Highland Thirst Page 2

  “Do ye think that troubles him?” he asked.

  Brona nearly winced at the bitterness underlying his words. “Nay, not at all.”

  “He will kill me in the end, ye ken.”

  “I ken it,” she whispered.

  “And ye will do naught to stop him?” He felt guilty for trying to push her into helping him when he knew it would endanger her, but he was fighting for his life and that of his clan.

  “Nay on your word alone.”

  “Fair enough, but if ye havenae learned anything in the near sennight I have been trapped here, my word may be all ye have.”

  A pinch of shame pricked Brona’s heart. She had been hesitant, had tried to ignore the whispers of the others at Rosscurrach and the cries of pain and rage she had heard in the night. While she had struggled to keep herself safe from Hervey’s anger, this man had suffered horribly. While she had continued to do her best to stay out of Hervey’s sight as much as possible, this man had been tortured and humiliated.

  It was time to stop thinking only of protecting herself, she decided. Her cowardice appalled her. She had not realized how deeply it had entrenched itself within her heart. Brona knew her caution around her cousin was completely justified, but nothing Hervey could do to her was worth allowing this man to continue to suffer like this if he was truly innocent of any crime.

  The urge to immediately release him from his chains and his cage was strong, but she resisted it. He could be lying to her, trying to stir her sympathies. Although what few whispers she had understood seemed to indicate that he was indeed imprisoned here because of some strange tales Hervey had heard about the man, it was not enough. Even if this man did not kill her the moment she released him, Hervey might. Her cousin would certainly punish her in ways she did not care to even think about.

  She needed more information. This time she would actively seek out the truth instead of puzzling over the occasional whisper she overheard. Repulsed as she was by the way Hervey treated men guilty of some crime, she would not free a guilty man. Hervey was the laird of Rosscurrach and it was his right, his duty, to punish those who broke the law. The most she would do was protest his cruelty in meting out his punishments. But, if what this man said were true, then she would have to do far more than protest; she would have to free him.

  A tremor of fear passed through her at the mere thought of doing such a thing. Simply protesting Hervey’s actions often brought retribution that left her bruised and aching. What she was considering could easily get her killed if only from the severity of the punishment that followed. Brona knew she would not only have to decide what to do about this man, but make a plan to protect herself as well. A selfish, terrified part of her told her to just ignore it all as she had ignored so much else, but Brona silenced it. Some wrongs could not be ignored.

  “I didnae try to learn anything,” she confessed in a soft voice. “Knowledge may be power, but ignorance is sometimes all that keeps one safe. Howbeit, now I will try to learn something.”

  “And then do what?” Heming was surprised at how hard he had to struggle not to believe in this woman, not to let his hopes rise.

  “If my cousin is treating ye so cruelly simply because he thinks ye may have some potion or spell that will make him live longer, then I will set ye free.”

  “But nay right now.”

  “I cannae act against my kinsmon, my laird, on your word alone. I will visit ye again soon.”

  Heming watched her walk away, pausing only to douse the torches she had lit, and he fought the urge to call her back, to try to convince her to act now. It was an odd feeling to suffer from since he knew he should neither trust her nor believe her. Holding out some hope to a condemned man was just the kind of cruelty Hervey Kerr would enjoy yet Heming found himself unable to believe that the fey Brona would have any part of that. He almost smiled when he realized his inability to believe she was hand in fist with her brutal cousin grew from the way she acted toward her pets and they acted toward her. It was a thin branch to hang his hopes on.

  He suddenly tensed as he realized Brona had halted just a few feet away. Heming knew two men had been dragged down here two days ago and he felt sure she had halted near their prison. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on listening closely to what was said. His hearing was far better than any Outsider’s and he hoped something would be said to help him come to some decision about Mistress Brona Kerr.

  “Why have ye been thrown down here?” she asked the men.

  “The laird says we have failed in our duty to him,” replied a man with a deep, rough voice, bitterness dripping from every word.

  “Failed, Colin? How could ye and your brother have failed in anything? Ye work from sunrise to sunset.”

  “Then mayhap we should have worked until moonrise, mistress.”

  “Who cares for your family? For your poor mother and your other siblings?”

  “Ranald and Mangus are of an age to be the heads of the household.”

  “Has my cousin told ye what your punishment will be?”

  “He gave us each ten lashes, mistress, and we thought that the end of it, but then he threw us in here.”

  “I think he means to feed us to the monster,” said another man, his voice weak and a little unsteady.

  “What monster, Fergus?”

  “The one ye just went to look at.”

  “There is no monster there, just a mon.”

  “Nay, mistress, that is no a mon e’en if he appears to be one,” said Colin. “Ye havenae heard him. He makes sounds like a beast, howling and snarling, e’en hissing. And the laird tortures him for hours demanding answers no mon could e’er give, asking questions about living forever and all of that. And the mon should be dead by now or near to it after all the laird has done to him, yet he isnae, is he.”

  “Colin, I was just there, seeing him and speaking with him. He is just a mon.”

  “He killed Peter. The laird dragged Peter down here last night and when the poor fool was carried back by us he wasnae alive and his neck was all torn up, like some beast had ripped it open.”

  Heming winced even as he felt an urge to protest. He had not torn up Peter’s neck. Hervey had sliced the man’s neck, drawing blood, and then had his guards force the poor man closer and closer to Heming. Weakened by loss of blood, nearly maddened by pain, Heming had been unable to fight the dark hunger stirred to life by the scent of Peter’s blood. He could not be sure, but he may have roughened the wound already there when he had fed off the man. He was sure, however, that Peter had been alive when he had been dragged away, alive and well able to recover given a little care.

  “What are ye saying, Colin? That the mon down there, the mon chained hand and foot to an iron cage, ripped open Peter’s throat and fed on him?”

  “‘Tis what it looked like. Chained hand and foot, ye say?”

  “Aye, naked and caged like an animal.”

  “If ye had seen Peter, mistress, ye wouldnae doubt us. Me and Fergus fear we will be next, that we are being kept here to feed that demon. Mayhap the laird thinks that will be the only way he can keep the monster alive and get the answers he seeks. The laird is bargaining with the devil, he is.”

  “What crime had Peter committed?” Brona asked, her voice little more than a whisper, but Heming could hear the shock she felt trembling in every word.

  “Ach, mistress, ‘tis nay something I can tell ye.”

  “Tell me, Colin. Ye have just told me I have been speaking to a demon who rips out men’s throats and drinks their blood. I think there is little else ye could tell me that would shock me more than that.”

  “Peter was a bonnie lad, aye? Slim and fair with a bonnie face.”

  Heming could almost smell the tension in the silence that followed that statement.

  “My cousin loves men?” Brona asked after a few moments.

  “Aye, mistress. I am thinking he likes the lasses too. ‘Tis against the church’s law and all that, but I dinnae judge such men. The
y do nay harm, nay more than any other. S’truth, I ken one or two such men and they are good men, aye? Peter wasnae one of them, though, and he told the laird so, but the laird doesnae like to be told nay, does he. A lass can be forced, aye? ‘Tisnae so easy to force a mon, especially when ye dinnae want the world and its mother to ken what ye are about.”

  “Then mayhap Peter isnae dead. Mayhap it was all done to force Peter to say aye.”

  “He must be dead. The demon took his soul. ‘Tis what demons do, aye?”

  “Colin, I find it verra difficult to believe the mon I just spoke with is a demon. If naught else, surely he would have the power to get away from Hervey. That my cousin may lust after men was something I had begun to suspect. Only the fact that I kenned all too weel that he beds women kept me from being sure of it. I didnae realize ye could lust after both. I had another cousin, a woman, who only loved other women, so I am nay ignorant of such things. Aye, I was a little shocked but, as ye say, I cannae condemn as the church does. God made us all, didnae he, and I cannae see how loving someone, anyone, can be such a great sin. Lusting as my cousin does, aye. Love, nay. But, to harm or kill a person because he or she doesnae share your lust is wrong. Verra wrong. I thought it was all done willingly.”

  “Most times it is, mistress. E’en the lasses who dinnae really want to warm the laird’s bed make no real complaint when they are called there. It isnae worth it, aye?”

  “There will ne’er be another nay uttered now,” said Fergus. “Nay when it could mean a demon will be fed your soul.”

  “Ye cannae be sure that is what happened, Fergus,” said Brona. “I came down here because I heard whispers about a mon down here, a mon caged like an animal and being tortured. I decided I needed to ken what my cousin was doing and why. Now I have e’en more I must learn about such as what has happened to Peter. And why the two of ye are still held here. I must go now, however, for my cousin will soon be arriving. Answer me this, Colin—do ye and yours have anywhere safe ye can flee to?”

  “Aye, mistress. Why?”

  “I am nay sure yet, but this is wrong. All of this is so verra, verra wrong.”

  Heming heard the soft rustle of skirts as Brona fled the dungeon. The rapid click of the dog’s claws against the stone floor told him that Mistress Brona was running away. It was no surprise. The fear of being discovered down here might be enough to make her run, but he suspected talk of demons and murder gave her speed as well.

  He sighed and tried to get into a more comfortable seated position. It appeared that Mistress Brona Kerr was just what she seemed to be—a young woman appalled by the actions of her kinsman and struggling to decide what, if anything, she could do to right things. Unfortunately, that young woman now had to wonder if he was a demon who had killed a man by ripping out his throat and drinking his blood along with his soul. Heming had to wonder if she would even bother to try to find out the truth now. It would not surprise him to discover that she no longer even thought he was innocent of all but attracting her cousin’s interest in the impossible.

  It was difficult not to rage against a lost chance at freedom. Heming knew that, if Peter was dead, all chance of Mistress Brona helping him to escape her cousin was gone. She might not fully believe he was some soul-sucking demon, but she would certainly think him some dangerous madman.

  An all too familiar footstep dragged Heming from his morose thoughts and his whole body tensed. Hervey was returning and with at least three men. The blood that had been forced upon him had almost healed all of his wounds and restored his strength, so Heming knew that this time the torture would last for a long time simply because he was now strong enough to endure it. He pushed aside a sudden overwhelming sense of defeat. He could not let Hervey know that he was slowly winning this uneven battle. He prayed that Mistress Brona would judge him innocent and find a way to free him from this hell for he knew he was doomed to madness if this constant torture continued for very much longer.

  He also prayed that Hervey did not want to see the drinking of blood again. Colin and Fergus feared they were being held for just that reason and Heming knew that was a real possibility. He also knew that if he was driven to feed again on either of those men, he was doomed. No one at Rosscurrach would help him then.

  Two

  Brona quietly left the great hall, the meal she had eaten sitting heavily in her stomach. She was not sure what had troubled her more—the way Hervey had played the hospitable, ever-smiling laird, a man interested in and concerned about his clan, or the way Angus had watched her. A shiver went through her. She had seen lust in the man’s eyes, a dark, predatory lust. She might be innocent in body but Hervey had not been laird of Rosscurrach for long before she had begun to learn all about lust, so she knew what she had seen in Angus’s cold eyes and it terrified her. The man was as hard and cruel as Hervey.

  Forcing all thought of Angus from her mind, she hurried up to the lady’s solar. Relieved to find it empty, she hurried toward the narrow opening near the far wall. She lit a lantern and stepped inside, but instead of following the corridor all the way, she stopped about half the way through. Grabbing the rope handle of one of the chests that lined the hall, she pulled it away from the wall, revealing a hole in the floor. By the look of the thick drape of cobwebs, Brona suspected that no one had ever told Hervey about the secrets of Rosscurrach. He was not a man to ignore the advantages of such passages within his walls, either using them himself or sealing them off so no one else could use them.

  She grabbed a broom used to sweep the floors of the solar and the bedchamber connected to it by the passage. Brushing away the curtain of cobwebs, she then tucked the broom in the crook of her arm and stepped onto the narrow stone steps leading down into the many passageways running through the walls of Rosscurrach. Once below the level of the floor, she grabbed another rope handle attached to the bottom of the chest and dragged it back over the hole.

  Using the broom to brush aside the worst of the cobwebs in her way, Brona made her way down to the narrow passageway that would lead her to the one running behind the great hall. She knew that Angus and Hervey would have sought the chairs by the fireplace the moment she left. Even as she approached the chimney she feared she would not be able to eavesdrop on the men for too long. It was uncomfortably warm near the chimney. The sound of the men’s voices quickly distracted her from the discomfort she was already beginning to feel, however.

  “MacNachton isnae telling us anything,” complained Hervey.

  “He will,” said Angus in that deep, cold voice that always made Brona shiver inside.

  “Angus, I have been torturing the mon for nearly a week and he still shows no sign of weakening. The only thing left for me to do to him is to start taking off wee pieces of him. Although it might be interesting to see if he could recover from, let us say, the loss of a finger or a toe. Do ye think he would drain a mon dry ere he could fix that?”

  “What I think is it was a mistake to make him drink Peter’s blood.”

  Brona put a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp of shock and horror. Colin and Fergus had spoken the truth. Sir Heming had drunk of poor Peter’s blood. Even after hearing that horrifying truth, however, she still found it difficult to believe the man was a demon, hell-born, and a slave to the devil. Surely there would be something she could see or sense or even smell that would tell her she was in the presence of a demon. She had a gift for scenting the evil in a person, even what they felt at times, but she sensed no true evil in Sir Heming, only something feral. And since her gift worked best with animals, that feral part of him should have told her a lot, yet all she had felt was that air of a predator but one that was no threat to her.

  “It gave me the proof I needed to verify all of the tales told about the MacNachtons. They are demons.”

  Angus snorted, the sound rife with scorn. “He isnae a demon. If he was some spawn of Satan, ye wouldnae be able to treat him as ye do. He would have some power, some ability to cast spells or the like, that wou
ld get him out of that cage and at your throat. Aye, and he would be trying to get ye or one of your men to give him his soul in trade for the information ye seek.”

  “He drank Peter’s blood and his wounds immediately began to heal.”

  “That just makes him some strange creature, doesnae it. Mayhap more animal than mon, for many a predator drinks the blood of its kill. It still doesnae prove he is a demon.”

  “Ye dinnae think he stole Peter’s soul?”

  “Nay. Peter shows signs of recovering and I see little difference in him from what he was ere ye cut his throat and handed him to the prisoner. And, dinnae forget that ye had to nearly force the mon to do what ye wanted him to, shoving a bleeding Peter right under his nose several times e’en though MacNachton was crazed and near blind with pain from the torture ye had inflicted upon him. Do ye truly think a demon would show such restraint? Nay, a demon would have drunk Peter dry and laughed as the poor fool died.”

  “If MacNachton isnae a demon then what is he?”

  “I am nay sure. As I said, just a different breed of mon, mayhap. Who kens. But, nay, I dinnae think he is some spawn of the devil. We couldnae hold him if he was, nay e’en with silver and iron. There havenae been any signs of a witch’s or demon’s tricks about Rosscurrach, either. No curdled milk, no sickening animals, naught but the usual. The mon does have strengths and skills we dinnae have, but ‘tis said the whole clan has such things. I cannae believe the devil would make a whole clan his minions and then allow them to stay hidden away within their own lands. No one creates such an army without intending to put them into battle.”

  “He has fangs, Angus.”

  “But nay any horns, aye? And, though he is a strong, weel-set lad, he doesnae really have much more than ye and I have. I have often heard it said that the devil’s minions have massive rods and bollocks as big as apples.”

  Brona grimaced in disgust as both men laughed. She was beginning to think she was wasting her time. They were not telling her any more than what she already knew and it was hardly worth standing so close to the heat of the fireplace. She was drenched in sweat and beginning to feel a little un-well. The heat was stealing all the strength from her body.