He hung his head.
If she would still have him.
The wracking pain wore him out until he fell asleep, and when Sawny awoke, the darkness had faded, giving way to a pale light. A thin panel of light broke through a slit near the ceiling of his stone prison across from the door. The light around the door seemed brighter as well.
Daylight.
Pale, but still painfully bright to his achy head and eyes.
He had slept through the night.
The dull light meant he could see the interior of his cell and gain a better sense of his surroundings.
The pounding in his head had lessened to an irritating headache, but his side still pained him terribly. He lifted his bloodied shirt and clenched his jaw when he saw why.
The wound was not deep, thank God and the heavens, but it was jagged, and every time he moved, he hissed as the wound re-opened and oozed. He was weak from loss of blood more than the pain, and he had to fix his side before he could contemplate attacking a guard and running for his freedom.
And Adaira,a small voice in his mind added.
Aye, Adaira.
He kept her name, her voice, and her image at the forefront of his mind to keep him pressing forward. He was not going to give up or give in to the MacIntoshes, so long as he had Adaira to return to.
She gave him something to live for, the one shining brightness in this dreary gaol.
Glancing around the room, he noticed a knotted wooden bowl and cup by the door.
Food.
His stomach growled loudly enough that he feared the guards would hear. He did not care so much if they saw him, but he was not ready for what might happen when his gaolers finally did enter.
Torture was not below the Campbells or their MacIntosh allies. In fact, they would probably enjoy it.
Moving carefully, Sawny slid over to the bowl and scooped up the cold parritch with his filthy hand. Bland, cold, but filling. Thin ale filled the cup halfway, and Sawny guzzled it down after licking the bowl clean of every last bit of parritch.
His stomach lurched, and he had to roll over on his side and wait until the cramping pains faded away. He kept the food down, and that was most important. He needed the sustenance and his wounded side would not handle it if he had rejected his breakfast.
Once his stomach calmed, he sat back up and studied his accommodations.
Four stone walls that wept from the damp. A slit at the top of the wall set into the earth, too thin and too high to reach or climb out of. Opposite that wall, a stout wooden door filled most of the wall, bolted into place from the outside. No handle, no hinges, nothing but heavy wood on the interior side.
Escape seemed futile.
But before he would let his mind consider any manner of escape, he needed to get the gaping wound in his side under control. Moving and eating had torn open the scab, and he was bleeding again. Thin parritch and weak ale were not going to be enough to keep him upright if the bleeding did not stop.
Another cursory glance around the cell revealed nothing he might use as a bandage. His tunic, already in tatters, would have to do. Using his teeth, he gnawed the bottom and ripped off a long strip, then a second. He folded the first into a pad and set it against his side. Then he wrapped the second strip around his waist and tied it in place.
Not the best bandage, but it would do, and hopefully, if he did not move around too much for the next day or so, the bleeding might stop.
Then he could regain his strength and escape.
A pile of peat was shoved into the corner of the chambers, and he used that as bedding. It did not do much, but it put a layer between him and the cold stone, and he felt as if he might stop shivering.
He closed his eyes, briefly wondering how long before his captors made themselves known. Then he put the image of Adaira in front of him, of her light voice and brightness, and tried to sleep.
It was a fitful sleep.
Chapter Eleven
