Page 3 of The Outlaw's Bride
“Here … eat up!”
The grating sound of metal echoed through the cell as the guards lifted the grate above once more. Something fell inside, landing with a thud at Lachlann’s feet.
A heartbeat later torchlight flooded into the cell, highlighting the filth-smeared walls and the straw-littered floor. The chunk of bread and cheese that Lachlann had not yet touched lay around him—along with the corpse of a giant rat that the guards had just thrown into his cell.
Lachlann’s eyes watered, and he blinked furiously, trying to get used to the light. At the sight of the rat, his stomach clenched.
“What's wrong, lad?” Coarse laughter filtered into the cell. There were two of them up there, chortling at his fate. “It’s fresh!”
Another burst of mirth assaulted his ears.
Lachlann sucked in a deep breath. Aye, he’d enjoy killing these two. He’d take the one that laughed all the time first. He’d slit his throat and watch while he choked on his own blood. His friend, the one who tormented him the most, he’d kill more slowly. A wound to his belly perhaps.
A disappointed silence fell, before one of the guards gave a snort and tossed something else into the pit. It was a bladder of water, stoppered tight.
Lachlann stifled the urge to grab it, for his mouth felt like dried cracked leather, and his throat was so parched it made it hard to swallow. But he would wait until the guards had gone before he slaked his thirst.
“We’ve got a proud one here,” the mouthy guard observed, a sneering edge to his voice. “Pride will do ye no good here, Fraser. It'll only turn ye mad. In a few days, we'll hear ye howling for yer mother.”
Aye, and when I get out of here ye will be howling for yers.
The torchlight receded, the iron grate slammed shut, and Lachlann listened to the heavy thump of receding footsteps.
Inhaling deeply, he leaned forward and scooped up the bladder, bread, and cheese. As he did so, he accidently brushed against something furry. He yanked his hand back with a shudder.The rat.
Lachlann retreated to a corner of the cell and lowered himself down on the floor, his back resting against the cold, damp stone. Summer had ended, the long warm days giving way to the cooler months, but it felt as chill as January down here. Once winter did come, he wouldn't last long.
I’ll get free before then.
He’d been promising himself he’d escape from the moment they’d thrown him down here. He repeated the words to himself in a mantra whenever despair welled up within him—as it did now.
He couldn’t let himself believe this would be his end.
He was Morgan Fraser’s eldest, the heir to a vast tract of lands. Not only that, but he had three ruthless younger brothers who’d be happy to see him gone. He couldn’t bear the thought of Lucas inheriting what was rightfully his if he didn’t return.
None of them would come for him—none would try to rescue him from the Dunvegan dungeon.
If he was to get free, it would be by his own hand.
Lachlann unstoppered the bladder and took a long, measured gulp. The water was flat, stale, and slightly warm, but it tasted like nectar to his parched throat.
His thoughts shifted then to the reason he was here: the battle that had taken place in the Vale of Hamra Rinner, on the border of their lands. The Frasers and MacLeods had clashed violently. He’d seen Malcolm MacLeod, as fat and gouty as he was, stab his father. MacLeod had managed to get a blade under Morgan Fraser’s mail shirt.
A blow to the back of Lachlann’s skull had felled him an instant after he’d witnessed MacLeod strike his father down. Now he couldn’t be certain if his father was alive or not.
Lachlann took another tentative gulp of water. He had to be careful not to drink it all in one go. God only knew when they’d give him another.
The Fraser defeat at the Vale of Hamra Rinner was a bitter one. If his father had indeed survived, he’d be furious. MacLeod bested him at everything it seemed. He’d stolen Morgan Fraser’s wife and had now won back his lands.
But Lachlann knew his father well—he’d never let it go. If the Frasers were known for one thing it was their stubbornness. MacLeod had earned himself an enemy for life, and Morgan Fraser would never let the past lie.
Lachlann lowered the bladder and stoppered it carefully. He then took a bite of cheese. It had a rancid, soapy taste, but it was food. He chewed slowly, forcing himself to think on other things.
The sun setting on the slopes of Preshal More, the mountain just south of Talasgair, and turning it gold. The sound of the wind through the grass on the slopes before his father’s stronghold. The salty tang of the sea that filled his lungs as he walked along the wide strand before the Bay of Talasgair.
Home.
I’ll see it again, he promised himself as his jaw set in determination.I won’t letthis place defeat me.
