followed only a few sighs and soft grunts as the two men obviously tried in vain to get comfortable. Heming closed his eyes, unable to fight the weakness anymore. He was cold and the pain in his body was so unrelenting he wanted to howl until his voice died.
The soft sound of something dripping caused him to open his eyes enough to look down. A small part of his mind was pleased that his ability to see in the dark still lingered, but what he saw chilled him even more than being naked in a cold, damp dungeon. He was still bleeding. It was a slow bleeding, one small drop at a time, but it was an ominous sign. His wounds should have closed enough by now to halt his bleeding.
Heming realized that he might well die in this cursed place. He had thought it before a time or two but had been able to push the thought aside. It was impossible to do that this time. Unless he got some blood soon, he would die. A bone deep chill in his body told him he had lost too much blood to simply rest and recover this time.
Closing his eyes again, he gave himself over to the encroaching blackness as despair swept over him. He did not want to die this way, but it was time to make his peace with it. His kinsmen would avenge him. That infuriated him, for he wanted to kill Hervey with his own hands, wanted to watch the bastard quiver with terror just before he ripped his throat out, but Heming could see no hope of accomplishing that now. He prayed that Tearlach fared better than he. At the moment his only hope of getting out of the trap he had fallen into, of escaping the torment, was a wee lass named Brona. Heming decided it might be time to make his peace with God.
Three
Her heart was pounding so hard, Brona was surprised she could not see the front of her gown moving from the force of it. She could hear the rapid beating inside her head as she crept from cell to cell in the dungeon. Hervey had few prisoners, which made her search much easier. She did not have to keep trying to see if the huddled pile of rags and misery in the corner of each cell was Peter or some other poor soul Hervey felt had wronged him in some way. It also meant she did not have to make any hard decisions about who should be freed and who should be left behind. It appeared that the four men she intended to set free were the only ones in the dungeon.
Finally the light from the lantern she carried fell upon the huddled form of a man. The fair hair falling in soft waves to a pair of broad shoulders told her that it was probably Peter. His face was pressed against his upraised knees so she could not be certain of that yet, however. It was no surprise that the man was curled up so tightly, either, for he was naked. Brona decided she did not wish to know or understand why her cousin had stripped the poor man of all his clothes. She had brought two shirts and two sets of breeches for Sir Heming, but would now use one set for Peter.
“Peter?” she called and was a little startled by how quickly the man responded to her tentative call, moving his head up enough to stare at her.
“Mistress Brona?” he asked in a raspy voice and even in the wavering glow of light from her lantern she could see him blush.
“Aye, Peter. I have brought ye some clothes. I didnae ken ye would have none at all and had brought two sets of clothing for the other mon, but I think they will fit ye as weel.” When he did not move, she turned her head away and held the rough woolen breeches and jupon in through the bars. “Get dressed and I will let ye out of there.”
She heard a sound as if he was dragging himself across the floor and it was several moments before he took the clothes from her hand. Brona resisted the urge to look at him and try to see why he was moving so slowly. She had the sinking feeling she was going to need Colin and Fergus to help with Peter as well as with Sir Heming, and hoped the brothers had not weakened from the lashes her cousin had given them.
“I wish naught more than to flee from this hell, mistress, but I dinnae think I am strong enough to do so.”
“Are ye dressed now?”
“Aye, mistress.”
Brona looked at him and had to hastily swallow a gasp of horror. She knew she had probably gone nearly as pale as Peter was for she could feel all the blood draining from her head. For a brief moment she had to clutch at the bars of his cell to steady herself. Peter’s throat was not really torn out, but there was a gruesome wound there. She wondered how much of that injury had been caused by her cousin and how much by Sir Heming, but now was not the time to satisfy her curiosity.
As her horror and dizziness eased, her ability to think clearly returned and she frowned. Peter wore no bandage and had no stitches, yet he did not bleed. In truth, he should be dead, having bled his life away soon after the wound was made. Horrible as the wound looked, it was closed tight, not even oozing a small drop of blood now and again. There was livid bruising and a raw, ragged mark, but the skin was not open at any point along the wound. Since he had been wounded only a mere two days ago and she doubted he had any care taken of his wound, that made no sense at all. She was abruptly yanked from her thoughts over that puzzle when Peter began to sink to his knees, the simple matter of tugging on his clothing enough to weaken him badly.
“Nay,” she said, putting as much authority into her voice as possible, “dinnae ye go and faint on me now, Peter. Then it will be verra difficult to get ye out of here.”
“I am so verra weak, mistress. I willnae be able to flee here e’en if ye can open this cursed cell,” he said.
“Dinnae worry o’er that. We shall have some help. Colin and Fergus are here.” She took a deep breath, struggling to organize her thoughts so that she could adequately refute the argument she knew he was about to make. “I mean to free them as weel. Them and Sir Heming.” Brona was surprised when Peter only blinked very slowly and then frowned.
“Are ye sure freeing Sir Heming is verra wise, mistress? I think that is one verra dangerous mon.”
“That may be but he has ne’er wronged the Kerrs. Nay more than ye or Fergus or Colin have. This is wrong and I finally saw that I was little better than my cousin for I was closing my eyes to all of his cruelties. Nay more.”
“Ye put yourself in grave danger by acting against the laird.”
“I ken it, which is why I am also leaving Rosscurrach. Try to muster some strength, Peter.” She unlocked his cell door, ignoring the twinge of guilt she felt for having stolen the keys. The theft had been a necessary sin. “We will gather ye up as we leave this place.”
“Be careful, mistress,” Peter said as he sat down and leaned against the frame of the door. “I cannae recall much of what happened to me after the laird cut my throat, but there is something verra dark in Sir Heming.”
“Aye, I ken it, but he will be as eager to leave this place as the rest of ye are, willnae he. We can deal with the mon, come to some sort of truce that will get us all out of here.”
Peter did not argue with her plan so she hurried along to the cell that held Fergus and Colin, pausing to check that the few cells between theirs and Peter’s were empty. Both men were standing at the front of their cell obviously aware of her approach. Brona was relieved to see that neither man had a wound upon his neck. If Sir Heming had drunk from either of them she knew they would never agree to help her free the man. It was going to be difficult enough to get them to help her now.
“Mistress, who were ye speaking to?” asked Colin, his rough-hewn face revealing only a hint of the curiosity she could hear in his voice.
“Peter,” she replied, pleased that she could tell them that their clansman was still alive.
“He
