His silence prompted a further reply, “All right. If you must know, I found my accommodations unsatisfactory. By right I should be treated like a noble guest, not a servant. A straw pallet and threadbare blanket are hardly appropriate. I merely sought some additional comforts.”
His eyebrow lifted. “And how does knowing how many sacks of flour I possess enhance your comfort?”
Even in the dim light, he saw her cheeks redden. The disadvantage of possessing such fair and flawless skin. “Mistress Beathag and the cook suggested that while I was down here, and since I had the keys, they would benefit from knowing exactly what they had at their disposal.” Her gaze dropped to her feet. “You really ought to appoint a new seneschal.”
“How did you acquire the keys?”
Another flush, this one accompanied by a straightening of her spine and a fisting of her hand around the charcoal. “Your mother made them available to me.”
“You mean you coerced her.”
“I had no need. She is a woman. She sympathized with my plight.”
Incredible. She’d been in the camp for only a few hours and she’d already befriended his mother, unearthed their biggest secret, and begun an assessment of his belongings. A very talented spy. “Cease what you are doing and return to your chamber immediately. You are not to be wandering the camp on your own. You are not a guest; you are a prisoner. Any comforts you receive will be those I choose to offer, not those you claim for yourself.”
“And what am I to do in my empty chamber? Count cobwebs?” She stood there for a long moment, mutiny in the stiff cant of her shoulders.
“Dwell on the names of those men who visited Lochurkie last autumn. Revealing them is your only path to freedom.” Aiden pointed down the tunnel. “Go.”
She stood her ground, but with less surety.
“Now!” he barked.
Isabail took off at a run, the parchment flying into the air, the charcoal rolling across the dirt floor. Muirne hesitated only a moment before scurrying off after her lady.
Aiden eyed Brother Orick. “Find a few more helpers and finish what she started.”
Chapter 5
Magnus chopped wood until every muscle in his arms ached with the effort. A cool winter wind swept across the loch and snatched away his breath, but no matter how hard he worked, nothing could rid him of the nagging sense that he should be somewhere else.
When the wood was split and neatly piled shoulder high behind the bothy, he paused.
Only then did Morag approach him. “Remain angry if you wish,” she said, “but accept this water. Spiting your body to get back at me is childish.”
He faced her squarely. “Tell me the truth, and we’ll have no more quarrel.”
“Nay,” she said, her long black hair floating loosely on the breeze. “You are not completely healed. I will not risk your life by sending you back into danger unprepared.”
“My memory has not returned in three long months. More rest is not the answer. I must seek out those who might know me.”
She laid a gentle hand on his left side, just below the ribs. “You were nigh on dead when I found you, and your injury was caused by a sword. If you leave now, while your body is not fully mended, you’ll meet an unfortunate fate.”
Magnus brushed aside her hand. The wound she spoke of had healed. It was his leg—and his lost memories—that still troubled him. “My injuries may never heal completely. I cannot hide forever.”
She said nothing, her silence an answer of its own.
“If you will not tell me what you witnessed the day you found me, then we’ve nothing more to say.” Magnus snatched up his bow and a quiver of arrows and limped toward the edge of the forest. “I’ll fetch something to eat for supper.”
She watched him until he disappeared into the depths of the trees—as she always did. Most days, he enjoyed the feel of her eyes upon him, but today it only fueled his frustration. Being coddled like a bairn did not sit well with him. He was no longer badly injured. He was as healthy as he might ever be. It was time for him to go, to seek out his past—no matter how ugly that past might be.
And it might indeed be ugly. Only nobles and soldiers carried swords. If he’d been injured by a blade, he had almost assuredly stood on the wrong side of the law. A worry that was upheld by Morag’s fear for his safety. Although she refused to reveal the details of that night, the pallor of her face when she spoke of it suggested she had witnessed the attack, not simply found him lying in a pool of blood.
Magnus lifted his gaze to the stone tower in the distance.
Castle guards had felled him, most likely. Which made him at best a thief, a spy, or a poacher. At worst, a murderer and a knave.
Not that he wanted to believe he was any of those. His gut insisted he was an honorable man with a fine purpose. But with no memories of his past, how could he be certain? His only clues were the vague feelings that assailed him—like the one that insisted that somewhere, in some place he couldn’t envision, someone was waiting for him to come home. Or the bone-chilling sense of dread that always followed his attempts to recall who that someone might be.
