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She made to say something but shook her head, “It’s…nothing. I should go.”
Gracefully, she stood and gave him a smile as he handed her the cup. “Good evening, Laird McLagen.”
“Would ye call me Caelan instead?” he asked. “I’d ken we’re past the formalities now”
“I can only do so when no one else is around,” she was a bit fearful. “My father would skin you alive if you called me anything but My Lady.”
“I vow to do so, but will you call me Caelan?” he asked again.
“From now on I will…Caelan, only in secret,” she nodded then hurried off.
Sitting back on the rough stone, Caelan smiled. “And mayhap someday, I can call ye Adelaine.”
Chapter 7
That night, a rainstorm arrived with a vengeance. The wind wailed and howled, rattling the window in its wooden frame. Rain pelted the shut windows, sluicing down the panes in thick rivulets. Adelaine was so glad she told Leicester to give Caelan some warm clothes. The man might have frozen to death in this storm.
The only source of light in her room was the flickering fire. Adelaine sat against the headboard, which was made of dark poplar wood, and looked at the rain. Her father was still in the capital and with this rain, the dirt road might not be a bit passable for a few days.
Perhaps it is a blessing. I’ll have more time to speak with Caelan.
Her eyes flicked to the half-shadowed chests around the bed, all of them in the same dark poplar make, with carved frames, and an inlaid motif. Comfortable and spacious, it was the room of a noble, but she felt sick to her stomach that the Scotsman, a Laird, was now suffering in a cold, dank, dark dungeon.
Slipping out of bed, she went to the window and looked though the rain at the distorted the image of the keep; the high tower looked even more foreboding under the dark skies and the jagged lances of lightning that carved the sky in half.
The ground was a dark river. The rain had fallen for so long, it had made the land sodden and over it was now a muddy stream.
What if it has gotten to the dungeons? Could Calen be under water? Is he fighting for his last breath of air now?
Cold panic for the man’s life caged her soul so tightly she could barely breathe. What if he died? Her hand was pressed against her mouth as fear doubled inside. What could she do? Even if she bade a servant to go and check on him, it would be suicide to enter that tempest. The lightning was fierce and the rumbling thunder vibrated the sturdy stones of the castle.
Jerkily, she stepped away from the window and went back to bed. Her guilt for living in comfort while the man suffered was almost as high as her fear for his life.
Dear God, please let him survive this storm.
Sleep did not come until the wee hours of the morning and even then, she was up at first light. The sun was pale but it was rising and the grounds were wet. That did not stop her from hastily putting on a dress over her smock, and clogs on her feet. She grabbed her cloak, and then she was off to the keep, rushing past some guards and squires as she did so.
She had to catch herself many times from slipping on the sodden ground and falling face forward on the slick mud. The ends of her cloak were stained with mud and possibly the ends of her dress were too, but she had to go and see if Caelan was alive.
The door was still wet but she pushed with all her might and the door creaked open. Adelaine did not need for it to be open completely. As soon as she could slip through the small space, she wrinkled her nose at the stale smell inside.
Making her way to the stairwell, she took care to step carefully down the spiral to the dungeon. As she hit the floor, her worries about Caelan drowning vanished. The floor was as dry as it was before. Not a speck of water was on the floor and she saw Caelan standing and looking toward the window.
He’s alive.
Nearly sagging against the wall in relief, she decided to softly back away and leave when he spoke over his shoulder, “I ken yer here, lass.”
Stepping closer to the bars she saw that though a puddle was on the floor near his feet and under the window, he wasn’t wet nor did his clothes look damp.
“I came to see if you are well,” she said. “I was terrified of the storm last night. I even thought that mayhap, water had come into the keep.”
He turned, and his expression was slightly humored, “We’d have storms like that one back home, some even came with hail, sleet, and snow. Ye couldnae see a thing even if it was a foot before yer nose.”
Adelaine could sense that there was a story there but she did not have time to stay and hear it. Martha must have been missing her by now. In fact, she was surprised that knights were not barging in here looking for her. She cast a worried look over her shoulder, “I have to go. I’m glad you are well though. Perhaps I will see you this evening.”
Caelan did not reply but only held out his hand. Her eyes dipped to it, a broad palm with thick fingers and deep-set lines then up to his face—his expectant face. She lifted her hand and lightly rested her palm on his. She felt the rough skin of calluses and the tips of his fingers on the base of her wrist.
His hand slipped back to curl his finger over hers and she followed his lead. Both of them interlocked their fingers to form a fist. Adelaine did not know why he did it but she did know that the sensation she had felt the first time they had touched was not a trick. It was happening again.
