* * *
Once he was confident that the defenses of the hill fort were as strong as they could be and that Niall’s men were diligently keeping an eye out for MacPherson’s patrols, Aiden returned to the keep. Although he knew Isabail was weary from her journey, he could not afford to give her a lengthy respite. The names she held in her head were all that stood between his clan and safety.
The inner close of the ruined palace echoed with his boot steps. Crumbling stone walls and the towering crags of the mountainside gave rise to eerie sounds.
He knocked on the lintel of the roundhouse assigned to Isabail, then ducked inside. The room was empty, save for a neatly covered pallet and a bucket of water. There was no sign of Isabail or her maid.
“Beathag,” he roared.
The large woman arrived at the door with surprising speed. “Aye?”
“Where in the bloody hell is Lady Macintosh?”
A family retainer since before he was born, Beathag simply folded her arms over her ample bosom and stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to re-collect his composure.
“Where is she?” he asked, quieter.
“In the cave.”
Aiden blinked. “Doing what?”
“Counting.”
“By the gods, woman!” The cave was their secret refuge, their last hope if MacPherson’s men discovered the hill fort. Divulging its whereabouts to their enemy, even if the lovely lady lacked a dangerous air, was a grievous mistake. “What possessed you to reveal the whereabouts of the cave?”
Beathag gulped. “Lady Elisaid gave her the keys.”
His mother had simply handed off the keys? To a stranger? Unable to wrap his thoughts around that tidbit of information and frustrated by his lack of understanding, Aiden simply glared at the good woman. Then he headed for the cave.
* * *
The entrance to the tunnels beneath the ruin lay at the very back of the inner close, where the stone wall met the rock face. It was hidden in a small chamber that had once been a storeroom. Or so they guessed, based on the fragments of old wooden chests and shards of pottery found on the floor. He slipped behind a slab of granite that to the undiscerning eye appeared to be just the back wall, and entered. The stairs were narrow and steep, carved directly into the rock of the mountain. Aiden took them two at a time, his familiarity with the old ruin dating back to his childhood.
Torches were seated in iron wall brackets every thirty feet or so, providing scant but welcome light. At the far end of the long tunnel, the narrow confines opened into a small cave that housed the chests and sacks and bits of furniture they’d managed to remove from the castle before it was overrun by MacPhersons. Lids were open, doors swung wide, and the contents of every chest revealed—including the rather small chest that housed his coin.
In the center of the room, Isabail stood holding a torch, a sheet of parchment, and a thin piece of charcoal. Muirne and Brother Orick, the friar, were counting sacks of grain and calling numbers.
“Seven bags of wheat flour,” Orick said, dusting off his hands.
“Twelve of oats,” Muirne said.
Isabail recorded the numbers on her parchment with a heavy frown. “Are you certain? That may not be enough to last until first harvest.”
Muirne lifted her head, caught sight of Aiden, and gave a short signal of alarm.
Isabail spun around and flinched. “Oh.”
“What are you about?” he asked, annoyed at her reaction.
Isabail’s hand trembled as she held out the parchment. Aiden did not take it. Was he truly that frightening? Most women found him attractive. “Answer me, please.”
“You’ve no seneschal,” she said. “No one seems to be tracking the use of your stores.”
“And why,” he asked, “did you feel the need to do so?”
She lowered the parchment. “Only a handful of your people can count past twelve.”
Which explained her role in the inventorying, but not her need to see it done. He stared at her, waiting.
