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Death.
The Earl was going to kill him one day, Caelan was sure. As innocent as he was of the crime he was charged, he, with no one to vouch for him, he was just waiting for his execution.
The thought was dour but he had come to peace with it. It would complicate matters with his clan though as there was no one else in his direct family to take the Lairdship. His mother was not strong enough to be a regent, and he had no close cousins.
A cold draft made him shiver and he could feel his bones ache. He’d been through harsh winters back home but through none of them had he been half-naked and bootless. His fingers were numb from the cold and the tight grip he had on the blanket. His jaw was clenched to stop from chattering as he was sure that his teeth would shatter if he allowed his jaw an inch of freedom.
The stomp of familiar boots of the jailer were heavy on the stones. He managed to look up and the man was scowling— not unusual—but he was holding more than his bowl of food and his cup of water.
“Wake up, dog,” Leicester barked. “This is no inn.”
Caelan managed to stand and went to the bars. The bowl and cup were shoved into his hands and then the other items, a shirt, a hat, and a
pair of short hose were dropped on the floor. “Courtesy of your master.”
No one is my master.
He did not dare say those words in case the gifts would be taken away, he ate quickly and handed the bowl and cup back to Leicester. “Thank ye.”
With the man gone, Caelan reached for the items with a frenzy that was slightly humiliating for a man of his stature. He jammed the felt on his head and put the shirt on next. It was made of thick wool and felt heavenly on his cold skin. The hose was next, and his numb feet would have nearly offered up a prayer if they could speak.
He sank back, mired in disbelief. The warmth he had, just a moment before, had feared was going to disappear, was trapped close to him by the shirt and the hose. He pressed his back against the wall and took up the blanket, a bit superfluous now, but ran his fingers over the thin scratchy material.
The only thing that could make the day better would be if he was able to look into the lovely brown eyes of Adelaine. He wanted to thank for the cake she had given him and answer the rest of the questions he could see laying in her eyes.
He rested his temple, now covered by the felt hat, as his eyes traced the nearly-invisible outline of the bricks making up the wall. His gaze lifted to the window and the darkness that was there. Chances were he would not see the lass that day.
Flexing his toes in the hose, he smiled gratefully.
This is the lass’ work, I believe. The Earl wouldnae care if the cold kills me and they come to find me corpse cold and grey on the floor. The lass. This is her doing.
That night, he managed to sleep with some level of comfort and warmth. He dreamed of home. The wide McLagen castle and the deep loch on the far side of the hill the castle rested on. He dreamed of the thick forest on the rolling hills, the ice-capped mountaintops hidden in thin clouds and the sun rising pink-gold in the dawn.
His eyes flickered open in the darkness and his lips thinned.
Am I ever going to see me home again?
Sleep did not come back to him that night and he sat awake until the pale light of the greyish dawn came through the window. A deep numbness was in his chest where pain and homesickness should have been. Again, the odds of him seeing his homeland as a living man, much less a free one were slim.
He heard the upper gate scrape open and he shifted his head to look at the entrance to his barred hell. There was no hard thump of boots echoing through the corridor and down to him, rather, he heard just the soft whispers of steps. His heart began to thump a little harder.
It’s the lass.
He sat up straighter when the lass came out from the corridor. She was in her cloak again, but he saw flickers of a maroon dress under the hem of the outer covering. In her hands, was a cup, with steam rising from it. His stomach suddenly sprang to life and grumbled. God, he could barely remember the last time he had drunk something warm.
He watched as she came closer and then he stood. Her cheeks were red from the cold, making her just that more lovely to look at. He wrapped his fingers around a bar as she came close.
“Me Lady,” he said. His voice sounded scratchy and hoarse as his gaze dipped to the cup. “If that is for me, I must say me first thanks before this one. Ye sent me these clothes, dinnae ye?”
“I did,” she replied. “And yes, this is for you. You are welcome for both.”
The warm cup held hot milk; gratefulness encased his chest. He sipped the milk and his stomach accepted the warmth with a low—thankfully almost silent—groan.
Again, he saw unspoken questions in her eyes and said, “Ye have more things to ask me, dinnae ye?”
“Am I that transparent?” she asked, tilting her head up.
“I’ve had a lot of practice in seeing questions resting in the eyes of those who arenea brave enough to ask. A son worried about his father’s stubborn lung sickness, or a mother worrying over an ill child. It is nae too hard to see yers. What do ye want to ken from me?” Caelan said as he sank down, feeling relieved when she did the same. “
