Knight In My Bed (14 page)

A shudder rippled down Donall's spine as he glanced around what he'd first believed to be a sea cave, his gaze taking in ever more implements of horror.

Not a cave at all, his new quarters appeared to be the remains of the bottommost chamber of an ancient broch tower. The saints knew enough of them dotted Doon's landscape. Remnants of a perilous past, the round stone towers provided Doon's earliest dwellers with their last refuge against hostile raiders.

A safe bolt-hole no longer, this broch, or what remained of it, would be underwater if the tide ran fast and furious enough.

Death by drowning or through the nefarious deeds of a dull-wit giant. Or, may the old gods preserve him, at the hands of a doddering headsman too frail to properly wield his ax.

Donall clenched his jaw at the grim absurdity of being held captive in a place where his distant ancestors had run for shelter.

The view out across the open sea fueled his vexation even more. A menacing line of jagged black rocks broke the surface some distance offshore, soundly emphasizing the futility of an escape by sea, should he manage to free himself of his shackles. Nor could his own men rescue him should they get word of his capture, for the reef's sharp teeth would shred any boat's hull within minutes.

But what galled him most lay at a greater distance than the hazardous rocks.

His blood running hot with fury at the sight, Donall stared out the open end of the chamber to the dark outline of MacKinnons' Isle riding low on the horizon.

Had he not been taken, and were the MacInneses not such stubborn fools, he might now be dropping anchor on that distant shore.

Dropping anchor and delving into the truth behind his brother's wife's murder.

The dog barked again, louder this time.

Nearer.

Much nearer

Donall's nerves snapped to attention, the MacKinnons and their distant isle forgotten. He recognized the dog's bark without question now. It belonged indeed to Isolde MacInnes's wee champion. There could be no doubt her fine ladyship accompanied her gaggle of gray-bearded poltroons.

His brow drew together in a heavy scowl as he strained to hear above the loud slapping of waves and the hollow whistle of the ceaseless salt wind.

The sound of his tormentors' approach carne from a different direction than the harrowing sea ledge the would-be strumpet's two henchmen had jostled him along shortly before dawn.

Not that he cared a whit whence his visitors carne. All that mattered was their prompt arrival. And soon, before he lost the strength to hurl blasphemies at them. Regrettably, he could do little else, fastened as he was to a rusted chain hanging from the ceiling.

"God's wounds!" he shouted when his feet near flew out from under him as another wave, icy cold and white with foam, swept over the seaweed-draped rock he stood upon.

Had been stranded upon
.

Left to endure chills and roiling water swirling 'round his legs with the incoming tide; the rank smell of shallow, brackish pools, scum-caked and oozing mud, when at last it receded.

Far from the drowning death he' d expected, the scourgers had inflicted on him a punishment more fitting to his crime. Or so they' d expounded.

Amazingly, with his arms stretched taut above his head and his fettered wrists stinging as if Lucifer himself stood spewing fire on them, he must've slept away most of the day.

Slept or passed out.

Deep blue shadows now crept along the damp and glistening walls. Unless the fierce tingling in his numb fingers and aching arms impeded his judgment, the gloaming would soon be upon them.

Another wave crashed into his legs and he struggled to recover his balance, his hobbled feet slip-sliding over the rock's slippery surface.

Sheer force of will helped him gain a foothold. He would not allow her to witness him floundering in the surf like an inept nithing unable to stand or swim. What he would do was badger her and her phalanx of ancients with mockery until they grew so weary of him they desired naught but to see his retreating back.

Or at least withdrew themselves from his presence long enough for him to discover a means of escape.

For the thousandth time, a fat drop of water plopped onto his forehead and rolled into one of his eyes, then down his cheek. With a curse, Donall shook his head to rid himself of the bothersome bead of bedevilment.

And as before, he'd no sooner shaken off one droplet before the next plunked down to vex him anew.

"Fine new quarters, eh, MacLean?" a man's voice jeered from somewhere above and behind him.

Rory
.

Donall jerked his head around. Fully intending to smite the pock-faced churl with a barrage of fierce invectives, the profanities drowned in his sharp intake of breath at the sight before him. At the
possibilities
revealed by the glare of Rory's blazing rush-light. And at his own tardiness in realizing the full potential of his new quarters.

Choking back the urge to shout his small victory, Donall met the dolt's leer with a narrow-eyed stare.

Oblivious to having unwittingly exposed aught of interest, Rory gave Donall a mocking bow. "Noble enough for your exalted tastes?" he jibed with a malicious grin.

The muscles in Donall's jaw worked and a nerve beneath his left eye began to jerk, so great did it tax him to keep his expression bland. "The accommodations suit me well," he said, his tone wholly without a querulous note.

The perplexed look that crossed Rory's broad features afforded Donall ample recompense for his hard-won restraint. The lout hovered outside the narrow opening of what appeared to be a low-ceilinged tunnel set about halfway up the dungeon's rear wall.

An intra-mural gallery, or corridor, that would run between the broch's double walls.

All such ancient brochs and duns were possessed of them.

Though Donall kept a carefully impervious stare on the other man, his mind whirled. Concealed by dark shadows before, the flaming torch in Rory's hand illuminated not only the tunnel's entrance but also the jutting rock projection on which he stood, a broad ledge that would have once supported timber floors and rafters.

Also revealed were crudely carved stone steps leading from the ledge to the mound of rubble piled against the chamber's back wall.

A possible escape route.

If e'er he won the chance to test it.

And if the broch tower's partial collapse hadn't rendered the centuries-old intra-mural gallery useless.

Hope swelled in Donall's chest and his pulse quickened with excitement. Rory's very appearance, and that of the aged buffoons traipsing out of the narrow opening to join him on the ledge, lent the tunnel promise. If they' d traversed the corridor without peril, he could pass through with ease.

Slowly, and much to his irritation, another kind of excitement built inside him. The sensation thrummed his nerve endings like a harp string as the gray-bearded worthies assembled themselves in a line along the ledge.

Without exception, they glowered at him, their faces grim-set, pure hatred oozing out their aged pores. But their number appeared less plenteous than before. The eldest, the bent-shouldered wretch with the thick mane of white hair who used a walking crook, was missing, as was the youngest. The angular-faced one with the booming voice who'd stood before the air slit in Donall's old cell. Isolde had called him Lorne.

Of the giant was no trace either.

And the comely chieftain kept her distance, too, although the sharp yaps of her dog revealed her proximity.

Donall's blood pumped faster.

He' d know she lingered near even without her pet's noisy behavior.
Why
he'd know was something he would not admit even if the heaven's entire host of winged angels fell to their knees and cajoled, begged, stormed, and pleaded.

Soundly routing the wench from his mind, he centered his attention on Struan, the MacInnes's
ceann cath
.

The lady's uncle.

With his stony visage and cold glare, the barrel-chested war leader vanquished any threat of Donall growing soft the moment Lady Isolde stepped into view. A derisive laugh rose in his throat. The fair maid inspired many stirrings in him, but growing soft was not one of them.

"Good sirs," he called up to the graybeards, suddenly overcome with a fearsome urge to goad them.

To goad anyone
.

"Do you wish to bathe your limbs in the restorative sea waters?" he mocked, reveling in the perturbed looks his taunts put on their lined faces. "Do join me, for the temperature is fine!"

Struan's lips curled. "Heed your tongue, MacLean, lest I order it bored through."

Nods of approval and rumbles of agreement rippled through the ranks of the ancients. One of them produced a short iron stake the width of a woman's small finger, and held it high. "Aye," he shouted, waving the rod over his grizzled head. "A tongue piercing will teach him the virtues of humility."

A feral gleam in his eyes, Struan snatched the iron stake from the other elder's hand. Running his thumb over its end, he said, "'Tis blunt enough to well purge his arrogance."

Donall spat into the surf.

"The cur!" Struan hissed and started toward the crude stone steps. "Of all the insolen --"

"Hold, Struan!" Clemency in the form of Rory surprised Donall and earned the blackguard a furious glare from the
ceann cath.

Rory thrust his torch into a wall bracket, then laid a staying hand on Struan's shoulder. "As fond of water as he professes to be, do you not think it would be more fitting to deprive him of what he purports to savor?"

"A parched throat is punishment for petty misdemeanants," Struan argued, his face dark with fury. "Donall MacLean's crimes must be expiated by harsher means."

"Aye, and it is not such a trivial penance I had in mind," Rory rejoined, casting a pointed glance at the rusted chain holding Donall's arms pulled taut above his head.

Slung over a heavy crossbeam that stretched the breadth of the chamber, the chain's weighted end rested beneath the white-foamed waves swirling around Donall's legs. Further weights were stacked beneath the ledge, not far from the base of the steps.

Taking his hand off the war leader's shoulder, Rory folded his brawny arms. "What say you we hoist him up until his feet dangle above the water?"

The babble among the ancients reached a fevered pitch, but rather than join the heated clamor, Struan clamped his lips together in a tight scowl. Still holding the iron rod in his clenched fist, he glowered at Donall.

By the time he hurled the stake into the surf in a great huff of anger, Rory was already halfway down the stone steps. Cold dread dug its talons deep into Donall's gut when the bastard hefted two good-sized weights under his arms and started toward the water's edge. He hadn't gone three feet before pandemonium broke lose.

She finally made an appearance.

Her face ashen, she hurried to her uncle's side, her squirming dog tucked beneath one arm. Before she could reach Struan, Bodo wiggled out of her grasp, sprang to the ground, and streaked down the steps. A whirlwind blur of brown and white fur and furious, snapping jaws.

"Seize the pesky little rotter!" Struan yelled, his eyes near bugging out of their sockets.

He chased after the dog, his balled fist raised in the air. Frantically calling Bodo's name, Isolde pushed past him, almost plunging down the crude steps in her haste to reach her pet first.

Heedless of those in pursuit of him, the little dog shot across the rubble, barking fiercely.

And not at Donall, but at Rory.

He launched himself into the surf, thrashing forward through the swirling water, sparing himself by a mere hairbreadth from Bodo sinking his fangs into his meaty calves.

The bugger's gone mad!

What ails the wee beastie?

... ne'er seen the like ...

Agitated twaddle flew back and forth between the knot of old men as they teetered precariously close to the lip of the rock projection to observe the spectacle unfolding below.

Donall gaped, too.

The lady Isolde and her uncle, his face mottled with rage, both chased after Bodo. And neither appeared nimble or fleet-footed enough to catch him. Bodo raced to and fro along the edge of the water, his hackles raised, floppy ears flying, his sharp barks piercing. The wench tried repeatedly to snatch up the little dog while her uncle ranted and kicked at him.

"In the name of St. Ninian, are you daft up there?" Struan thundered, pausing to rake his fellow elders with a furious glare when one of them tittered.

The rest quickly followed suit with a chorus of chortles and wheezes.

"Decrepit lot!" Struan bellowed and took up the chase again.

Then Rory slogged up to Donall, the weights still pinned beneath his arms. Dropping one, he grabbed Donall's chain and began affixing the first weight to its length. His broad back to the chaos behind him, he mumbled, "You won't hang long. Niels will fetch you down as soon as the rest of us clear out."