Page 39 of Wicked Kilted Highlander

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

The damp, musty air of the dungeon clung to the inside of Darragh’s nose as two burly guards unlocked his cell and escorted him swiftly out of the prison and into the keep, their rough hands gripping his upper arms. His unkempt blond hair hung in limp strands around his face, and his clothes were filthy. He knew he stank, and it just added to the tension building inside him.

"Where are ye taking me?" he asked, his voice a parched rasp, his eyes adjusting to the lamplight in the keep’s grand hall. "I demand tae see the laird."

"Demands willnae dae ye much good here, boy." The guard who had spoken, a short, stocky man with a bushy beard and a scar across his eye, gave him a shove. "Just keep walking."

Darragh gritted his teeth and held his tongue, knowing it was better not to provoke the man. As they led him down a dimly lit stone hallway, the walls half-paneled in wood and adorned with tapestries and paintings, Darragh couldn't help but wonder what awaited him. Eventually, they came to the open door of a small room lit by an oil lamp. To his surprise, in the center stood a wooden tub filled with steaming water. On a nearby stand, he noticed towels, a bar of soap, and a pile of clean clothing. He was rudely shoved inside.

"Dinnae bother getting comfortable," the guard with the beard said. "Ye willnae be here fer long." He then pulled the door shut and turned the lock.

So, I’m still a prisoner, then.

Needing no second bidding, eager to wash away the filth of the dungeon, he stripped off his clothes and got into the water, sinking into it with a sigh of pleasure. His aches and pains began to fade. Though clearly still a captive, Darragh was grateful for the bath. It had been far too long since he'd been able to bathe, except in lochs or burns, and certainly hadn't expected it from the Laird Maclean. It was the first kind gesture he'd been offered since he'd arrived. Perhaps it signaled better things to come, but he didn’t hold out much hope.

Darragh picked up the soap and meticulously washed away the grime and filth that had accumulated during his long journey with Lara and his brief imprisonment. He washed his long hair and scrubbed his face, then stood up and soaped the rest of his body before rinsing himself, feeling somewhat restored by the clean, hot water.

After finishing his bath, he toweled himself off, donned the plain linen shirt and breeks that had been left for him, along with his boots, then combed his hair. He kicked the old clothes into a corner, including his plaid.

"Are ye dressed?" The bearded guard's harsh voice sounded from the hallway, followed by a loud banging on the door.

"Aye," Darragh replied. The lock sounded, and the door opened.

"Come on, then," the bearded guard instructed him. Both guards stared at him, looking somewhat surprised at the transformation before them.

"That needs washing if ye dinnae mind," Darragh told him, jerking a thumb at the pile of dirty clothing as he stepped out into the hall. The guard scowled at him before they hustled him further along the corridor and down some steps, into a small kitchen area. A modest meal of stew and a chunk of crusty bread, as well as a tankard of ale, had been laid out on the table.

"Eat quickly," the guard with the beard urged, impatience in his tone as he and his colleague stood aside.

Darragh did not need to be asked twice. He immediately sat down at the table, picked up the tankard, and swallowed the contents in one. Without taking his eyes off the guards, he set about the stew and bread, relishing the rich tastes and textures of the pork and vegetables. What with the bath and the food, especially the ale, he soon felt almost his old self, and his spirits began to rise despite the situation.

"What is all this, and where are ye taking me?" he demanded when he’d finished eating and pushed the bowl aside.

"Hold yer tongue and speak when yer spoken tae. Ye’ll find out soon enough,” the bearded guard warned him, gesturing for Darragh to get on his feet. The younger guard went back up the steps, and then Darragh and the other guard followed. He was reassured when they did not seem to be returning him to the dungeons.

He wondered if he should try to escape. Now he felt stronger, it was possible he might just succeed in overpowering the guards.

But it would hurt Lara… I better to wait and see what game’s afoot.][

They led him through the castle, his footsteps echoing loudly against the stone floor. Darragh felt every eye on him as they passed the curious maids and guards. The castle was full of life. A young maid giggled as they passed her, her face growing red as she was scolded by a stern-faced matron.

"Keep moving," the bearded guard said.

Darragh could feel the energy radiating from the castle walls, and it left him feeling confused. The MacLeans were supposed to be his enemies, and yet he couldn't help but admire their apparently happy, orderly lives.

The guards stopped at a large, carved wooden door, and the bearded one rapped twice upon it.

"Enter," came a booming voice from the other side, and Darragh immediately recognized it as the laird’s.

The heavy door opened slowly, and the two guards shoved him inside. He heard the door being locked behind him.

Darragh looked around the room, noting the lavish yet masculine trappings, all trimmed in the MacLean tartan of red, green, black, and white stripe. The room smelt of tobacco, woodsmoke, and ink. Tapestries depicting battle scenes alongside a collection of ancient weapons hung from the walls, and the room was full of finely carved wooden furniture, with thick rugs on the floor, imparting an air of luxury.

A vast fireplace was situated to his right. Above it was small coat of arms, showing the MacLean sigil, a castle enclosed, with the clan motto “Virtue is mine honor” wrought on the banner beneath.

"So, here ye are, come to add to me troubles with yer clan, eh?" The laird spoke at last from where he sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. Darragh could tell Lara had gotten her looks from her father; Harris MacLean was a handsome man, with harsh yet finely proportioned features, though his dark hair was now mostly gray, and his face bore the marks of age.

Feeling stronger than he had in a while yet tense all the same, Darragh met the laird's stare. There was a hardness to his eyes, and he had the air of a man who was not used to being disobeyed.