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“After he left for the King’s assembly in London days ago, he has not sent word yet,” Martha said.
Quietly, Adelaine estimated how long she would have to speak with Caelan before her father came back. She had possibly a few days to talk to him, if her father was not caught up with many meetings.
“Martha,” she began while reaching for her cloak. “Pardon my absence, I am going to speak with Mr. McLagen.”
“My Lady,” Martha’s tone was cautious. “I’d rest easier if you don’t go see this man by yourself. Caged or not, he is a dangerous person.”
“I understand,” Adelaine said. “I truly do but I do not believe there is anything to be concerned about. I’ll be back in time for supper.”
Slinging her coat around her shoulder, Adelaine tugged the cowl up and left her quarters. She had heard all that McLagen had said about her brother but she felt a need to know more about him. Why was it that a Laird would jump into battle?
But hasn’t Father done the same?
She pictured her father riding out with his men and wondered if it was about pride. Her father had never let his men go without him or Peter accompanying them. Perhaps McLagen had felt the same.
It had rained earlier, and the grass was still dew-wet, the tiny droplets dampening the ends of her dress. She approached the keep, greeted the guard with the same excuse—that she wanted to get the Scot’s confession—and slid inside. She then took the stone staircase down to the dungeons. The air was thick and a bit stuffy this far down and in such closed spaces. She emerged to the wide dungeon floor.
McLagen, however, was not huddling in the corner like before. He was kneeling on the floor, his back facing her, and praying. His back was scarred. Her footsteps faltered. It was strange to see this man, all battle-scarred and fierce, down on his knees with his hands clasped and head bowed humbly. He was speaking in a foreign tongue, and the words were lyrical, almost song-like.
Is that Gaelic?
But her eyes strayed to his back.
Did someone flog him?
The marks were healed over, but they were still tinted red. She did not move a limb while the Scotsman prayed. She knew, theoretically, that the Scots were Christians but she was not sure any of them were sincere in it. She had heard tales that the only thing Scots were good at were fighting and drinking, but mostly fighting. Where did prayer come between those two?
McLagen stood, his powerful legs flexing as he rose from his knees. She moved forward with soft, slow steps. She came to the iron bars when McLagen turned to her. Neither spoke for a moment and then the Scot broke the silence.
“Good evening, Me Lady,” McLagen said.
“M-Laird McLagen.” She came closer and rested her hand on one of the bars. “I… I must admit, I came here because I wanted to learn more about you.”
His surprise was shown by his arched eyebrows. “Me?”
“Yes,” she said, while glancing down at the floor. She folded her skirts around her legs and gently
lowered herself to sit on the cold floor. Her cloak was thick enough to keep the brunt of the cold from her skin and she looked up expectantly at the Scotsman.
McLagen mirrored her and sat just on the other side of the bars. She diverted her eyes from his bare chest. She had never seen muscles on a man other than her brother and the few times she had, Peter was lithe and corded, not visibly muscled like McLagen was. His skin was strained over the rigid bulges in his arms and the taut, smooth lines of his neck and over his shoulders.
McLagen sat back on his heels. “What dae ye want to ken?”
“I…” she said, “I heard you praying, at least I think you were praying. Was I right or wrong?”
“Ye were right,” McLagen said. “We Scots do pride ourselves on our faith. Well, most of us. Some do stick to the old religion and others only pray to the gods of whiskey.”
“I was told some of that,” Adelaine said with her hands twisting in her lap. “I always heard that some Scots only fight and drink.”
“I’m nae surprised,” McLagen said wryly. “Ye English ken that we Scots are barbarians and only barbarians.”
Adelaine reddened at the very word she had spoken to McLagen not too long ago. “I’m sorry; when I said that to you, I was just hurt. Very, very hurt.”
He chuckled, “Ah, I ken. Passion takes place when prudence falls short. But ye must ken, Me Lady, that we Scots are’nae just men of the sword. Many have minds like ye English lords of the realm do. Some are artists, some, like me, are doctors, others are thinkers, lawmakers, teachers, scholars, and writers. We are’nae that different from ye.”
“Hearing you say it, makes me believe it,” Adelaine admitted. She then laughed but it was tinged with scorn. “We English think we are the most cultured, the most learned, and the most godlike when some of us are just… the real barbarians.”
“How so?”
