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The man’s burnished red hair still managed to stand out, even in the darkening sunlight. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his muscled, battle-scarred chest unexpectedly sent her heart into a flurry. She spotted his face and her breath caught. She did not see his eyes but did see the thick line of his brows leading to a regal nose and lips that flattened in a line. He squared his shoulders and jutted his chin forward. A very proud pose for a man who was obviously a prisoner.
He’s clearly a Scot, but who is he and why did Father bring him here?
Bracing a hand on the rough stone balustrade, she edged closer. Her father had gotten off his horse and neared the prisoner. He said something to the Scot but the man did not answer. Once again, her father spoke and again there was no reply.
Adelaine got nervous when a dark red color took her father’s face. She knew that face. Everyone who angered her father beyond his patience level knew that face and it was not one to be at ease with. Her father lifted his gauntleted hand and slapped the man across his face and roared, “You will answer me!”
She shrank back in her place. His voice had taken on a tone she knew foreshadowed someone getting beheaded. The man’s jaw worked but then he did speak. It was too low for her to hear but her father scowled and spoke to the guard beside him.
Nodding in obedience, he grabbed the man and walked him from the entryway, through the courtyard, and to the side gate that led to the back grounds. She pictured what was there—washing houses, cold cellars, small patches of herb gardens and the tall, fortified keep. The tower had a dungeon that, as far as she knew, had never been used as her father did not keep prisoners.
What is so special about this man?
She retreated into the house and grasped the unfinished handkerchief. She had not seen her brother but she was happy he was home. She sat on the chair and listened to the faint rumbles of thunder, waiting patiently for her father to get settled in and calm down.
It felt strange that Peter had not come to find her, as she was used to him seeing her first whenever he came home from battle or the capital. Perhaps he was with her father. Happiness bubbled inside her as she left the room to seek out her father and brother. Their absence, especially her brother’s, with his sly pranks and silly grin, had left her horribly bored.
She edged up to her father’s meeting room and heard him speak harshly. “Make sure that murderer has only water and scraps of food until he confesses to his crime!”
“Yes, My Lord,” two voices said instantly.
“You’re dismissed!”
Adelaine jumped out of the way as the two leather-clad guards hurried away. Then they nodded in acknowledgment with a rushed, “My Lady.”
Murderer? Is that what that handsome man is? But aren’t murderers ugly and well…more sinister?
She peeked around the door and spotted her father glaring at the wall. She meekly said, “Father…is all well?”
He looked over his shoulder but his expression did not soften. When he met her eyes his face only tightened. “Adelaine, daughter…I had hoped to not have to tell you this but…” He retreated around his desk and sank into his seat, his hand covering his eyes.
Looking around, Adelaine asked. “Where’s Peter, Father?”
“That’s it, Adelaine,” the Earl said. “Peter…is not coming home.”
Confused, she sat. “Is he still in Scotland then?”
“His body is,” her father spat harshly. “He was killed, Adelaine. I have it on good report, by a second party, that he was cut. When help w
as sought, he was then strangled by a savage brute who is more animal than man. He is never coming home to us.”
The words took time to register in Adelaine’s soul but when they did, a crushing, searing pain squeezed her soul tight and sliced through her heart. If she had not been seated, she would have crumbled to the floor on her suddenly-rubbery knees. Tears sprang to her eyes and her vision blurred.
All the happiness she had felt at the prospect of seeing her brother was wiped away, gone in the blink of an eye. The thought that she would never see her brother again, hear his laugh or see that twinkle of mischief in his eye, made her chest swell like a river about to burst over its banks.
“Was it him?” she asked as fury chased her grief.
“Him who?”
“The Scot who I saw your men carry to the keep,” she said. “Was it him who did this? Who took my brother from me? Was it him?”
Her father’s lips were thin and bloodless, “Yes, it was him, Caelan McLagen. He keeps professing his innocence, but I have it on good authority he killed Peter, and until he admits his devilish deed he will be kept in irons and starved like the dog he is.”
Plucking an unfinished handkerchief out of her pocket, one that was doomed to never be finished, Adelaine swore on her pain.
Caelan McLagen, you must suffer. May you die and the hounds of hell drag you to your master.
Chapter 2
