Page 33 of Unchain the Highlander's Heart

CHAPTERTWELVE

Kin had avoided the patrol. They had appeared around a corner, just as he had emerged from the stairwell, their attentions on a bawdy joke one of them was telling, their swords clinking at their belts. Kin had shrunk back into the shadows, holding his breath as they passed, and he breathed a sigh of relief when they disappeared from sight. His heart was racing, but he smiled to himself at the thought of evading their attentions–he may not have his memory, but it seemed the art of the spy was in his blood.

He made his way back towards his chambers, but as he approached, he stopped, for Cillian was on the corridor outside, pacing up and down, a frantic look on his face.

“Curses, where can he be?” he said, scowling.

Kin stepped forward into the light of a torch burning on the wall, and Cillian looked up in surprise, his hand going to the sword at his belt.

“I went for a walk in the gardens,” Kin lied, and Cillian shook his head angrily.

“Ye were meant to remain in yer chambers–those were the laird’s instructions,” he said, but Kin only waved his hand dismissively.

“And we shall both be in trouble if it be known you let me out of your sight,” he replied, smiling at Cillian, who cursed again under his breath.

“Inside,” he said, in an obvious attempt to assert his authority.

“And if I do not?” Kin asked, baiting him.

“I shall… where have ye really been? With Murdina, I suppose?” Cillian asked, but Kin only shrugged.

“You may think what you will. I am going to bed,” he said, and stepping past Cillian, he entered his chambers.

A fire was kindled in the hearth, and the drapes had been pulled across the windows. It was a far cry from the prison cell and the company of the rats. Kin removed his boots and lay down with a sigh on the bed. He thought back to the kiss he had shared with Murdina, and while his passions had been aroused, he found himself questioning what he had done–what they had done. He remembered nothing of his past, and it occurred to him that there may be a woman, a lover–the love of his life–waiting for him somewhere else. Who she was, or even if she was, remained a mystery, but the thought was enough to hold him back–these were dangerous games.

And it is a dangerous enough game without further danger to add, he thought to himself.

But despite these feelings, Kin could not deny that Murdina was an attractive woman. She had helped him to piece together another part of the puzzle, and he took the key from his pocket and held it up to examine the knot symbol on the turn. It made sense now–even if his memory was clouded, and he knew his mission, whatever that might, lay not here, but further north on the island of Mull.

“I am lockin’ ye in,” Cillian said, opening the door without knocking.

“I am used to being a prisoner,” Kin replied, and rolling onto his side, he closed his eyes, grateful, at least, to be without the company of the rats.

* * *

Murdina was in a sword fight–three men, all surrounding her. She faced them, waiting for one of them to strike, her eyes flitting from one gaze to the next. Suddenly, they reared up, like great leviathans from the deep, and she held her sword up in desperation as they fell on her. With a start, she awoke, sitting up in bed, her eyes wide open. It was morning, the sun was streaming through a crack in the drapes, and she smiled to herself, feeling foolish for her fears at a mere dream. She often dreamed of the sea, and she climbed out of bed and went to the window, pulling back the drapes to get a view across the mull.

The storm had passed over, and though the moss-covered walls of the castle were wet, the sun was bright and warm on her skin. She opened the window and breathed in the fresh morning air, which was salty with the scent of the sea. A horse and cart had just pulled through the gates in the courtyard below, laden with supplies for the feast. Her father was there, barking orders at the top of his voice, and Murdina smiled to herself and shook her head, just as a frantic knocking came at the door.

“Murdina, Murdina! Are ye awake?” Freya’s voice called out and sighing, Murdina went to open the door.

She found her sister in a state of agitated excitement, holding several dresses in her arms and accompanied by two maids, both of whom wore long-suffering expressions on their faces.

“Freya, the mornin’ bell has nae even sounded yet, and ye have come to dress yerself for dinner?” Murdina said, even as Freya pushed past her into her chambers.

“But we have but a few hours until the first guests arrive, Murdina. Are ye to tell me ye have nae thought about what ye will wear?” her sister demanded, and Murdina happily admitted she had not.

“I daenae know what I shall wear, Freya. Does it matter?” she asked, and her sister gave an exasperated snort.

“Aye, of course, it matters, Murdina. Father has arranged this feast in our honor, and he has invited only the most eligible men to attend. It has all been done in secret for our surprise–I think tis’ wonderful,” Freya said, going to Murdina’s wardrobe and opening it.

“I shall choose my own dress,” Murdina said.

She cared little for such things and would always prefer the pursuits of men to the silly fripperies of her two younger sisters.

“Ye shall nae–if ye choose yer own dress, ye shall look like a sack of potatoes, Murdina. Here is one–it belonged to Aoife, didnae it?” Freya asked, holding up a dark green dress with a lace collar.

Murdina nodded. She could picture her sister wearing it and the happy smile on her face.

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