin was not that man.

“Get
some rest, Fergus. I dinnae ken if the lass will be able to help us, but ‘tis
best if we stay as strong as we can. This place sucks the strength and life
right out of a mon, so resting is e’en more important.”

There
followed only a few sighs and soft grunts as the two men obviously tried in
vain to get comfortable. Heming closed his eyes, unable to fight the weakness
anymore. He was cold and the pain in his body was so unrelenting he wanted to
howl until his voice died.

The
soft sound of something dripping caused him to open his eyes enough to look
down. A small part of his mind was pleased that his ability to see in the dark
still lingered, but what he saw chilled him even more than being naked in a
cold, damp dungeon. He was still bleeding. It was a slow bleeding, one small
drop at a time, but it was an ominous sign. His wounds should have closed
enough by now to halt his bleeding.

Heming
realized that he might well die in this cursed place. He had thought it before
a time or two but had been able to push the thought aside. It was impossible to
do that this time. Unless he got some blood soon, he would die. A bone deep
chill in his body told him he had lost too much blood to simply rest and
recover this time.

Closing
his eyes again, he gave himself over to the encroaching blackness as despair
swept over him. He did not want to die this way, but it was time to make his
peace with it. His kinsmen would avenge him. That infuriated him, for he wanted
to kill Hervey with his own hands, wanted to watch the bastard quiver with
terror just before he ripped his throat out, but Heming could see no hope of accomplishing
that now. He prayed that Tearlach fared better than he. At the moment his only
hope of getting out of the trap he had fallen into, of escaping the torment,
was a wee lass named Brona. Heming decided it might be time to make his peace
with God.

Three

Her
heart was pounding so hard, Brona was surprised she could not see the front of
her gown moving from the force of it. She could hear the rapid beating inside
her head as she crept from cell to cell in the dungeon. Hervey had few
prisoners, which made her search much easier. She did not have to keep trying
to see if the huddled pile of rags and misery in the corner of each cell was
Peter or some other poor soul Hervey felt had wronged him in some way. It also
meant she did not have to make any hard decisions about who should be freed and
who should be left behind. It appeared that the four men she intended to set
free were the only ones in the dungeon.

Finally
the light from the lantern she carried fell upon the huddled form of a man. The
fair hair falling in soft waves to a pair of broad shoulders told her that it
was probably Peter. His face was pressed against his upraised knees so she
could not be certain of that yet, however. It was no surprise that the man was
curled up so tightly, either, for he was naked. Brona decided she did not wish
to know or understand why her cousin had stripped the poor man of all his
clothes. She had brought two shirts and two sets of breeches for Sir Heming,
but would now use one set for Peter.

“Peter?”
she called and was a little startled by how quickly the man responded to her
tentative call, moving his head up enough to stare at her.

“Mistress
Brona?” he asked in a raspy voice and even in the wavering glow of light from
her lantern she could see him blush.

“Aye,
Peter. I have brought ye some clothes. I didnae ken ye would have none at all
and had brought two sets of clothing for the other mon, but I think they will
fit ye as weel.” When he did not move, she turned her head away and held the
rough woolen breeches and jupon in through the bars. “Get dressed and I will
let ye out of there.”

She
heard a sound as if he was dragging himself across the floor and it was several
moments before he took the clothes from her hand. Brona resisted the urge to
look at him and try to see why he was moving so slowly. She had the sinking
feeling she was going to need Colin and Fergus to help with Peter as well as
with Sir Heming, and hoped the brothers had not weakened from the lashes her
cousin had given them.

“I
wish naught more than to flee from this hell, mistress, but I dinnae think I am
strong enough to do so.”

“Are
ye dressed now?”

“Aye,
mistress.”

Brona
looked at him and had to hastily swallow a gasp of horror. She knew she had
probably gone nearly as pale as Peter was for she could feel all the blood
draining from her head. For a brief moment she had to clutch at the bars of his
cell to steady herself. Peter’s throat was not really torn out, but there was a
gruesome wound there. She wondered how much of that injury had been caused by
her cousin and how much by Sir Heming, but now was not the time to satisfy her
curiosity.

As
her horror and dizziness eased, her ability to think clearly returned and she
frowned. Peter wore no bandage and had no stitches, yet he did not bleed. In
truth, he should be dead, having bled his life away soon after the wound was
made. Horrible as the wound looked, it was closed tight, not even oozing a
small drop of blood now and again. There was livid bruising and a raw, ragged
mark, but the skin was not open at any point along the wound. Since he had been
wounded only a mere two days ago and she doubted he had any care taken of his
wound, that made no sense at all. She was abruptly yanked from her thoughts
over that puzzle when Peter began to sink to his knees, the simple matter of
tugging on his clothing enough to weaken him badly.

“Nay,”
she said, putting as much authority into her voice as possible, “dinnae ye go
and faint on me now, Peter. Then it
will
be verra difficult to get ye
out of here.”

“I
am so verra weak, mistress. I willnae be able to flee here e’en if ye can open
this cursed cell,” he said.

“Dinnae
worry o’er that. We shall have some help. Colin and Fergus are here.” She took
a deep breath, struggling to organize her thoughts so that she could adequately
refute the argument she knew he was about to make. “I mean to free them as
weel. Them and Sir Heming.” Brona was surprised when Peter only blinked very
slowly and then frowned.

“Are
ye sure freeing Sir Heming is verra wise, mistress? I think that is one verra
dangerous mon.”

“That
may be but he has ne’er wronged the Kerrs. Nay more than ye or Fergus or Colin
have. This is wrong and I finally saw that I was little better than my cousin
for I was closing my eyes to all of his cruelties. Nay more.”

“Ye
put yourself in grave danger by acting against the laird.”

“I
ken it, which is why I am also leaving Rosscurrach. Try to muster some
strength, Peter.” She unlocked his cell door, ignoring the twinge of guilt she
felt for having stolen the keys. The theft had been a necessary sin. “We will
gather ye up as we leave this place.”

“Be
careful, mistress,” Peter said as he sat down and leaned against the frame of
the door. “I cannae recall much of what happened to me after the laird cut my
throat, but there is something verra dark in Sir Heming.”

“Aye,
I ken it, but he will be as eager to leave this place as the rest of ye are,
willnae he. We can deal with the mon, come to some sort of truce that will get
us all out of here.”

Peter
did not argue with her plan so she hurried along to the cell that held Fergus
and Colin, pausing to check that the few cells between theirs and Peter’s were
empty. Both men were standing at the front of their cell obviously aware of her
approach. Brona was relieved to see that neither man had a wound upon his neck.
If Sir Heming had drunk from either of them she knew they would never agree to
help her free the man. It was going to be difficult enough to get them to help
her now.

“Mistress,
who were ye speaking to?” asked Colin, his rough-hewn face revealing only a
hint of the curiosity she could hear in his voice.

“Peter,”
she replied, pleased that she could tell them that their clansman was still
alive.

“He
still lives?”

“Aye,
but he is verra weak.”

“Because
he has lost his soul,” said Fergus, fear clear to read in his handsome face.

“Nay,”
said Brona, a little surprised by the sharp tone in her voice for she rarely
spoke sharply to anyone. “He is weak from being left naked in this cold, damp
place and from loss of blood, but ‘tis still Peter I just talked to. There is
no
change in the mon he was ere he was dragged down here and surely there would be
some change if he was now soulless, aye? I wouldst judge Hervey and Angus as
lacking souls faster than I would Peter.”

Colin
frowned. “Ye are certain he is the same?”

“Verra
certain and I shall need your help to get him out of here,” she said.

“Then
let us out, mistress, and we will carry the mon to safety.”

“I
will also need ye to help me get Sir Heming out of here.” She sighed when they
both stared at her in horror.

“But
he is a demon,” whispered Fergus.

“Nay
he isnae,” snapped Brona. “Do ye truly think my cousin has the strength to
capture and hold firm to a creature from hell?” She nodded when they both
frowned in doubt. “E’en Hervey and Angus dinnae think he is a demon.”

“He
drank blood, mistress.”

“Aye,
I begin to believe that he did and ‘tis a frightening thing, but he didnae
attack Peter to get it, did he. My cousin cut Peter’s throat and kept shoving
the mon at Sir Heming until he did take what was offered. I dinnae understand
why any mon would drink blood, but what happened to Peter was the laird’s
doing, nay Sir Heming’s. If Sir Heming has such a strange need, he fought it
hard, didnae he. But, weak and wounded as he was, he obviously couldnae fight
it for verra long. All I ken is that that mon has ne’er harmed a Kerr and yet
he is being tortured unmercifully.”

Colin
slowly nodded. “Then we will help ye get the mon out of here.”

“Thank
ye, Colin.” Brona quickly unlocked the door to his cell. “We had best hurry. I
dinnae think anyone will be coming down here but ‘tis wise to get out of here
as quickly as we can.”

When
Brona reached Sir Heming’s cage and held her lantern closer, she had to smother
a cry of shock. Fergus and Colin both hissed out a series of profane curses,
but she did not reprimand them for speaking so in front of her. She wished she
knew some very profane curses herself, for spitting them out might ease some of
the horror and anguish twisting knots in her stomach.

Sir
Heming hung limply in his chains, the length of them not allowing his
unconscious body to sprawl comfortably on the stone floor. It was just another
form of torture to chain him in such a way. He was covered in blood, his body a
mass of whip marks, cuts, and bruises. Some of those wounds still oozed blood.
Brona saw the slow rise and fall of his chest and the fear that she had come
too late to save him slowly left her.

“I
dinnae ken what the mon is, but, if he isnae a demon, he doesnae deserve this,”
muttered Colin, and Fergus grunted in agreement. “As ye say, mistress, he has
ne’er harmed us. Wheesht, I have ne’er e’en heard of these MacNachtons.”

“There
are a lot of dark whispers about the clan,” Brona confessed as she struggled to
find the right key to unlock Heming’s cage. “I have listened to some, e’en
gently sought out some information on the clan although few here had any, but I
simply cannae believe the tales. If the MacNachtons were as dangerous and
powerful as is hinted at then they wouldnae stay so quietly hidden away at some
place called Cambrun, would they. Nay, their men would be giving the great
Douglasses a fight o’er all that power they grab for themselves. Ah, there we
are,” she muttered as she finally got the door to Heming’s cage open.

It
took Brona another few minutes to find the key to unlock the shackles. As soon
as she freed Sir Heming’s ankles, she gave Colin the breeches to put on the
man. Fergus stood ready to catch Sir Heming as she unshackled the man’s wrists.
With the two men helping her, Sir Heming was free and clothed in less time than
it had taken her to find the right keys. Brona gently bathed the man’s battered
face, but it only roused him a little and she was not sure he would understand
what was happening.