Sawny’sbleedinghadmostlystopped by the time he awoke, caking the pad in a brownish, crusty stain. The pad stuck and he did not dare to pull it any farther from his skin to investigate, lest he tear the wound anew.
The sunlight had seemed to move, changing the shadows on the stones, and he guessed it was mid-afternoon or later.
He certainly did not feel any better for having slept. Though the peat had provided some measure of warmth and dryness, there was not enough of it to serve as any sort of padding, and his back ached from lying on the hard ground for so long.
At least his headache was mostly gone.
Taking care so he did not aggravate his wound, he rose on shaky feet and stumbled to the wall with the window slit. He reached up as high as he could, but his fingertips fell a few feet short of the window. Not that he might squeeze out of it – the slit was far too narrow – but at least to see where he was . . .
Fortunately, he was not in a low-ceilinged cell. He had once been trapped in a crawlspace of the storage pantry when he was a boy while playing a game with his brother. He had been unable to stand upright and the walls of the pantry were so narrow that his chest had clenched. His babyish screams had brought a kitchen maid running for him, and he had never fully recovered from small spaces since.
So he had space in his favor here.
As long as they did not move him somewhere else.
But why was he here? And where washere, exactly?
Shuffling to the door, he took a moment to study the thick beams. Breaking through it was not an option, but the door was not flush against the wall. He leaned his ear against the gap and waited for any sound that might give a hint as to his location.
Nothing.
With a shuddering sigh, he crept back to his peat bedding and sat. He lightly pressed his wound, testing its tenderness. As long as it did not fill with pus, he might recover well.
Sawny sat in that position for a while, counting the stones and taking every moment over the past fortnight into consideration. He turned every recent encounter with a Campbell or MacIntosh over in his mind. In the end, he decided his present situation must have something to do with the two young men he had threatened a sennight ago.
Did they run home and whine to their father that night or had they waited until the following morn?
Feckin’ MacIntoshes.
Still, why strike him over the head and kidnap him? To what end? This seemed far too harsh a lesson for a minor Highland skirmish.
The door creaked on its hinges, and Sawny jumped at the sound and hissed as his movement tugged on his slowly scabbing side. The sound was jarring after several days of silence. Keeping his hand on his side, Sawny rose on wary legs and steeled himself to face his captor.
Who appeared to be a young man.
Barely more than a lad and younger than Sawny, and dressed in baggy, worn tunic and braies. His loose, dark brown hair hung in limp strands, covering his face.
This canna be my captor.
“Who are ye and why am I here?” Sawny demanded.
The barefoot lad carried a platter topped with another bowl and cup. The door remained open behind him, and Sawny tensed, ready to rush the door, until he noticed two men with swords waiting in the hall.
Guards.
Nay, he’d not escape either of those hale men in his state. Of course, this wee lad would not be coming into the dungeon alone.
Sawny’s jaw tensed as he regarded the lad who set the platter by the door, removed the items, and replaced them with his morning meal dishes.
A servant lad then.
The young man rose and looked up at Sawny. He had wide eyes that seemed too large for his face, and deep purple moons under them, and did not appear in the best of health.
“I’m Addison Cameron,” the young man said in a much deeper voice than Sawny expected. “I’m, uh, fostering here.”
From the hesitant way the young man formed his words, Sawny presumed there was more to that tale than the lad let on.
Fostering my arse.
