A Highlander's Gypsy (Highland Temptations Book 2) Read online

  It hardly mattered, for she would not allow them to see her break. She would not break. Not for anything. Not when the others needed her to be strong.

  “Aye. I’ve yer morning meal.” The old man hardly had a tooth in his mouth, turning his speech into a garbled, spit-filled mash of slurred words. Only time made him easier to understand.

  There was nothing else for her to do but learn to understand him, after all.

  She was not finished with her prayers, however. She kept her back to him, kneeling still, hands clasped. Please help me. Please, Mother Tara, help me.

  When she prayed to Tara, she imagined her ma’s lovely face. The olive skin, the wide eyes as black as her shining, soft, black curls. All of which Shana had inherited. She imagined this when she prayed to the great mother, and this helped make her seem more real.

  “Not gonna speak to me today, is it?” A wooden tray clattered to the floor outside the cell, leaving it on the other side of a row of wooden stakes with barely enough space between them for her slim arms to slide through.

  She had certainly tried.

  Upon finishing her final prayer, she stood and turned to face the lame, old man charged with looking after her. He had lived a long life, many years, all of them etched upon his ruined face. Whenever she came across someone of his advanced years, in such an advanced state of decay, she tried to imagine them when they were as young as herself.

  Imagining this man as young, strapping, handsome made him slightly easier to look upon without wincing. Wincing would hardly improve her situation. “I was praying,” she informed him in a cool voice. “Forgive me.”

  “Ye pray a lot, then.”

  “I do.”

  The man’s faded eyes moved about, looking at the cell and its walls covered in slimy moss. “It’s done ye good, I see.”

  She bit back a retort, reminding herself it would get her nowhere. While he was not a threat—if he dared try to hurt her she would snap his neck like a twig—he could shuffle his way to her nameless captor and report on her behavior.

  She might not get bread or water in the evening, or ever again. Even stale bread was better than none.

  “I am still alive,” she murmured instead, holding her chin high. Keeping as much dignity as she could muster, even as she stood barefooted and filthy in the same cell in which she crouched in a corner and answered nature’s call.

  “That ye are, but to what purpose?” Even as he spoke, he worked at the old lock which kept the door closed—she’d tried to break it, had tried just about everything she could imagine to escape, and slid the tray through before closing her in again.

  For such an old man who walked as slowly as he did, his reflexes were quick. She always watched as he did this, hoping to catch a weakness she could exploit.

  “There is always a purpose. I suppose there is even a purpose for you to be alive.” She splashed a bit of the precious water on her hands before picking up the bread. Mercifully, it seemed almost fresh.

  “Why do ye do that?”

  She glanced at him, brows raised in silent question as she gnawed on the bread.

  “Waste yer water on your hands.”

  “I’m trying to clean them,” she answered around a mouthful of food. What were the chances he would bring her something better if she was kind to him? If he trusted her, might he include a bit of meat?

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not an animal. Do you not wash before eating?”

  He looked doubtful as he studied his hands. They were filthy, of course, the broken nails caked with dirt. She wondered if he had ever washed them at all. And to think, her people were the ones spat upon, viewed as mere animals. Less than human.

  She returned to her meal, what little there was of it. He watched as always, she supposed in case she decided to break the tray apart and use it as a weapon. Otherwise, there was nothing at her disposal but her fists and feet, both of which she would more than gladly use but was unable to with a wall of wooden posts between her and this foul, old man.

  He was not always an old man, though she was willing to wager he’d always been foul.

  “Was this your purpose in life?” she asked, curious and in need of conversation. Even conversing with her jailor was better than sitting alone, in the near darkness, going over and over the moments in which she’d been captured.

  “My purpose? What’s that?”

  “Did you always want to do this? Did you hope to bring food and drink to prisoners?”

  His wrinkled face wrinkled further when he scoffed. “O’course not. Don’t be daft.”

  “What did you wish to do, then?” She sipped her water slowly, savoring it. Fresh, at least, and cold. One of the great tortures of being imprisoned in this hole. Hearing the water’s drip and knowing she could not drink if she wished to avoid agonizing cramps and fever.

  “I didna wish to do anythin’.”

  “Not anything? Not at all?”

  “What do ye wish to do, then? Filthy gypsy such as yourself?”

  Her chest clenched, as did her throat. It was the same whenever she heard that word. How many times it had been hurled at her. How many snarls, screams, how many times had she been spit upon and borne the disgust and hatred of they who felt themselves worthy? Better? Decent?

  She was accustomed to ignoring it, at least. Or pretending she had. “Nay, nay, I asked you first.”

  He opened his toothless mouth as if he were about to make a snide reply. He did that well. Instead, he appeared to think better of it. His face softened. His eyes lowered. His shoulders fell. “I remember wantin’ to care for the horses. Ye know. Break ‘em in. Train ‘em. Me da did that.”

  “I see.” She also saw how his lameness would make that difficult. He could not move quickly enough, or smoothly enough, to be in control of the wild beasts, or get out of their way should they decide to run at him.

  Do not feel sorry for him. Do not feel sorry for him. How her brothers and cousins would laugh at her if they knew what she was thinking just then. How they’d jested and laughed at her all her life for her soft heart. Taking care of wounded animals. Taking care of them, even, using the old ways Ma had taught her.

  She’d never taught the lads, or they hadn’t cared to learn. Hardheaded, all of them.

  Now that she’d learned that the old man had wished to train horses rather than what he did now, her soft heart wanted to pity him. No matter how cruel he’d been. That cruelty was what she needed to recall, even as she pretended to be kind.

  “I have always loved riding,” she confessed. “When I was a wee lass, I would sleep among the horses at night rather than sleeping along with my family. I preferred their company to that of other people.”

  “Doesn’t say much for those people, does it?” Even so, he chuckled. “I was the same. Never cared much for people. Never wished to know ‘em, and they never wished to know me.”

  That wasn’t what she’d said at all, but she clicked her tongue in sympathy. “I know that feeling all too well.”

  “I would wager ye do. Bein’ what ye are.”

  Not who. What. Once again, her blood threatened to boil, but she poured cool reason over it before she could lose control of herself.

  He snickered, unaware of how he infuriated her. “Aye, I suppose I’d hate the world if I were ye.”

  “I have at times,” she confessed in a whisper. Especially when the mounted men, armed with swords and pistols, had taken her away from her kin and thrown her in a cell. Not because they wished to put an end to the raiding they’d been performing—oh, no.

  Because they hadn’t been able to catch the rest of her party and wanted them to come for her in hopes of capturing them, too. There was a price on their heads, on all of them, and the laird of whichever great house she was living beneath wanted to collect.

  If she remembered correctly, she’d heard Manfri and the rest speaking of the Stuarts the morning before the raid took place. They’d been having a time of it, all right,
and making a killing night after night while moving during the day.

  Manfri had insisted his baby sister stay behind, at their camp, to keep her safe. Little did he know she’d be taken from her tent while he raided a village, not an hour’s ride from where she’d been waiting for their return.

  “Are ye of Clan Stuart, then?” she asked, hoping to surprise the man into answering honestly.

  And he did. “What of it? We’re a strong clan. Mighty. And your kind thought they could raid lands belonging to Jacob Stuart. His tenants work for him, which means the men and women your kin raided stole from him. You’re lucky they didn’t slit yer throat.”

  “Aye. I’d wager I am,” she whispered. Not that they wouldn’t have liked to try. Not that they wouldn’t have liked to try a great many things. Any number of things to degrade and defile her.

  But they’d decided, and wisely, that leaving her unbothered and spreading the word that they could share her among their men at any time would be more likely to bring her brothers and cousins and friends on the run.

  And it would have at any other time.

  She supposed she understood why they hadn’t come. Why they couldn’t come.

  “I’d best be gettin’ back.” One more look up and down. A cunning old man. She had not given him his due. “As much as I enjoy speakin’ with ye, the laird won’t like me bein’ too friendly.”

  “I understand.” She made a point of looking as pitiful as she could, which, in her state, took no effort. “I shall see you later today, then.” A note of hope in her voice.

  “Aye. Ye shall.” He shuffled away, dragging his lame left leg behind him a half-step. No, he would never have done with the horses. They would have trampled him.

  Perhaps they should have.

  He was not her friend. None of them were, no matter how badly she wished she had one in this desperate situation. And it was getting desperate, no question. For soon, Jacob Stuart—she had a name for him at last—would grow tired of waiting. For weeks he’d waited, to no avail.

  He or his men would begin to question her soon. It was a wonder they hadn’t already. The old man normally tried to get information out of her, this morning a rare exception when she’d gotten information from him instead. Stuart’s patience had to be running thin by now.

  It was only a matter of time before what was already a terrible situation would become much worse. A pit of waste in the corner would seem like nothing compared to what Jacob Stuart might do.

  3

  The seer had told him to ride south, and so he had.

  For four days he’d traveled, stopping in villages to listen for news in the taverns and inns. Anything of interest, a missing lass, in particular.

  Nothing.

  A fine mist hung over the entire world, it seemed, as William continued the journey south. Mist which hardly helped his spirits improve as he rode to nothing, nowhere.

  The seer must have breathed in too much of the thick, acrid smoke from the bundle of leaves and herbs which she’d fire to during their meeting, either that, or she’d never been sincere. How long had she managed to wait before laughing herself sick at how easily she’d led him astray?

  What would she think if she could see him now, that hideous old crone? His cloak heavy and wet, the cold seeping into his bones? His breath had begun to fog around his head, just another sign of how winter crept up and brushed its icy fingers over the land. Snow would not fall for weeks, gods willing, but this was a reminder of how close he was to that time.

  Never in all his memory had he ever been so miserable. Tired, his bones aching from chill dampness and so many hours on end spent in the saddle.

  The only thing keeping him moving was the faint hope that he’d find her. If she existed, she was in peril which likely grew more serious by the day. She needed him, whoever she was.

  And he needed sleep. His soul needed peace. He considered this a fair trade-off.

  Night came on quickly, the sky so dark throughout the day it might as well have been night at that. The sight of a few glowing spots of light in the distance was the sweetest thing he could imagine at just that moment, when the notion of another night spent sheltering beneath tree boughs was more than he could take.

  “And you’ll like some clean straw and a roof over your head, will ye not?” he asked his horse, patting the beast’s neck. “You’ve done well, and that’s a fact. I’ll see to it ye have plenty to eat tonight.”

  The cheerful fires burning bright through windows and half-open doors stirred a longing deep within him that no amount of hot stew or mead could soothe. It was loneliness, no doubt, something he’d never had much time for. Not when there was always so much to be done.

  Because he’d never allowed himself to wallow in it before now, he had no way of knowing how to manage it. Pushing it aside seemed the most likely solution—that, he knew how to do. He could push aside a great many things in pursuit of a goal.

  The mist turned to a drizzle when he reached the stables on the edge of town, just before buildings began pressing in on each other. “See to it he gets rubbed down well and is kept warm. He’s been out in this muck all day.” William handed the man running the place a few extra coins. “And plenty of oats.”

  The inn sat on the other side of a dividing wall, and from outward appearances looked to suit his purposes. The sound of many voices raised in spirited discussion—verging on argument in some corners—told him this might also be a likely place in which to learn anything of interest.

  Though he was uncertain just what he ought to listen for. He would know it when he heard it.

  If there was anywhere he’d hear something of interest, it would be among a group of men in their cups as they enjoyed supper in the inn’s dining hall.

  After securing a room for the night and thanking the gods he’d filled his sporran before leaving home, he settled in at a small table and was instantly treated to a bowl of steaming stew and a flagon of ale. The service was efficient and, he noted as he caught the eye of the comely lass who’d served him, quite bonny. She flashed a hint of a beckoning smile before turning away with a giggle. Perhaps he had stopped at the right place after all.

  Och, man, ye can barely hold your head up, he thought with a grimace before tucking into his meal. He would like as not prove a disappointment to her, in the state he was in—if he managed to stay awake. How could a man be so thoroughly exhausted yet not be able to sleep?

  A fire blazed along the opposite wall, filling the room with almost suffocating warmth, but William welcomed it as his fingers and toes began to lose their stiffness. Once his hunger and thirst were settled, he turned his attention to the conversation around him.

  He was among the Camerons, it would seem, and the MacDonnells. That meant he was near Loch Eil and would not be able to move due south much longer unless he wished to go for a long swim. If she was among any of the outer islands, it would mean paying for passage. The seer had not spoken of islands or water.

  Then again, she hadn’t spoken of much in particular. She’d known he was a fool, had she not?

  “I heard they were border raiders. A band of gypsies. Ye know how they are.”

  William’s attention shifted to a group of men seated near the fire, all of them looking like the sort who enjoyed a good round of gossip. His time among large groups of soldiers taught him that men could be just as loose-tongued as women, sometimes more, under the right circumstances, and from the looks of it, these particular men were near ready to fall from their chairs.

  “Aye, I met up with a band of ‘em myself years ago.” One of the men spat on the floor in disgust. “A filthy lot, all of ‘em. Won’t work for what they got. Think they can just steal it from the hardworkin’ folks like us.”

  William frowned. He was not overfond of thieves, no matter who they were or where they came from.

  “Whatever they got, they deserved it and more,” a third man swore.

  “Aye, but they didn’t catch ‘em. They only go
t one.” A vicious laugh. “And I’m willin’ to wager she got plenty, if ye ken.”

  A round of raucous laughter, again with that sharp, vicious edge. Any man who was willing to laugh about a woman being defiled and abused was hardly a man in William’s estimation—though he was quick enough a study of human nature to know that if questioned, the men would claim they hadn’t been speaking of a woman. They’d been speaking of a gypsy.

  It turned his stomach.

  He kept this and many other thoughts to himself in hopes of listening, instead, wishing one of them would mention a name or a village, anything that would give him a hint as to where to turn. This had to be his lass, it simply had to be. There was too much coincidence involved for it to be anyone else.

  And he did not believe in coincidence.

  Then again, he’d never believed in the truth of a seer’s word, and look where that had gotten him.

  “I knew his da, and he was not a man to be taken lightly.”

  William strained to hear, all but climbing over his table to draw nearer the group. If he approached, they would know he had a motive for doing so and would likely close their mouths tight. While half the place could hear them perfectly well, they were too tipsy to know it and would not wish to speak too freely with a stranger in their midst.

  “Nay, he was a right bastard if ever there was one. Fightin’ until the day he died, he was, and I recall my mam sayin’ the devil himself would have a time of gettin’ old Angus Stuart to keep from thinkin’ he ran the place.”

  The men burst out laughing again, but William did not laugh. Stuart. That would mean Jacob Stuart was the man in question, the one who’d taken a woman from these raiders.

  He was not personally acquainted with the man, but he hardly needed to be under the circumstances. The hard-hearted Jacob Stuart was known to most Highlanders by reputation if nothing else.

  Was this where he was meant to go? Clan Stuart sat near the Firth of Forth. It would take another few days to reach her, if she was still there at all. What if he didn’t make it in time?