Enraptured by the Highlander

The porridge was sweet and filling but tasted like ash in her mouth. She was unsettled, deeply unsettled. The urge to look into her brother’s killer’s eye and see the evil that rested inside was almost eclipsing her mind.

She had held back that day when she had gone to see him, but the anger and hatred she felt for him was now a fire in her soul. She had to face him today. Eating as much as she could stand given her roiling stomach, Adelaine shifted the bowl away from her.

“Martha, prepare a washing bowl while I take out a dress,” she ordered. “I must see this Scotsman.”

“I do not think that is wise, My Lady,” Martha said. “The man is dangerous.”

“Dangerous or not, I must see him again,” Adelaine said while shifted her sheets and sliding out from under them. “I must see the monster that lives with him. He must be the brother of the devil since he killed my already-ailing brother.”

“My Lady,” Martha’s voice had taken on that worrying tone. “I cannot dissuade you from this but please be safe.”

“I’ll have a squire accompany me,” Adelaine said as Martha left to get the water. As she went to her trunks, Adelaine rummaged through her clothes and took out a deep-green dress with a high neck and long sleeves. She rested it on the bed while Martha placed her shoes.

Martha came with the pitcher and filled the basin. Adelaine washed quickly, dressed, and let her maid fix her hair. She began fidgeting when Martha finished her braid and her fingers were trembling as she slipped her soft embossed shoes on.

Anger was a black pit inside her stomach and an unchristian urge to see this man suffer was lingering at the edges of her mind. As she donned a cape and hurried down to the low levels, a squire, fair-headed, clad in his knee britches, top with the crest of a knight she knew as Sir Bartholomew’s on his breast, came forward and bowed.

“My Lady, Miss Martha asked me to accompany you to see the prisoner. I am David,” he said.

“Thank you, David,” she said, flicking the cowl of her cape over her head. As they walked to the keep she asked. “Is Sir Bartholomew your master?”

“Yes, My Lady,” David replied. “He is my master and my sponsor.”

She shot a quizzical look to him and he gave her a bashful smile, “He gave a helping hand to my mother when my father died and took me on so I could help her in the future too.”

“That’s very kind of him,” Adelaine mused as they came to the keep. A guard stood at the doorway with his hand rested on his sword.

“Lady Adelaine,” he bowed. “May I help you?”

“I’m here with Squire David,” she said. “I need to see the prisoner.”

The guard eyed her and the tall youth, “Are you sure, My Lady? The man is a heathen barbarian.”

“All the more reason to look him in the eye and ask him why he did this heinous deed,” Adelaine said.

“Very well, My Lady,” he said and opened the door, “Please call if you need help.”

As they took the stairs to the lower-level dungeon, she felt her anger rise again. She had to see this man, this murderer, look deep into his eyes and see the fiend that lived beneath.

The room was wide but her father had it fitted with a steel structure that looked like

a portcullis, a heavy gate normally found at the main entrance of a castle. This one had latticed grille made of metal, but there were more vertical bars than horizontal.

He was back in the corner, against the wall with his head bowed. She stepped closer and then he shifted and lifted up his head. Seeing his face this close evoked the memories of when she had seen him first. Not knowing who he was or what he had done she had felt an attraction to his handsome face and chiseled body but now that she knew his deed, his looks did not matter to her anymore.

She stood still as he rose, still clutching the blanket around his shoulders. She could see the red ring of chafed skin around his neck where the ropes had been but she did not feel any sympathy. He came closer with a wondering look on his face. Inches away from the bars he spoke.

“I saw ye before…” his voice was low and scratchy. “I kent I was dreaming.”

“Yes, I was here before,” Adelaine said coldly. “I am Adelaine Watson, sister of Peter Watson and I wanted to see the monster that took my brother from me. You’re him, Caelan McLagen, the man who killed my brother.”

The Scot stepped back and his eyes roamed over her—clear green eyes she noted—icily. “Me Lady, I dinnae ken what was told to ye but I dinnae kill yer brother. What would that have profited me? He was ailing and I tried to help him.”

“Liar!” she spat. “You killed him because he defeated your people. Why would you kill a man that only had a knife cut?”

“A knife cut?” the Scot said with wide disbelieving eyes. “Me Lady, yer brother had been stabbed through the gut with a poisoned blade.”

Bristling with anger Adelaine ordered David to open the lock. The Squire went for the keys resting on the hook at the end of the room and with a heavy grunt opened on the iron door. With the rusty hinges, it was made a jarring noise as it open, but when it did, she stepped in, right into the man’s face and slapped him twice. “Stop lying you barbarian! I know the truth!”