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A reckless plan began to take shape. Could she do it - run away and head to the coast and beyond? She may die on the crossing over the firth, the waters there were treacherous, but at least she wouldn’t hate herself for the rest of her life for not trying. Surely she could find someone who could get her across? Once she was taken away to the Clan Menzies’ stronghold in the north, that would be it - she would never escape. Her life would just have lurched from one prison to another. Like a caged bird that starves itself to break free from suffering, she would pine and die with the misery of it.
To hell with their marriage plans. She would make plans of her own. If she was caught, her father would strangle her with his own hands. He was capable of terrible violence as he had already unleashed on the poor prisoners in his dungeon. Missing out on the considerable bride price he was squeezing out of her suitor would bring on a murderous rage, and she knew full well how that ended. She had to think of something, anything, to escape the noose tightening around her. It was either that or die trying, for there was no way in the world she was marrying Donald Menzies.
Kenna made a vow. If she did not escape and was forced to marry him, she would open his throat before she let him lay one bony finger on her again.
Chapter Four
Conall looked up at the sky, crisp and starlit above him. This clear night brought freezing temperatures, but with the fire crackling and his grey wolf pelt wrapped around his shoulders, he did not feel its nip. All he felt was freedom. How wonderful it was to be out of Dunslair, away from Rory’s constraints and Father Boyle’s judgements, and as he and his companions had ridden deeper into the wild borders of Campbell lands, that feeling of freedom grew.
True, there was a serious task ahead, to hunt down and bring to justice the brigands who had been preying on outlying farms and villages. That would not be easy but such villains, cut loose from ties that bind one to family and clan, usually ended up swinging from a gibbet. As strangers, outlanders, they would be viewed with suspicion everywhere, and Rory had already put the word out to the villages that Campbell justice was on the way, so people would have an eye out for anyone suspicious. This fresh challenge excited Connall, and as he had far too much energy to sleep, he had volunteered to take first watch.
Loud snoring came from way back in the shadows. Angus Muir, father of the wanton Elspeth, was part of the ten-man patrol, and he had been giving him hard looks all day as they had ridden north. Conall wondered if perhaps Elspeth, confronted about her lewd behaviour by her father, had been spilling secrets to avoid a beating. Was Angus suspicious of him? He was certainty disapproving, judging by the look on his face, though he was the sort of man who always looked on the brink of an argument. Conall decided he would have to be careful around Angus, and in future, he would be a bit more choosy about whom he fell into bed with, not someone like Elspeth, too free with her favours and too loose with her tongue.
The talk around the campfire tonight had been loud and easy, and the whisky had flowed freely, a little too freely, for now, he needed to relieve himself. Throwing another log on the fire, Conall made his way to the edge of the clearing. A horse snorted nearby and then another. He stopped dead, ears straining against the absolute quiet of the night. The horses stamped their hooves again. He could hear the click of their bridles jerking at the ropes tethering them for the night. His hand moved to his sword hilt.
The blow was vicious and came from nowhere. Conall had a moment to realise that he was falling and then nothing.
***
Rory stood alone in the yard, warming his hands by a brazier as dawn seeped into the sky above. Monnine emerged from the kitchen door with a pail and headed for the well, red hair wild about her shoulders. He froze, not wanting to be seen, preferring to study her for a moment.
She walked in a rush with her head down. When she got to the well, the squeak of the bucket being lowered down on the winch sounded deafening in the quiet. It hit the water with a dull splash, but Monnine struggled to raise it back up, and so Rory rushed over.
‘Let me help.’ She jumped at his voice, her face pale and her expression wary. ‘Tis too heavy for a little thing like you, and the rope is slippery with frost,’ he said.
‘That is for me to do, not you, Laird.’
‘Nonsense, ‘tis nothing to me to do it.’ He smiled, not wanting to alarm the woman. The wind whipped her hair around her face so that only her amber eyes were visible. What a glorious colour that hair was, a pale russet, like the pelt of a fox cub. For a moment, he was lost for words, and in the silence between them, he could feel the blood pounding in his ears.
‘Are they feeding you well in the kitchens?’ he asked as he lowered the bucket, hands numb from the cold, the squeak of the winch loud in his ears, for she was so still and quiet.
‘Aye, they give me hearty fare and often.’ Monnine’s voice was as soft as the rest of her, husky and low.
‘Is the work too hard?’
‘It is honest work, and I am glad to do it. It pleases me to be able to earn my keep.’
‘Where do you sleep?’
‘Sleep, Laird?’
The rope was icy and numbing his hands, and the bucket was heavy now it was full. Rory concentrated on not dropping it.
‘Have they given you a good warm bed? Do you sleep with the other girls and women for company?’
‘I sleep in the small hall before the fire on a pallet on the floor, and yes, I have company.’ She wouldn’t meet his eye or look at him directly.
‘Good, good, for Dunslair can be a daunting place, especially for a woman alone.’
The words died between them until the bucket had been brought up. Rory balanced it on the edge of the well, and she reached for it.
‘Are you well treated by everyone?’
‘I am.’ Monnine grabbed the handle, trying to take it from him, but he held onto its side.
The wind shifted, sweeping her hair away, and he got his first good look at her face. It was dominated by large amber eyes and a wide, full mouth. She looked fey, delicate, unworldly. Everything about her expression was soft, gentle. A man should take hold of that softness, nurture it, protect it. But was there softness in her heart, too or had the world’s cruelty driven it out?
‘Monnine, the men hereabouts, are they respectful?’
