Angus had told him the brothers were holding a young maid prisoner in the dungeon and, according to gossip, James Mackinnon intended to force her into marriage.
Arran had questioned Angus, demanding he relate everything he knew about the lass. The name of this poor soul was Dahlia MacLeod, and it turned out she was the sister of the Mackinnon’s old enemy, Laird Haldor MacLeod of Skye. Haldor was a formidable warrior, Arran had heard, known as the Viking Laird due to his family’s descent from the Vikings who had once held the islands.
Appalled at the lass’s plight, Arran mused on this. What threat would keep the MacLeod brothers from attempting a rescue of their sister? It could only be fear for the lass’s life that would keep them at bay.
Despite his wish never to be involved with the castle again, it was this realization that had caused him to make his own plan to help Dahlia MacLeod get away. While he had no doubt a rescue attempt would be expected from the MacLeods, no one would be expecting Arran Mackinnon to aid the lass.
He knew the castle as well as anyone and could find his way blindfold to the dungeon in the castle keep.
Once darkness fell and the lights in the castle were dimmed, Arran rose from his hiding place. Only too aware that should he be recognized his life was at risk, he took out a black stocking-mask from the leather purse at his belt an pulled it well over his face and hair. No one must know the identity of the intruder, not even the wee lass he was determined to take to safety.
He left his hiding place in the woods and, holding his drawn sword, crept with great stealth toward the castle. He waited briefly outside the lowered portcullis until he was greeted by the hubbub of voices signaling the guards’ change of shift. With the guards briefly distracted, he was able to glide through the smaller side-gate without being detected. From there he headed, unnoticed, directly to the keep.
Once inside he’d located the secret passageway that led from the side the entrance to the great hall directly down a set of stone stairs to the dungeon. It was the passageway that was used to drag prisoners from the hall after judgment had been made on them by the laird in his role as magistrate. When the court was not sitting there was no surveillance there. Men who were taken prisoner in battle or captured raiding were taken through the front entrance, direct from the keep. That way was closely guarded.
Arran stepped softly down the stairs, adjusting the mask, ensuring he remained incognito and entered the dungeon without a making a sound. There was only one guard on duty and as the man turned toward him, he swiped the pommel of his sword hard across the man’s head. The guard fell like a stone, unconscious.
Arran swiveled, peered through the gloom of the dungeon, its lonely torch scarcely throwing enough light to illuminate the distant corners.
The first two cells were empty. And then he saw her, standing straight and defiant in the third cell. When he reached her, she shrank away from him, her upper lip curling in a sneer.
“Keep yer distance, ye brute.”
He raised his index finger to his lips. “Hush lass. Ye need tae be quiet.”
She looked at him curiously, still keeping her distance. “And who d’ye think ye are, approaching me and ordering me tae be silent?”
Even in the near darkness he saw the flash of fire in her eyes.
“Never mind who I am. All ye need tae ken is that I’m here tae aid ye. I’m told ye dinnae wish tae remain in these comfortable quarters but would prefer tae return tae the isles.”
She huffed. “These are comfortable quarters fer a rat, and I’m nae rat.”
Moving forward a step she looked at him more closely. “And why d’ye wear a hangman’s mask?”
He gave a short laugh. “I wear this in order tae avoid the hangman. If I’m discovered naught more certain than I’ll meet me end double quick at the end of a rope. And me family will be the worse fer it.”
“So, what brings ye tae me aid? Did me braithers send ye?”
“Nae. I came alone. I cannae bear tae think of a lass being forced against her will tae marry James MacKinnon.”
She snorted. “I take it ye’re nay friend of the Mackinnon?”
“Nae. But there’s nae time tae talk of me history. We must leave this place if ye’re tae be gone before the guard stirs. I’ll be right sorry tae have tae deliver another blow tae his head.”
He paced back through the dungeon and removed the brass key holder from a hook near the door, praying silently that he would find the right key and be able to unlock her cell before the guard woke up and gave the alarm.
On the third try he heard a resounding click and the door to Dahlia’s cell swung open. He entered, intending to assist her. As he reached for her arm instead of finding the compliant, grateful maid he expected, she curled her small hand into a fist and struck him a blow fair in his middle.
“Oof,” the air rushed out of his lungs. Doubling over, he wrapped his arms around his belly, groaning. “What’re ye thinking,” he gasped once he could speak again.
She offered him a look of disdain. “I dinnae ken who ye are. Fer all I ken ye could be sent by the Mackinnon tae trick me somehow.” Straightening her spine, she went on. “Ye come here with an offer of rescue, but ye’re masked and give me nay name yet ye expect I should trust ye.”
Slowly raising himself, Arran looked hard at her. In the flickering light he glimpsed her features. She was beautiful, there was no doubt of that, but it was her haughty, unbowed expression that captured him. For a moment he felt a hint of admiration for her boldness in facing up to him as she’d done. Her dignity was intact. It was clear to him she was no broken, terrified lass, who would submit readily to whatever fate Mackinnon had in store for her.
All the same, there was annoyance in his voice as he spoke.
“I can only ask ye tae trust me. I’ve already told ye why I wear this mask. I am offering ye the means of escape but I’m nae the man who will force ye against yer will, like Mackinnon. If ye wish tae take what I offer then we must be gone from here now. Otherwise, ye will stay in this cell and while away yer days.”