Enraptured by the Highlander

“I do and so did Peter,” Adelaine added while looking at the grounds men who were now using shovels to clear the walking paths. “It’s a shame he isn’t here to see it.”

“Do you think he’s resting peacefully?” Martha asked.

“I can only hope so,” Adelaine said as she went to break her fast. “It was the only thing he wanted.”

“If it is not to bold to ask,” Martha said as she took a seat, “How did it go with Scotsman?”

Mid-chew, Adelaine wondered if she could tell Martha another secret. She had been calling Caelan, Mister McLagen all this time, as she had vowed to keep his real title a secret. Caelan had a point when he told her that if her father knew his real title, it would be more incentive to kill him. She swallowed down the bread and took a sip of milk.

“Martha…Mister McLagen is not just another Scot, he’s the Laird of his Clan.”

Her maid was surprised and her eyes showed it, “A Laird you say?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “A fact that he kept from my father just because it might be even more cause to kill him, and as a prisoner of war, accused of murder, it is even more reason to remove him.”

The words felt unpleasant in her mouth as she spoke them, bitter even. “Which is why I need to hear from Sir Duglas, he is the only one who can clarify this mess.”

“But…” Martha hesitated. “But what if he does not respond in time and your father goes ahead with the execution?”

“Then…” I’ll have Caelan run. “I’ll do what I can to stop it, I just hope it doesn’t get that far…”

But what if it does….

Chapter 12

Carefully turning the pages of the book, Caelan read with pleasure. If he positioned himself just right, the light coming from the miserable excuse for a window was just enough to let him read.

“Hippolytus…” he murmured. He was just three pages in and already he could sense it was going to be a tragedy. A good learning tool but a horrible subject to learn from.

His mind strayed from the hero and went on to his family at home. Were they wondering if he had died? Their King was dead so even if news about his capture by the English Earl had been sent to Scotland, he doubted that there would be a single person there who would care enough to tell his clan about his real state. Was his family holding on to hope that he’d come home or were they already looking for his replacement?

Snow had begun to slowly drift down again and seeing the fluff made him smile a little. His home would be blanketed in snow by now. He briefly pictured his home, how the children would be up and out, making snowmen, a tradition they had adopted from the English, jumping into puddles and just playing in the fluff.

His heart began to ache for his home when the screech of the door up ahead and the stomp of boots told him the jailer was coming in. Quickly, he slid the book behind him and tucked it under his shirt and into the waistband of his kilt.

“Here,” Leicester snapped while shoving a stack of paper, a quill, and an inkwell through the slot. “I’ve been ordered to give you these for you to confess your crime to the King of England.”

“I will dae nay such thing,” Caelan said evenly. “I havenae committed a crime.”

“His Lordship says you have otherwise, why would you be here?” Leicester sneered. “Do as you are told, dog.”

“Ye’ll be sorely disappointed,” Caelan replied. “I will nay admit to somethin’ I havenae done.”

His guard huffed and spun on his heel. Calen’s eyes dropped to the paper and quill, and felt tempted to let them stay there. Still, he knelt and took the paper to his corner to rest them there. They were bound to stay unused though.

But…perhaps he could use them, not as intended though. Could he write to his Clan, more specifically, his second-in-command Artur, to let him and his family by extension, know that he was alive? Would Adelaine send it off for him? Even more, if this plan to escape did come through, he would have his men there to help him run. There was no plan in place yet but…what if they made one and he did not get the word out?

Indecision plagued him for a long while, and he weighed the options in his mind over and over again. He made for the papers and quill over ten times but still pulled away. He needed to speak with Adelaine first. His eyes were trained on the doorway, praying that she would come by, but the hours passed and his faith kept slipping.

It was near dusk when the tell-tale grate of the door was heard again and he prayed it was not the jailer coming back for his unwritten confession. When the lass came in, he smiled and was about to say something when it was not only her who entered, but another woman, dark-haired and dressed in the drab clothing of a servant.

He stayed silent as she went to get the key resting on the hook at the end of the room. She came back and slid it into the lock, the other woman took a hold of the key too. With both of their strength, they forced the door open and managed to slid it in.

The dark-haired woman looked at him then back at Adelaine who nodded. With a dip of her head, she left and went back to the stairs while Adelaine slid inside.

The door was open! He could escape! God almighty! All he had to do was rush past her and take the stairs! The opportunity was ripe but Adelaine’s face stalled him; she looked distressed. Caelan stood and dared come near her. A foot away he lifted his hand to brush a melting lump of snow from her shoulder before he caressed her cheek. God her skin was silk.

“Caelan,” she whispered. She blinked up at him and knew she was trying to but her lower lip trembled, giving her nervous disposition away.