Dark Side of the Laird (Highland Bound) (12 page)

I stopped one, a woman, grabbing her arm. “Where is everyone?”

She swallowed looking up me, some recognition in her eyes. Good, at least she knew who I was.

“Are ye wanting to break your fast, Laird Grant?”
she asked.

“I’d prefer to share it with King James.”

She swallowed again, her limbs trembling and I removed my hand.

“He’s not at all well, my laird, and so ye see, they’ve not ordered a meal, but if ye like, I can have Cook bring ye some porridge?”

I grunted. “Where is the steward?”

Her eyes lit up, as though she were excited for having better news for me. “He’s with the king.”

My frowned deepened. “The king has risen.”

“Aye, my laird.”

Why wasn’t I summoned? “I wish to have words with him. Please take me to his chamber.”

The
light went out of her eyes and she shook her head, glancing back toward the ground, her knuckles turning white against the handle of the bucket she carried. “I canna, my laird.”

“Why?” The words came out harsher than I intended.

“Because he has ordered all of us to stay away.” The woman’s voice had gone softer, barely audible.

I held in the growl of frustration that bubbled to the surface.
“Then tell me where his chamber is and I’ll see myself to it.”

Panic struck her then
as she glanced up at me, her eyes wide with fear. The bucket in her hand shook as she trembled, and I admit to being worried that whatever it contained would spill on my boots. “I canna, my laird, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” I growled,
not able to hold it in, and no longer caring that I sounded harsh.

“He has not told us where it is,
” she said, shrill.

“Ye mean to tell me that ye dinna know which room your king sleeps in?” ’Twas ludicrous!

She shook her head. “We dinna. He changes every night.”

“Who knows then?”

“Just the steward.”

I narrowed my eyes, a myriad of thoughts going through my mind. Was she lying? Was the steward in league with MacDonald, wishing to keep the king hidden away, vulnerable? Was he really ill or had he been poisoned? If Lady Isabella could have so easily poisoned myself and my men, wasn’t it possible that someone could have gotten to the king and done the same thing?

Very possible.

I needed to find him immediately. I waved the maid away who breathed out a sigh so filled with relief, it almost made me laugh. Almost. If I wasn’t so worried over my brother I might have.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, prepared to begin my search, the steward appeared, as if from nowhere. Melting from the shadows like a spy. I narrowed my eyes, scrutinizing him, but he smiled brightly, as if I’d handed him a purse full of gold coins.

“Good morning, my laird.”

“Where is the king?” I had no time for niceties.

“He is dressing now, and will meet ye in his study. Will ye follow me please? I will take ye there to wait.”

I didn’t move. “He has improved?”

The steward’s gaze shifted slightly. “Indeed, he has. Will ye follow me?”

I nodded, trailing the steward across the hall to opposite set of stairs, but keeping extra alert to anything afoul. He led me to a chamber with a lit fire, a long trestle table and reams of rolled parchment. Looked to be the king’s study, but even still, I was suspicious.

“How is King James feeling this morning?” I
asked, more direct this time.

“Much better. He woke up
…jovial. When I informed him ye were here, he requested that I bring ye to the study. He is most…eager to see ye.”

I narrowed my eyes, studying the man.
“Is he?” Something about the steward’s voice was off. Was it nerves?

The
steward poked at the fire and seemed deep in thought. Then he turned quickly toward me. “Aye, he is. Should ye like some porridge and ale brought? Of course ye would.”

He
spoke quickly, pressing his hands together and flicking his eyes all about the room, answering his own question instead of waiting for my response.

“Steward—”

“I’ll have one of the maids bring it.” He cut me off and took long strides to the door, but I wasn’t going to let him get away that easily. My strides were longer.

I slammed my hand against the door,
closing it and glared down at him. “What are ye about?”

“What?” he asked nervously, taking a short step backward. He looked ready to bolt.

I crossed my arms over my chest, standing guard in front of the door. “Why are ye acting so suspicious?”

“Suspicious?”
The man shook his head and appeared to work hard at pulling himself together. “Apologies, my laird. ’Tis simply some news we had this morning. Ye see the king is a father once again.”

“The queen has given birth?”

“Aye.” The steward shook his head, looking disappointed. “We received the news shortly after your arrival.”

“And?”

“A girl, my laird. A princess.” His lips curled down, as though the words soured his tongue.

Mo c
hreach
. I gave a curt nod. “I shall give the king my congratulations.”

“Hmm. Ah, aye, indeed. If ye
would please excuse me.”

I nodded,
wondering just how badly James was taking the news of a princess instead of a prince. If Emma were to bear me a son or a daughter, I’d be most proud. I’d be ecstatic, either gender. A sweet princess with Emma’s fiery hair and pert nose. Or a strapping boy ready to give me hell. Any child was a blessing.

But not for James. Not when he’d seen his princes breathe their last within minutes of being born. Not when he needed an heir so badly to prove to the realm that he should be their true king.

The steward took advantage of me being deep in thought and pressed his hands to the door, pulling it open a few inches. “I’ll have a maid bring ye some food.” He skirted around me, slipping into the opening.

I
grunted and turned toward the sideboard, pouring a dram of whisky as the steward pulled the door closed behind him. The distinct click of the lock had me barreling forward and yanking hard on the iron handle.

It wouldn’t budge.

“Open this door!” I bellowed, ramming my shoulder repeatedly against the wood and feeling the thickness of it shudder beneath me.

But no one
released me. No one uttered a word.

Chapter Thirteen

Emma

I
was inside a void.

Darkness, cold and miserable
, surrounded me where I stood. I wasn’t in bed. I didn’t appear to be clothed, but naked. Drafts of air washed up my bare legs, over my abdomen and swirled around my neck, choking me. I reached up, desperate to stop whatever it was that held me pinned, but there was nothing but a breeze.

My demons had taken me once more.

A shiver stole up my spine and gooseflesh covered my arms and legs. I walked, barefoot on a damp, stone floor. I reached out my hands, feeling nothing but the dank air, like walking through a fog at midnight, except I didn’t even have the stars or moon to guide me. There was nothing but darkness.

I took a few steps, sliding my feet over the stone. It was slick, like it was covered in dirty water, and patches of algae. Almost like the stones I’d stepped across at the lake where my family vacationed. One wrong stride and I’d come crashing down.

Where was I? Had I slept walked? The last I remember was my room, falling asleep after drinking a draught Agatha gave me.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I hope
d I’d wake, because this was surely a nightmare. I was asleep and somehow I ended up here. But I didn’t wake, instead, my surroundings became all the more real as shouts of pain and the lashings of a whip assailed my ears. Just like when I’d seen the scout beaten by Ewan at Gealach months before. A traitor he’d been, and his punishment had been brutal, deadly.

God, was I having a nightmare about that again? I’d thought to be through with them.
Through with visions of torn flesh and spraying blood. I stopped dead in my tracks, willing myself to wake, to be done with the nonsense. Nothing happened. I was still standing there. Still shivering, naked in a foreign, dark corridor. The whipping and bellows still echoed.

But somehow
, I knew, this wasn’t a nightmare about the scout. This was different. I felt fear settle in the pit of my belly. My heart seized and beat in an erratic pace, and my breaths came quick and shallow as my panic took hold, took control.

Despite how real it felt, I knew this had to be a dream.
Only a dream
, I mouthed.

Vulnerable as I was, nude, alone in the dark and no idea where I was, taking control of my own situation gave me a confidence I hadn’t felt before. A renewed strength flowed through my veins.

Maybe the only way to wake from this nightmare was to walk through it. It was a possibility that my dreams had something to show me. Some way to cope with Logan being away, or maybe it was the effect of the medicinal teas Agatha had been feeding me. Whatever the cause, I wasn’t going to be able to get myself out of it.

And knowing that, taking control of that, helped me to take another shaky step forward. A single yellow dot of light glowed at the end of wherever I walked. A tunnel? A corridor
in a castle?

Holding out my hands to feel for anything—and coming into contact with nothing—I took tentative steps forward, letting each
slide of my foot, steady itself before taking another.

The light did not grow bigger, though I walked closer. It was tiny, like a hole in the wall
. The screaming had stopped, and the only sound in the black hole where I was, was the pounding of my heart and air as it rushed in and out of my lungs.

When the light looked to be within a foot of me, I reached forward and put a shaking finger to it. A cold
, metal rim. My finger pressed into it, blocking the light and I plucked it back out.

A keyhole?

I knelt down, my knees touching the slimy floor, and I pressed my hands to the wall—a wooden door—and my eye to the light.

What I saw
had me recoiling in horror, jerking back and losing my balance, I fell flat on my ass, elbows jarring painfully into the stone floor.

No! It couldn’t have been. My eyes were playing tricks on me.
I pushed back up and put my eye back to the hole.

My mouth open in a silent scream, I stared
through the metal rim, the light blinding me now. I leaned forward again, and looked.

Logan was inside,
lying on a tall wooden trestle table. His arms were stretched over his head, strapped down with leather as were his ankles at the opposite end. He was stripped naked, blood oozing from wounds over his chest, abdomen and thighs. Stripes of red marred his skin and deep purple bruising covered the parts that weren’t bloody.

He’d been beaten, severely so.

His face was turned to the other side, so I couldn’t see him. But I’d know him anywhere. He appeared to be alone. The single chamber was lit by torches hung on the walls. Various stands filled with instruments of torture weren’t too far from him, perhaps a reminder to him when he waked of where he was. Long curving daggers, axes, metal hooks, razors, whips of various kinds, saws, things that looked like pliers and clamps. The stuff of nightmares.

But where
was
he?

Where were
we
?

Was this the king’s palace? His dungeon? Mac
Donald’s dungeon? Had he been captured after the Grant warrior had returned to the castle? Or was this just a manifestation of my fears? Logan, strapped to a table, vulnerable, gone from me.

“Logan,” I whispered, fear making me tremble all over. My hands digging into the wood of the door.

There had to be a handle. I had to get to him. Had to help him. I pulled away, frantically searching the surface of the door for a handle with my hands. Even the tiny shaft of light from the keyhole didn’t illuminate the door.

No handle.

It was flat, and the only marking on the door at all was the keyhole and three metal hinges on the side.

And I had no key. No tools to take apart the hinges
.

Or did I?

“Oh my God,” I whispered harshly, slapping at my thigh, to the leather tie that held the knife Logan had given me.

I wrenched the handle, freeing the knife from the strap and feeling the leather sag down my thigh. I twisted the end of the handle, trying to remember how Logan had revealed the key to me.

As I worked it, I leaned forward, looking into the light again, praying that what I’d seen before was gone. This was a nightmare after all. A too real nightmare.

He still lay there, quiet in his unconsciousness, his ribcage rising and falling in shaking, unsteady breaths.

“God, don’t die on me,” I hissed.

At last the handle clicked and pulled free.
I stuffed the handle casing into my mouth to keep from losing it. Feeling along the wood for the hole with one hand, I pressed the key to the hole with the other, making the tiny dot of light disappear. The sound of the metal key sliding into the hole echoed in the pitch black corridor, and I held my breath waiting for someone to shout a warning, waiting for enemy guards to come chasing after me to steal the key and strap me to a table. But there was nothing.

Slowly, I turned the key, expecting to meet resistance, but not expecting it to work. A perfect fit, it turned, and clicked, unlocking.
Seconds ticked by like minutes as I inched the door open a slit. I’d done it! I removed the key, and put the handle back in place, safe on my thigh, then slid my fingers into the opening I’d created, prepared to wrench it wide.

A loud sound, like thunder
, jolted me and I felt myself grabbed by some invisible force and yanked backward through the air, through the tunnel. I screamed, reaching back for the door as I was pulled from wherever I was…

I woke in a cold sweat, a scream still on my lips as I sat bolt upright in bed.

This wasn’t just a dream, it was a vision. I was certain of it. The powerful draw that Logan and I both had to each other… That magic that seemed to emanate from both of us and strung us together. The force that was whatever power was behind our joining had done this. They’d shown me where he was, and what was happening.

Logan was in trouble. I felt it deep in my bones.
My entire body shook in great, convulsing tremors. My hands refused to steady themselves and my teeth chattered.

Agatha rushed into my chamber, her face full of fear, looking ready to pounce on an unseen enemy.

“What’s wrong, dearie? I heard ye scream,” she said, her thick accent making her words garbled.

“Logan,” I whispered. In my heart I knew it was real. Still felt the awful terror that consumed me.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to ease the pressure. “He’s in trouble.”

Agatha rushed forward, pouring a cup of watered ale and thrusting it toward me. “Drink.”

I sipped at it, the sour liquid doing nothing to quell my parched throat and instead making me cough.

“Get Ewan,” I demanded between hacking breaths.

“What happened?” she asked, ignoring me.

“I’ve…I’ve had a vision. You must get Ewan right away.”

Agatha had gone pale, perhaps seeing the conviction in my eyes. These people were less likely to question a vision than those in my own time. They still believed in magic, soul mates and the spiritual link that seemed to tie many people together.

She nodded and hurried from the room.

I smoothed my hair with shaky fingers, and tried to catch my breath, but visions of Logan lying bloodied and bruised on that horrid table kept me from drawing decent air. That horrid room, filled with implements of torture…an executioner’s wet dream.

“My lady,” Ewan burst into the room, his eyes wide. “Agatha said ’twas urgent.”

I nodded, pushing up on my hands to sit further in the bed, my muscles screaming from the effort, and aching from my own bruises. “Logan is in trouble. I have seen him.”

“Seen him?” Ewan shook his head, eyeing me like I’d grown a third head.
This warrior did not so easily believe as Agatha had.

“A vision,” I said, my breath catching as every bruise and stripe of lacerated flesh
on Logan invaded my mind. I slid my hand discreetly to my thigh, squeezing the dagger strapped there. A momentary fear that my dream had taken it from me, had me panicking for a split second. But it was still there, burning a spot on my skin. But I knew that someone had seen it, now. Agatha. Maybe even the healer, too. I swallowed hard, realizing I’d broken my promise to Logan to keep it safely hidden. Tumble down the stairs or not. “He’s been hurt. He’s been…tortured.”

“Tortured?” Ewan came forward, a frown marring his face. “My lady, he is with the king. He is safe.
Ye had a night terror, ’tis all.”

“
No, it wasn’t. And you don’t know where he is. You have no idea.” I wanted to shout that it wasn’t like he could pick up a phone and call. There was no way of knowing if Logan ever made it to the king. No way of knowing if his men hadn’t been ambushed again along the road, or taken into custody when they arrived.

Ewan might think I was crazy, but in my gut I knew Logan was in trouble
. And I was pretty certain of where he was. “The king has him. He is in a dungeon of some sort.”

“Dinna say such things. Visions…they are…”
Ewan shook his head and made the sign of the cross.

I sat up taller.
“What, Ewan? Visions are what?”

“They are dangerous.
And to speak about the king…”

“
Logan is hurt, Ewan. Beaten, bloody. I thought he was dead until I saw him breathing.”

“Dead?” he whispered. “Nay.
He canna be dead. And ye dinna see him. ’Twas a nightmare. Nothing more.”

Ewan paled, his jaw tightening as he stormed toward the window and fidgeted with the shutters.

I sensed he knew something, that it had to do with the Grant warrior who I saw before falling down the stairs. “Tell me.”

He glanced back at me and I could see his hesitation. I widened my eyes, encouraging him to continue.

“Do ye recall what ye saw before ye fell?”

I nodded.

“The warrior, Gregor, came to tell us of an attack on Logan’s men by the MacDonald warriors.”