his cage was strong, but she resisted it. He could be lying to her, trying to stir her sympathies. Although what few whispers she had understood seemed to indicate that he was indeed imprisoned here because of some strange tales Hervey had heard about the man, it was not enough. Even if this man did not kill her the moment she released him, Hervey might. Her cousin would certainly punish her in ways she did not care to even think about.
She needed more information. This time she would actively seek out the truth instead of puzzling over the occasional whisper she overheard. Repulsed as she was by the way Hervey treated men guilty of some crime, she would not free a guilty man. Hervey was the laird of Rosscurrach and it was his right, his duty, to punish those who broke the law. The most she would do was protest his cruelty in meting out his punishments. But, if what this man said were true, then she would have to do far more than protest; she would have to free him.
A tremor of fear passed through her at the mere thought of doing such a thing. Simply protesting Hervey’s actions often brought retribution that left her bruised and aching. What she was considering could easily get her killed if only from the severity of the punishment that followed. Brona knew she would not only have to decide what to do about this man, but make a plan to protect herself as well. A selfish, terrified part of her told her to just ignore it all as she had ignored so much else, but Brona silenced it. Some wrongs could not be ignored.
“I didnae try to learn anything,” she confessed in a soft voice. “Knowledge may be power, but ignorance is sometimes all that keeps one safe. Howbeit, now I will try to learn something.”
“And then do what?” Heming was surprised at how hard he had to struggle not to believe in this woman, not to let his hopes rise.
“If my cousin is treating ye so cruelly simply because he thinks ye may have some potion or spell that will make him live longer, then I will set ye free.”
“But nay right now.”
“I cannae act against my kinsmon, my laird, on your word alone. I will visit ye again soon.”
Heming watched her walk away, pausing only to douse the torches she had lit, and he fought the urge to call her back, to try to convince her to act now. It was an odd feeling to suffer from since he knew he should neither trust her nor believe her. Holding out some hope to a condemned man was just the kind of cruelty Hervey Kerr would enjoy yet Heming found himself unable to believe that the fey Brona would have any part of that. He almost smiled when he realized his inability to believe she was hand in fist with her brutal cousin grew from the way she acted toward her pets and they acted toward her. It was a thin branch to hang his hopes on.
He suddenly tensed as he realized Brona had halted just a few feet away. Heming knew two men had been dragged down here two days ago and he felt sure she had halted near their prison. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on listening closely to what was said. His hearing was far better than any Outsider’s and he hoped something would be said to help him come to some decision about Mistress Brona Kerr.
“Why have ye been thrown down here?” she asked the men.
“The laird says we have failed in our duty to him,” replied a man with a deep, rough voice, bitterness dripping from every word.
“Failed, Colin? How could ye and your brother have failed in anything? Ye work from sunrise to sunset.”
“Then mayhap we should have worked until moonrise, mistress.”
“Who cares for your family? For your poor mother and your other siblings?”
“Ranald and Mangus are of an age to be the heads of the household.”
“Has my cousin told ye what your punishment will be?”
“He gave us each ten lashes, mistress, and we thought that the end of it, but then he threw us in here.”
“I think he means to feed us to the monster,” said another man, his voice weak and a little unsteady.
“What monster, Fergus?”
“The one ye just went to look at.”
“There is no monster there, just a mon.”
“Nay, mistress, that is no a mon e’en if he appears to be one,” said Colin. “Ye havenae heard him. He makes sounds like a beast, howling and snarling, e’en hissing. And the laird tortures him for hours demanding answers no mon could e’er give, asking questions about living forever and all of that. And the mon should be dead by now or near to it after all the laird has done to him, yet he isnae, is he.”
“Colin, I was just there, seeing him and speaking with him. He is just a mon.”
“He killed Peter. The laird dragged Peter down here last night and when the poor fool was carried back by us he wasnae alive and his neck was all torn up, like some beast had ripped it open.”
Heming winced even as he felt an urge to protest. He had not torn up Peter’s neck. Hervey had sliced the man’s neck, drawing blood, and then had his guards force the poor man closer and closer to Heming. Weakened by loss of blood, nearly maddened by pain, Heming had been unable to fight the dark hunger stirred to life by the scent of Peter’s blood. He could not be sure, but he may have roughened the wound already there when he had fed off the man. He was sure, however, that Peter had been alive when he had been dragged away, alive and well able to recover given a little care.
“What are ye saying, Colin? That the mon down there, the mon chained hand and foot to an iron cage, ripped open Peter’s throat and fed on him?”
“’Tis what it looked like. Chained hand and foot, ye say?”
“Aye, naked and caged like an animal.”
“If ye had seen Peter, mistress, ye wouldnae doubt us. Me and Fergus fear we will be next, that we are being kept here to feed that demon. Mayhap the laird thinks that will be the only way he can keep the monster alive and get the answers he seeks. The laird is bargaining with the devil, he is.”
“What crime had Peter committed?” Brona asked, her voice little more than a whisper, but Heming could hear the shock she felt trembling in every word.
“Ach, mistress, ’tis nay something I can tell ye.”
“Tell me, Colin. Ye have just told me I have been speaking to a demon who rips out men’s throats and drinks their blood. I think there is little else ye could tell me that would shock me more than that.”
“Peter was a bonnie lad, aye? Slim and fair with a bonnie face.”
Heming could almost smell the tension in the silence that followed that statement.
“My cousin loves men?” Brona asked after a few moments.
“Aye, mistress. I am thinking he likes the lasses too. ’Tis against the church’s law and all that, but I dinnae judge such men. They do nay harm, nay more than any other. S’truth, I ken one or two such men and they are good men, aye? Peter wasnae one of them, though, and he told the laird so, but the laird doesnae like to be told nay, does he. A lass can be forced, aye? ’Tisnae so easy to force a mon, especially when ye dinnae want the world and its mother to ken what ye are about.”
“Then mayhap Peter isnae dead. Mayhap it was all done to force Peter to say aye.”
“He
