Dear Lady Adelaine Watson,
It is with deep regret that I, Captain Harold Musgrave of the Troop of Gentlemen, and a dear colleague of Sir Duglas, must inform you of the unfortunate demise of Sir Robert Duglas. He had suffered an injury to his spine on the way back to England from the successful campaign in Solway Moss Scotland and succumbed not too long after.
This letter was received by his squire and was deferred to me on account of propriety. On behalf of the dear warrior, and Knight of the Kingdom, I do thank you for your sincere congratulations on his heroic act. We are all in debt to his achievements in that war and we will honor his name, legacy, and memory as a true soldier to the country, a man loyal to the cause and dear aide to the His Majesty, the King for as long as the Kingdom stands. Peace be unto you.
The paper fluttered from her hand to her ground. Her fingers were numb, and her chest felt hollow, as if an invisible hand had scooped out her beating heart. Fear for Caelan’s life made her blood run cold as the one hope she had to free Caelan was now dead.
Chapter 14
Huddled in the warmest corner of the dark dungeon, Caelan dreamt of a life he could never dare hope to have. A life where he had met Adelaine under peaceful circumstances. A life where he had gotten to know her with long talks, woo her like any gentleman would, with flowers, precious gems, and warm kisses. A life where she would say yes to his marriage proposal, be resplendent in his Clan’s tartan and his ring would shine on her finger. A life where he would wake up to her in his bed and their son would be resting between them. A life he was doomed to never have.
Caelan woke in dimness and blinked his eyes open to cold stone and dark space. It was the same bleak, monotone surroundings he was forced to live in until proof of his innocence on the Earl’s son was given. Or when he escaped—whichever one was quicker.
God, he yearned for that day, a day when he would walk as a free man. He craved it deep inside his gut it was so heady that he could practically taste the fresh air on his tongue. He just needed Adelaine to find those plans or get through to Robert Duglas. Even if he had either or both, he would be a free man soon.
Never again was he going to submit himself and freely walk to his own execution like a lamb to the slaughter and secretly, Caelan was berating himself for even falling into that mindset. Where had the soldier in him gone? Where had the desperation to save his life while parrying the strikes of the enemy’s sword gone? He was unstoppable on the battlefield, so how was it that he had become so weak-willed when thrown into this dungeon?
Pitiful, ye were beginning to get pitiful. If it wasnae for the lass and her suggestion to break free, ye would have walked yerself into the grave. Where was yer will to live, man?
He was up and walking to get his body heat up when the doors grated open. Glancing up, Caelan frowned. It was a bit early for the cook to come and early for Adelaine too. He doubted the old crotchety guard Leicester was coming this early too, so who was it?
Keeping up his stride, he walked and doubled back, not caring to look toward the doorway until the newcomer came in. While doubling back again, he caught the form of a man lingering in the doorway, but did not look too closely. He just kept walking.
The man came closer and Caelan saw his leather armor, similar to what Leicester wore. This man, however, had ink-black hair and had narrowed eyes, the color of which Caelan could not see in the dark. The sun was barely rising when he decided to stop pacing and contest the silently-staring stranger.
“Can I help ye?” he asked as he went to the bars.
“Lady Adelaine keeps coming to you,” the man spat. “Why haven’t you given her the answer she is looking for?”
Instantly, Caelan’s senses were razor sharp. No doubt that this man believed Adelaine was there every day to ask him questions about her brother. If he was now being accused of not answering then this man would just think Caelan was not answering them at all or saying he was innocent. Either way, what Caelan was doing was not acceptable to him. If the man knew exactly why Adelaine kept coming, Caelan would be probably dead.
“Why is a lady worth three times your stinking hide forcing herself to come to you almost every day and you don’t have the courtesy or the common sense to just tell her what she needs?”
“And say what?” Caelan replied. “All that I have done, I have told her faither and she kens it. There is nothin’ more to tell.”
“Yes, there is,” the man spat. “You killed the Viscount in cold blood, admit it.”
Caelan knew what he was about to do would aggravate the man, but he did it anyway. He just stared at him for a long while before saying, “The lass can come as long as she pleases, it doesnea bother me.” With that, he began walking again.
The man growled and banged on the bars, “You don’t deserve her attention, Scottish dog.” Caelan made the mistake of turning to the man when a wad of cold spit him square in the face. He was immobile, in shock before raising a hand to wipe the slime off. “That’s what mongrels like you are worth.”
As the man moved off, Caelan used the edge of his scratchy blanket to clean the rest of his face. He did not need to be a druid to detect the jealousy in the man’s voice and grew concerned but not totally worried. “Well lass, it seems as if I’m not yer only admirer.”
It was not too long before the cook came in with a bowl of porridge and a hunk of freshly baked-bread. He gave her his most winning smile and felt satisfied when the older woman’s cheek went mottled red.
“Mrs. Hertha, innit?” he asked while taking the bowl and bread.
“Yes, sonny boy, yes, it is,” she replied while wiping her hands over her apron. “And I’m married, young man, so don’t you dare try any of that rugged charm on me.”
“Married?” he asked. “A bonnie lass like ye?”
“Oh, that’s not going to work, sonny-boy, but keep trying,” Mrs. Hertha giggled. “As far as I know, flattery has never killed anyone, but it is lovely for the heart though.”
“I ken,” Caelan said between spoons. “I just want to ken, a man came in here earlier, dark hair, dark-brown eyes, dressed in leather armor. I got the impression he is the one guarding the keep. Dae ye ken who he is?”
“Oh, of course, I just passed him on the way in. His name is Tybalt Montfort,” Mrs. Hertha nodded. “Young lad, about twenty-six summers but looks older than his age. Why do you ask?”
“Nothin’ really,” Caelan shrugged. “Just got the impression that he doesnae like me much.”