The Niece of His Highland Enemy by Alisa Adams

16

After Fergus rode off, Moire sat on a stump in the middle of the woods for what felt like hours, sobbing miserably.

She had expected Fergus to yell at her, to curse her, perhaps even to strike her. She had been prepared for all of those things. Part of her even believed that she deserved them for the role she had played in his deception and endangerment.

But she had never thought that he would simply mount his horse and leave her alone in the middle of a dark and tangled forest.

He had not even granted her a chance to properly apologize to him, to tell him that she regretted placing him in harm’s way, that she did genuinely care for him and desire him, that she wished there was some way for him and his people to prevail while her siblings were kept safe. She had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they might somehow arrive at such a solution together. That their feelings for each other would see them through despite the challenges they faced.

Instead, one moment he was there, and the next he was gone in a cloud of dead leaves and soil.

Would she ever see him again? she wondered. Would she have a chance to say all the things she had meant to?

Would he be killed before she got the chance?

Would she?

As if in answer to her unquiet thoughts, she heard hoofbeats approaching the wooded area swiftly and the sound of men yelling back and forth among each other. From the sound of it, they were guards from the castle and were uncertain whether their mounts would be able to navigate through the trees and bushes. One of them suggested that if their steeds could not make their way through, neither would Fergus’s and that as such, investigating the woods was a waste of their time.

Another man—who, from his tone and bearing, seemed to be the leader among them—insisted that they continue on foot. He reminded the rest what Ronald might do to them if they were anything less than thorough in tracking and retrieving Moire or Fergus.

The others agreed solemnly.

Before they could trudge into the forest, their leader called out, “Moire Campbell! Fergus Brodie! If one or both of ye are hidin’ among them trees, now is the time to emerge, reveal yerselves, an’ come along peaceably! Ye are outnumbered, an’ ye have no hope of escape! However, if ye surrender yerselves at once, I shall make sure tae inform Laird Ronald upon our return tae the castle, an’ mayhap he will take it into consideration when he decides what tae do wi’ ye!”

Briefly, Moire wondered whether it would be worth trying to flee from them. But that did not seem likely to succeed. The branches were too thickly grown—they would surely slow her down and make enough noise to alert them that she was attempting to getaway. They would be on her like hounds upon foxes, and the more she struggled…

Suddenly, in her mind, she was transported to the shore again. She felt the hands of those brutes all over her body, pushing her down, overpowering her.

She might be properly killed this time if she resisted.

Better to place herself in their hands, and have faith that her uncle would not harm her too dreadfully. They were blood relations, after all. And more than that, she had no doubt that he had other uses in store for her, other ghastly manipulations he wished to involve her in.

If she’d still had Fergus by her side, perhaps she would have been more eager to take her chances, more convinced that they might get away together unscathed.

But he was gone. He was never coming back. She had given him no reason to, and she was deeply ashamed.

“I am here,” she replied loudly. “I am alone, I am unarmed, and I have no intention of resisting. I am sure that all among you realize my uncle would rather see me returned to the castle unharmed, and with that in mind, I am entrusting myself to your care.”

She waited for a response, but none came.

Perhaps they are skeptical, she reasoned. Perhaps they think Fergus is in here with me or that I have some trick up my sleeve. They may be simply waiting for me to emerge before gauging the appropriate response.

In which case, I suppose I should not keep them waiting and thus raise their ire.

She hiked up her dress though it did not do much good, as it already had a hundred burrs and thistles clinging to it, and stepped through the underbrush, making her way out into the bright sunlight. Two-thirds of the guards were brandishing blades, while the rest aimed crossbows.

They seemed to be expecting Fergus to come out behind her or launch some cunning attack while she distracted them.

When that did not happen, their leader stepped forward and slammed his fist into Moire’s midsection with all his might, causing her to double over and retch. He seized her by the hair, yanking her head upward and snarling into her face with his fetid breath, “Ye are mistaken, lass. Yer uncle bade me ‘harm’ ye just enough that ye might have a taste of what’s to come at his hands upon yer return.”

Several hours later,after Moire had endured a long and gruesome ride back to the castle, the front gates of the castle swung open to allow the vintner’s cart to jiggle and rattle through into the courtyard. The driver was waved through with barely a glance, as his face and vehicle were quite familiar to the sentries posted at the entrance.

And Fergus rode in a cask in the back, his limbs aching sharply. He was cramped in tightly, and the stones and rough paths that the cart rode over jostled him savagely. His bones were pained, his teeth rattled. He was scarcely able to draw a decent breath, and when he tried, his eyes and nostrils were stung by the acrid tang of the ale which had previously inhabited the barrel.

Worth it, he told himself grimly. Worth every moment to have my chance at setting things right with “Laird” Ronald Campbell.

The cart rolled and bucked over the cobblestones of the courtyard until it came to a stop. Fergus had been told that when this happened, it would mean that the driver had halted in front of the back entrance to the larders. From there, the stewards and servants would help to unload it and carry the casks down a few at a time.

Sure enough, Fergus heard the voices of the kitchen staff. He listened to them exchanging pleasantries with the driver, and he felt the weight of the cart shift and groan around him once they began to pull the barrels off it.

For a brief moment, up and down switched places, his stomach lurched as his own cask was unloaded...and deposited on the ground upside-down. Fergus’s head instantly began to hurt as the stone pressed against it from the other side of the wooden lid.

“You carry those down to the cellars now. There’s a good lad,” the driver said, no doubt speaking to one of the Campbell servants. “And I shall safeguard the rest of it up here. No doubt there’d be some pious sort who might see all this wine left unattended and fancy a bit of impromptu communion, eh?”

The servant grunted a reply, and a moment later—just as the blood was beginning to rush to Fergus’s head, making him dizzy—the driver rapped on the round panel beneath Fergus’s boots. No doubt he had not realized that the cask had been placed wrongly.

No matter. Fergus decided he would simply have to make due.

He mustered all of his strength in his legs and kicked against the wood as hard as he could, dislodging it. His legs briefly flailed in the air, and for a moment, he thought the keg might lose its balance and tip over. If it did, not only would he doubtless attract attention, but he would look foolish, like a helpless beetle flipped onto its back.

And there are beetles enough in this castle as it is, he thought wryly. Lord knows I have seen them myself.

But the driver righted the cask at the last moment and guided the rest of Fergus’s cramped body out of it. The young laird flexed and stretched his limbs, feeling them pop and crack. He hoped he would be able to readily shake off the aches in his body; he knew he would need to be at his best for what lay ahead.

“Ye’d best get a move on, then,” the driver advised in a conspiratorial tone. “These servants shall return any moment, an’ ye wouldnae want tae be spotted. ‘Twould put us both in danger, right enough.”

“I would not repay your kindness with peril for all the world, sir,” Fergus replied, clasping the man’s hand in friendship. “Your bravery this day shall not be forgotten. Farewell for now.”

And with that, Fergus crouched down and skulked against the stone walls of the castle, trying to remain shrouded in the shadows of the early evening. He knew that the workers of the field were deployed before the first light of day, but how late were they kept? Would they be toiling still, even as dusk approached?

He hated himself for hoping so, but for the sake of his current purpose, he did just the same. In order for this next part of his plan to work, he needed to enlist the aid of a very specific worker.

And even if he managed to reach her, there was no guarantee that she might assist him.

Still, he had to try. He could envision no feasible alternative.

The bales of hay at the base of the castle’s towers had saved his life before. He had every hope that they might do the same for him again.

As he crept over to them, a peculiar thought crossed his mind, and it took all of his self-control not to laugh aloud. All of Laird Campbell’s men were no doubt searching for him all the way to the farthest edges of the clan’s lands…and here he was, in the one place he knew none of them would be looking for him.

Though the notion amused him tremendously, he reminded himself to remain cautious and inconspicuous. He could not afford to become overconfident now. There were still plenty of enemies all around him.

He fervently hoped that Moire’s little sister was not among them.

Freya’s childish mind had seemed deeply swayed by the views and philosophies of Ronald Campbell the last time he had encountered her. What if, in the simple fashion of children, she chose to betray him to Ronald? He was her uncle, after all. If her mind had been sufficiently muddled, she might still be loyal to him no matter how much he had threatened and hurt her.

It was a risk.

One Fergus had to take.

He crouched behind one of the larger bales, his back pressed against the wall of the tower. The workers were still harvesting the fields, and he easily identified Freya among the other children who were wielding farming tools that were much too big for them.

The tub of water that the laborers took periodic refreshment from was not situated far from the bales. All Fergus had to do was wait for Freya to request a chance to get a drink of water, and then he might be able to speak with her without being seen.

There were many uncertain elements to his plan. He knew it well.

But it was the only plan he had.

So he hunkered down for minutes, which turned to hours, being slowly and steadily baked by the layer of hot straw above him as it soaked up the rays of the sun. He felt his skin grow red and tender beneath the blanket of dried and brittle stalks, and he watched one worker after another excuse themselves to the tub and ladle while Freya remained resolute and kept toiling.

She must be made of stern stuff indeed, Fergus thought, perspiring and growing vaguely delirious from the heavy heat that surrounded him. She has outlasted people twice her age or older. Even so, if she does not fetch herself some water soon, I fear I may surely lose consciousness and be poached in my own juices like a goose.

Eventually, Freya did indeed signal the nearest overseer that she had a thirst, and the overseer nodded in response.

The child skipped over to the tub, filling a ladle with water long since warmed in the sun and bringing it to her lips.

This was the moment. Fergus prayed he would not fail, else he would surely be killed.

He waited for the overseer to turn his back, then waved to Freya.

Freya looked up and saw his gesture. Her eyes widened.

“You recognize me, Freya, do you not?” he beseeched her, trying to keep the volume of his voice as low as possible while still ensuring he would not be forced to risk repeating himself. “As a friend of your older sister Moire?”

She nodded.

“Then will you tell me, please,” he went on, “whether she has returned to the castle since this morning?”

“They said you took her away,” Freya answered.

“We both endeavored to escape the cruelties of your uncle,” Fergus said, “that we might be in a better position to help you and your other siblings.”

Freya shook her head. “It does not seem to have done any of us much good. Dand is still gone. Socha and Aodh are still gone. You are still here, and so am I, and so is Moire.”

“So she has returned to the castle?” he asked hopefully.

Freya nodded again. “The guards brought her back a short while ago. The other workers have told me she is almost certainly in Uncle Ronald’s chamber.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They say that is where members of our clan are taken when they have misbehaved. They say that just as we are entrusted to work side by side in the fields for the good of our people, Uncle Ronald personally takes on the unpleasant task of punishment that others may be spared from doing so.”

Yes, I have no doubt that his love for hurting people makes such duties a terrible burden indeed, Fergus thought, enraged.

“Will you tell me quickly, child, which window is Ronald’s and do so without pointing at it?” he asked, afraid that she might draw attention to their conversation.

“That’s easy,” Freya retorted. “The lovely window with the stained glass, which depicts the triumph of the first laird of Clan Campbell.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “You had best go back to work now, and I beg you, make no mention of having seen me. My only wish is to help you and your older sister as well. I swear it to you on the soul of my father.”

Freya nodded once more. “My father is dead as well. Yes, I understand, sir. I will tell no one.”

“Freya!” the guard bellowed. “Unless you have suddenly grown gills like a trout, you have had enough water! Return to your work at once, or I shall tell your uncle that you have been slothful!”

The girl obeyed orders immediately without another glance at Fergus, and he was silently grateful to her for her tact. He looked up the stone wall of the tower above him, and sure enough, he spotted the stained glass window that Freya had spoken of.

Moire was up there. And she was almost certainly being tortured by her monstrous uncle.

Every moment that passed, she was doubtless enduring more suffering.

But there was nothing he could do—not for the moment, at least. If he were foolish enough to try to scale the wall while the workers and overseers were still in the fields, he would be spotted at once, and his efforts would be instantly foiled.

His only valid course of action was to wait until they were dismissed for the day so that he could climb under cover of darkness.

And to tell himself that Ronald Campbell might delight in making his niece suffer, but he would not have any reason to end her life.

She was strong. She would endure until Fergus came to her aid.

He had to believe that.

He had to.

After what felt like an eternity, the sun sank behind the horizon, and night fell. The overseers whistled for the workers to disperse, and they filed back into the castle. Fergus imagined that they would receive their dinner rations and be confined to their quarters, that they might steal a bit of sleep before waking to repeat their labors the following day.

I may yet right the wrongs of this foul place,Fergus told himself, surveying the stone wall for outcroppings that might aid his climb. If only I can remain calm and focused and do what I must to put an end to Ronald Campbell’s pernicious rule.