“What’s wrong with him?” Ian asked. He hadn’t been able to get much information about his father’s condition in Loch Awe.
“We dinna ken. But Ellair, the healer, doesna think he has much time left.”
An iron knot formed in Ian’s throat. “Take me to him,” he said.
“Aye,” Craig said.
They walked out of the great hall and went to the biggest tower on the northwestern corner. Up the circular stairs, they came to the second floor and stopped at the entrance to the lord’s bedchamber. Craig explained, it now belonged to Kenneth MacKenzie, who was appointed castle constable because Craig had resigned from the position. He wanted to be with his pregnant wife as much as possible. She was now back in the safety of their home.
Kenneth MacKenzie had given his chamber to the dying man to make him comfortable.
“I will leave ye with him,” Craig said on the stairs. “Have yer time with him. I’ll be in the great hall.”
“Aye.”
Ian opened the door and stiffened, noting a small, thin figure lying in bed under the blankets. As long as he could remember, his father had always been a powerful man and a warrior. But his whole life, he’d grieved the loss of Ian’s mother who had died in childbirth. Ian always wondered if Father had secretly blamed him for the death of the love of his life. They’d never been close. Ian had been raised in his uncle Dougal’s house together with Craig, Marjorie, Domhnall, Lena, and Owen. They were more than cousins, more like real brothers and sisters to Ian.
With his father, there had always been this distance. And now, it seemed, they were almost out of time to change that.
On weak legs, Ian approached the bed, studying his father with wide eyes. His hair was now yellowish-white, not light red like before. Deep wrinkles covered his pale, weathered skin. Dark circles around his eyes were hollow. He looked more like a skeleton than the man Ian used to know.
Sharp pain shot through his gut, and his whole body went numb as he sank to his knees by the bed. He swallowed to relieve the aching tension in his throat.
“Father,” he said.
The man opened his eyes. The whites were yellow, the brown irises dull gray. He glanced around, then focused on Ian. He frowned a little.
“Ye look like my son,” he croaked. “Who are ye?”
Ian felt his throat work, his jaws tightening. “’Tis I, Ian. I came back.”
“Ye came back for me? Will ye take me to my Mariot with ye?”
Ian shook his head. “I’m alive, Father. I wasna dead. I could finally come home.”
Duncan exhaled softly and closed his eyes. “I thought ye were dead. I thought I’d lost everyone I loved.”
Ian’s heart weighed heavily. He’d never heard those words from his father. If Duncan knew what Ian had done to survive, he’d never repeat them again.
“What happened to ye, Ian?” Duncan asked.
Ian repeated the same story, and Father’s eyes closed mournfully.
“A slave… They didna break yer spirit, though, eh, lad?”
Ian looked down, swallowing the pain and humiliation.
“Nae,” he said. “I wouldna be yer son if they did.”
Duncan lifted his hand from under the blanket. Ian squeezed it. It was the hand of an old man—boney and covered with age spots.
“I’m glad to see ye before I go, my boy,” Duncan said. “Ye must take the estate now. Live there. My sword is yers now.”
Ian bowed his head. “Aye, Father.”
“Now go, Ian. I must rest.”
“Aye.”
Ian let his father’s hand go and watched as he closed his eyes and breathed evenly but weakly. He was probably asleep. Ian couldn’t move. He stood there taking every small part of his father into his memory.
Then he left the room, silently. He needed something strong to dull the ache that was spreading in his body like a wound. Coming here, seeing everyone he loved and grew up with, and seeing his father dying was too much. He needed to get drunk and forget.
He asked someone in the courtyard where he could find some ale or uisge, and they pointed at the eastern tower.
“Cellar,” the man said.
Ian went down the curved stairs to the underground storeroom. There, he looked through the casks and barrels and chests, and finally saw what he was looking for—a small barrel with an unmistakable scent.
And then he heard something. Like a moan or a quiet call. He looked around. There was a door. The moan repeated, and he could swear it came from the other side. Putting the barrel down, he took a torch from the wall and opened the door.
It was pitch-dark. The room was more like a cave going into the distance. The moan came from somewhere farther in, he thought. He continued into the room, shining the torchlight around the space.
Someone lay on the floor.
A woman.
She was blond, her shoulder-length hair spilled over the ground. She was dressed like a man, wearing tight blue trousers and a light-blue tunic that fell past her hips. She had a bag over her shoulder. She looked unconscious, although she moved her head a little and then moaned again, frowning but not opening her eyes. She wasn’t a thin woman but curvy and long-legged. And pretty. So pretty he froze to marvel at her features for a moment.
Ian sank to his knees by her side. She had a small bleeding wound at her hairline, a large bruise at the top of her forehead, and scratches all over her face and hands. Her clothes were partially torn.
Ian cupped her face gently. “Lass!” he called. “Lass! Can ye hear me?”
“Mmmm.” She turned her head.
“All right. I need to get ye out of here.”
He put the torch on the ground so he wouldn’t burn her and took her into his arms, then the torch, careful not to bring it too close.
He needed to find the steward and see if she was one of the maids, because there weren’t many women in the castle, and all of them were maids.
