Summer, Six years later…
The kitchen floorseemed to be taking hours to get all the greasy grime off.
“Hurry up, gel.” Someone kicked her softly in the arm. “The lord wants ye to concoct something to help him shyte.”
The scullery maid wiped her forehead with her aching arm. “Do ye not know my name by now, Beatrice?”
“Of course I know it, Elspeth Woodburn. But why form any attachments in this place? Ye have been here long enough to know ’tis a useless endeavor. We are not our own.”
“I am my own,” Elspeth whispered for no one’s ears but her own.
“Still,” she said louder to Beatrice, while she scratched the mats in her knotted hair, “even if I die young here, I will still always regret not being friends with ye.”
She turned to step away to prepare her master’s tonic. Beatrice’s voice stopped her.
“Verra well. I’ll call ye Elspeth from now on.”
Elspeth smiled and looked up to see her master with another man standing beside him. Her smile faded. Would her master strike her for being in his way?
“Fergive me, my lord,” she said, softening her voice.
The stranger was watching her. She had never seen him before—or…had she? Her belly flipped and then dropped, making her feel instantly ill. He was the first man to the dungeon six years ago. The one with the auburn hair who had killed Gilchrist. The night she lost everything.
Over the years of her servitude, she had asked about the killings at Dunley. Most people told her the same thing. It was said the Royalist Cameron clan was responsible.
She scowled her darkest scowl at the one before her now. She wished she had a dirk. She would use it—
“Aye, she is a Woodburn,” Gilchrist’s murderer said. “How did she come to be here?”
Her master stepped forth and reached over his shoulder to let a slap fly. “Get that glare off yer face, wench!”
She closed her eyes to prepare for the strike, but it didn’t come. She looked up to the Highlander holding her master’s wrist above her.
“Dinna lay a hand on Logan Cameron’s servant or ’twill cost ye yer head.” His growl was menacing enough, but his warm gaze on her said much. He knew she had been hiding in the dungeon that night. The sole survivor, and witness to all the crimes the Camerons had committed. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t seen her face, he’d heard her. He had seen her rags and the dressing on his friend. Would he kill her? Or—try to? She’d kill him first. Him and his master, Logan Cameron. Logan.
“Why does Cameron want her anyway?” her master asked. “She is nothin’ but trouble. She has a rebellious nature—”
“Dunley Keep fell to him,” the Highlander explained. “He has been given title of it and ownership of whatever can be salvaged. She is the only thing I have yet to find.”
So, this Logan Cameron owned her? Her blood boiled. For the past six years she’d been carted off to eight different masters. Each one, worse than the other. Now, och but now, she was to be handed off to the man responsible for her family’s death!
Good! Truly, it was a blessing in disguise. Now she would be brought to him. Now she could begin killing Camerons. Finally.
“Ye’re comin’ with me, lass,” the red-haired devil said. “Gather yer things.”
She wasn’t given much time to pack her belongings. In truth, she didn’t have much. She headed out, following the Highlander on foot, while he rode his gray horse. None of the other servants bid her farewell, either jealous that she was getting out of there, or indifferent one way or the other.
She didn’t shed a tear for anyone. It was the way they all wanted it. None of the servants dared get attached to another servant. It was too difficult to lose everyone, and then to lose a friend, too.
But just before she stepped out the front gate, she heard her name being called. She looked to see Beatrice stepping out from the small crowd.
“Farewell, Elspeth! Godspeed to ye!”
Elspeth smiled and waved to her. The Highlander kept his horse at a slow trot in front of her. He looked down at her and smiled. She didn’t smile back. He killed Gilchrist. Gilchrist was her friend. She wanted to curse him to his face, but surviving these many years had made her appreciate life too much to throw it away by insulting a murderer. Let it wait until she had an opportunity to kill him.
“I am called Ewen,” he told her. “Ewen MacDonald. I am—”
“I thought ye were in the Cameron clan,” she interrupted.
