CHAPTER Twenty-three
Calum lay curled on his side. He could not control the shaking. “Light a fire in the hearth, ye miserly bastards.” He tried to shout through his arid voice box, but all that came out sounded like a garbled croak.
A damp cloth draped across his forehead. Calum’s teeth chattered as if frost covered his body. He attempted to reach his hand up to pull the cloth away, but something held him down.
A voice echoed down the passage of a narrow cave. What was he doing in a cave? The voice called to him again. “Calum.”
“Mara?”
The voice came closer. “Yes, ’tis me.”
Calum tried to open his eyes, but something weighed down his lids. Why could he not move? Did they think him dead? But she spoke to him. He heard her speak his name again, further away this time—almost a whisper.
“Anne? Come back.”
His mind took him to the dark dungeon. Calum tried to focus. John and Ian had helped him flee. He tried to move, but the dungeon walls closed around him. Soldiers burst through the door and dragged him to the torture chamber. Calum cried out when he spied the rack. They would not strap him to it. Not again.
Something ice cold touched his wrists. Shaking ripped through his body.
He heard a crack. Lashes of a bullwhip cut his skin. A soft voice gasped. Could it be Anne? Yes, she was beside him—but her arms were bound over her head. He heard the crack of a whip and steeled himself against the sting he knew would cut through his flesh. But Anne shrieked in pain. Anne? They could not lash her. She had done nothing wrong. Anne’s face contorted until it faded into the blackness.
Dark shadows surrounded him. He shivered again. “Anne. Where are you? Anne! I will save you.”
Mumbled voices came from afar…
“Has he awaken?”
“Still delirious—but I thought he recognized my voice for a moment.”
“’Tis a good sign. Help me remove his bandages. I’ve mixed a fresh poultice.”
“I dunna ken what the clan would do without ye, friar.”
Something cool pressed against Calum’s shoulder—and then there was nothing.
***
The drastic change in her sleeping pattern made Anne’s head spin as if suffering from the latent effects of poppy essence. She tried to straighten out her legs and her muscles screamed. Her limbs weighed her down as if tied to bricks. How far had she walked? Further than ever before in her. She wasn’t prepared for such exertion. The only thing that ached more than her muscles was her empty stomach.
She reached for her satchel and pulled out the parcel of food. Since she’d lost her knife in Fort William, she tore into the meat with her teeth. She leaned her head back and salivated. Never had a piece of beef tasted so good. She ate half and forced herself to stop. She’d need it for her next meal—and then who knew where she’d find food.
Anne shoved her hand deep into her satchel and found the leather pouch that contained her precious possessions. She worked it to the top and shook it. Good. Her shillings glinted silver against the worn leather. Once she traveled further into Scotland, she’d find a guide to take her to Applecross—someone trustworthy. Her quandary was who? Calum had been careful to stay away from others on their journey south. Anne quaked at the thought of finding a mob of drunken Scots like those at the inn in Fort William. Perhaps if she came across a well-kept manor or a keep, she would find someone with a thread of kindness.
She slipped her shillings back and retied the pouch. If she told someone she had fled from the baron, they might help her—as long as she kept it silent that she was his wife. She loosened the thong again and fished inside. Yes. Lord Wharton had kept her copy of the marriage decree. Otherwise, she’d tear it to shreds and bury it.
Anne slid out from under her rock ledge and stood. Putting weight on her left foot shot daggers of pain up her leg. She crouched down and rubbed it. The flesh beneath her boot had swollen during the night.
“Curses, curses, curses.” She would not let a few sore muscles and a swollen ankle stop her. She scanned the ground and found an old staff of the perfect height, knarred by nature, the bark stripped at the thick end. With her satchel over her shoulder, she took several practice steps. With each one, she became more surefooted—at least that’s what she told herself.
The ankle strained under her weight, but her muscles did loosen a bit with the exercise. She hobbled to the edge of the trees. With summer coming, the sun stayed out longer, and she wondered if she could chance setting out during daylight. Green hills rolled as far as the eye could see. She had no idea where to find the main path north. Surely she had veered far from it.
Without a soul in sight, Anne headed north, the sun her only guide.
***
Two nights had passed since she camped under the rock overhang, and Anne had not seen so much as a hovel. Thus far, she had been fortunate enough to find water but she hadn’t eaten in over a day now. Certain she’d crossed the border into Scotland, she needed to find a compassionate soul soon.
Her ankle had gone past hurting and a dull ache reverberated up her leg with each step. At least the hunger had dulled the pain. She prayed the kind soul would also have a horse. She must have been daft to think she could walk all the way back to Raasay.
It was still light when Anne dragged herself to the top of a crag. How many more of these hills would she have to climb before she found a horse? She climbed onto a boulder and turned full circle. From her breathtaking vantage point, she could see hills of green rolling for miles in every direction. The vastness of the world around her was daunting.
She spied movement in the distance and a tremor shot through her fingers. Anne drew in a quick breath and crouched behind a clump of heather. Down in the valley, a contingent of soldiers in blue tunics rode with purpose. English. Were they looking for her? Was the baron with them? She squinted against the glaring sun and strained to discern if his large form was amongst them, but she couldn’t tell. She slid down the north side of the rock where she would be less obvious. With the sun shaded, she blinked twice. On the horizon, loomed the grey battlements of a stronghold.
At last, an ally. She would see Calum again. She would declare her love and beg for his forgiveness. The needles of guilt pricked at her neck yet again. But she’d had no other choice. If she hadn’t told the baron about Raasay, Calum would be dead and she would be lost forever. Anne clutched her arms tightly around her ribs. Calum lived. She would find him.
Filled with renewed energy, Anne watched as the soldiers turned west—away from her. She leaned on her walking stick and hurried down the hill as fast as her ankle would allow. Once at the bottom, she could no longer see the keep. That didn’t stop her. Spurred on by what she had seen, Anne climbed and clenched her teeth against each jarring step. She had to find a way to Calum. She had to kneel at his feet and kiss them. Even if he forced her to be a servant, her life would be more fulfilled on Raasay—she could train his eagles and teach the children to read—she could help Mara manage the keep.
She stepped faster, dragging herself up with her walking stick. Nearly there. When she reached the crest of the next hill, her shoulders sagged. She had thought this would be the last one. Anne took in a deep breath and stood tall. One more slope and she would be there. Her head swooned and she pressed her palms against her temples. She would not succumb to her hunger. Sucking in a labored breath, she lumbered ahead.
Anne could barely focus her eyes, but the keep was in reach at last. Massive grey walls towered above, but the lines seemed jagged. She blinked. A portion of the battlements had crumbled as if hit by cannon shot. She limped to the archway. No gates secured it. She turned full circle, listening. No voices, no horse hooves, no clang of a blacksmith—she heard nothing but the call of a willow warbler on the breeze.
A lead ball sank to the pit of her stomach, but she proceeded through the gates. The sun had set and little light remained. She could not go on without food. A burnt out shell of a once great stronghold enveloped her. Anne clutched her arms across her chest. Had Wharton driven all good Scots away from this place?
Her entire body ached. A sharp pain jarred her ankle. With a cry of utter helplessness, she dropped to the ground. She had to reach to Raasay. She must find food, but she had no weapon and no trained falcon to pluck a pigeon from the air.
Anne crouched on her knees and cradled her head in her hands. With every sob, Anne fell deeper into despair. She had been traveling for days. Dear God in Heaven, help me.
***
Calum opened his eyes. He rested upon the comfort of a familiar bed and ran his fingers along the crisp clean sheets. He pushed up with a shaky arm. This bed was not only familiar, it was his. How had he gotten here? His arm gave way and he tried to roll onto his back. Sharp pain brought back the memory of the angry tongues of a cat ‘o nine tails tearing into his flesh.
Hunger clawed at his gut. He licked his lips with a gritty tongue. Water. He heard a rustle by the hearth. “Water.” The word grated like a rasp in his throat.
“Are ye awake, laird?” Friar Pat’s deep voice held a note of fear.
“Water,” Calum said, louder this time.
In seconds, the friar held a goblet to his lips. Calum gulped the liquid—not water but mead.
“This is me own brew. ’Twill help ye come round, m’laird.”
Thick sweetness coated his tongue and throat. Calum nodded toward the empty goblet. “More.”
The friar held up his hand. “Ye must go slow. Ye’ve been fevered for days.”
“Food.”
“I’ll bring ye some broth.”
“Broth?” With the mead coating his throat, his voice became clearer. Calum struggled to sit but his limbs trembled. “I want food—meat.”
The friar patted his exposed shoulder. “We’ll start with broth. If ye can keep that down, we’ll add some porridge.”
Left alone, Calum grumbled and muscled himself to a sitting position. He tugged up the pillows behind him and lay against them. Hissing through his teeth, he tested the tender flesh on his back. A hundred knives sliced angrily, but once he settled on the goose down, the pain dulled.
Friar Pat bounded through the door, clutching a bowl, with wide-eyed John and Mara behind him.
“Calum, you’re sitting up?” Mara dashed to the bedside. “How is yer back?”
“Feels like a nest of stinging honey bees have taken up residence.” Calum barely recognized his own voice.
The friar held up a spoon of broth.
Calum grabbed it. “I can feed meself.”
The three exchanged exasperated shrugs, and Pat handed Calum a spoon, but held the bowl. Calum’s hand shook and ladled the broth into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days. For all he knew, he hadn’t. “How long have I been abed?”
John stepped in beside the friar. “It has been three days since the ship dropped anchor in the bay.”
Calum rubbed his head. “Six days since we left the firth?”
“Aye.”
“Any word of Wharton?”
“Nay. But blue tunics lined the shore as the wind picked up the sails in Solway.”
Calum swallowed his last spoonful of broth. “Wharton will come after us. Anne gave away the keep to spare me.”
Mara gasped. “She told them of Raasay?”
Calum pushed his hair back from his face. “She did it to save me from the lash.”
“Little good that did,” John said.
“I’m alive, am I no’?” He sliced his hand through the air. “Dunna think ill of her. She is in her own hell, living under the roof of a monster. I never should have ransomed her.”
Calum looked at the solemn faces of his closest clansmen. “Have ye sent out the spies?”
“Aye.”
“Have ye called for reinforcements?”
“Do ye think we need them?”
“If I ken Wharton, he will attack us with a fleet of English warships.” Calum leaned forward and grimaced. Mara adjusted his pillows. “Send Norman to Lewis. Have him tell Ruairi all of the Hebrides are in peril. If we do not stop Wharton, he will take all until we all fall under his tyranny.”
John nodded and took his leave. With a grunt, Calum leaned back and closed his eyes. “I need me strength. Bring me meat.”
“Aye, we will but first must check yer dressing.” The friar tugged on Calum’s shoulder and pulled him forward. “Tis a miracle ye are sitting up, m’laird. I thought it would be days yet afore ye could do that.”
“It must be yer potent mead.” Calum grimaced as the bandages pulled against his tender flesh. “How is it looking?”
“I think yer wounds need to air a bit. Have another tot of me mead and I’ll bring ye some porridge.”
“Porridge and a slab of meat.”
Calum guzzled another goblet of mead and lay on his side with the bedclothes around his hips. The cool air on his back eased the sting and the friar’s mead numbed his head. Mara and Pat closed the door but Mara’s voice drifted through the wood. “’Tis a good sign he’s being cantankerous.”
He’d be a fair bit more cantankerous if they kept treating him like an invalid. He needed to heal quickly. He closed his eyes and saw Anne looking like a goddess in her red dress, her long tresses glistening gold in the sun. With vivid clarity he recalled the slap Wharton had delivered across her face. If only his hands had not been bound to the post, Calum would have murdered the bastard right there in the town square. Wharton’s slap was no tap, but a vicious hit that had echoed across the bailey walls—and in a public forum. What was that man capable of behind closed doors? Anything.
Calum pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, blocking the unwanted images of the brutish man forcing himself upon Lady Anne. With a grunt, he pushed up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He took his weight onto his feet. Wobbling, his legs gave out. He fell back onto the bed and roared as his bare back swiped against the woolen blanket. Where is my meat? I cannot lie here like a sickly old man. Our very existence is in peril.