“Where is yer family?”

“My clan lives at Stearns Castle. My father is Laird of our clan.”

“And what clan be that?”

“Clan Fergusson.”

Bram began to feel uneasiness in his stomach by her revelation. The MacKinnons were not allies with the Fergusson clan nor were they allied with many of the Lowland clans. The Lowlanders had given their allegiance to the English King, Edward, Bram’s people’s greatest enemy.

“Who take cares of ye lass, if no’ yer father?”

Bram could see hurt in her eyes from whatever image his words brought to mind. And whatever it was, it frightened her. With his thumb, he wiped away a tear that had slowly crept down her cheek. Her skin was soft under his rough, calloused hands.

“What’s the matter, lass? What happened to ye?” he asked, but she gave him no reply.

Mayhap she was afraid to speak the truth. Or perhaps whoever her caregiver was, they were the one responsible for giving her over to the English. Bram silently cursed the person who had done any wrong by her.

With dread, he asked again, “Were they the ones who gave ye over to the English?”

“Aye. But I wish to no’ talk about it,” she said in a faint whisper.

Bram’s eyebrows furrowed and a deep scowl replaced the smile on his face. How could someone do that to such a sweet, young, and innocent lass? Surely they must have known what the English would have done to her. Had he known who the person was, he would make certain that they suffered the same fate tenfold.

“I promise ye lass that ye are safe wit me. No harm will come to ye while ye are under my protection. I will make sure ye make it safely home to yer clan.”

“And what of ye? Will ye return to yer family as well?”

“Aye.”

“Do ye live in the far north of the Highlands?”

“Aye. Dunakin Castle is along Loch Alsh just south of the Isle of Skye. My clan settled there more than a century ago.”

“And what of yer family? Yer father, yer mother?” Lara asked, curious to understand more about her docile warrior.

“My father is dead and my mother is still verra much alive. And my brother, Rory, is Laird of our clan.”

“Brother? Ye are the laird’s brother?” Lara asked thinking all this time that he walked the earth like a nomad, a warrior who fought for the freedom of others, never imagining that he had a family.

“Aye.”

Hesitantly, she bit her lip and asked, “And yer wife?”

Bram laughed at her question.

“I be no’ married lass and nay lass would want to marry me. But, I do have me two young lads, Connor and Colin.”

“I apologize, I assumed.”

“Tis alright.”

For some reason the thought of him not being married made Lara inwardly smile.

“Ye must miss them terribly.”

“Aye, I do.”

Looking out the doorway, Lara thought to return inside before their hostess thought they had run off.

“I think I should return to the croft... I trust ye can finish the rest?” she said, looking at the dried blood still staining his shoulders and chest.

“Aye. Thank ye” he replied.

“Yer welcome.”

Chapter 4

Hours passed. Bram lay upon his pallet trying to piece together Lara’s story about how she came to be in the hands of the English. It was not very often that the English would imprison a woman in the dungeons along with the men. Imprison them, yes, but they were usually held in private rooms or in cages to be put on public display. Bram thought that she must have committed some extraordinary crime that she was unwilling to admit to be treated as such. Perhaps she’d committed treason against the king or killed an Earl. She had taken one man’s life with no regard, was it conceivable that she had taken another?

It seemed impossible that she could have killed any man for that matter. If Bram had not witnessed it for himself he would never have believed it. She was a vexing and tricky wench, he thought, admiring her audacity.

With his mind racing, Bram tried to settle his thoughts. Looking around the small barn, the room was filled with hay, feed for the chickens, and four stalls; two of them had a horse in each quietly grazing on a pile of hay. He also noticed a long work table with a stack of blades of various sizes along the back wall in the other abandon stalls. He was not surprised; Rowena had mentioned that her husband worked as a blacksmith. Stroking his hand down his long thick beard, Bram stood up and walked over to the barrel of water Lara had used to tend his wounds.

Needing to wash off the remaining dirt and dried blood, he dunked his head, shoulders and chest into the barrel until they were fully submerged in the water. The cool water offered some relief from the hot and humid summer night. Lifting out of the water, he tossed his long wet hair back over his shoulders. Drops of water cascaded down his beard and back, causing a prickling shiver down his spine. He then dipped his tunic into the water and rinsed off the blood and dirt though little would wash away. The stain had already begun to set in. Wringing the tunic out so that water was no longer dripping, he hung it over the wall of one of the stall doors to dry.

Snatching up one of the small blades and a whetstone which had been placed next to the stack, Bram carefully rubbed the stone along the blade’s edge to sharpen it. Once he was satisfied the blade was good and sharp, he ran the blade down his face to remove the unwanted hair. Next, he cut his hair so that it hung no longer than his shoulders.

Once he finished, Bram placed the blade down onto the table and laid his weary body back down onto the pallet, hoping for a few hours of sleep before the sun rose. Closing his eyes, he allowed sleep to take him and he drifted off into a heavy slumber.

It felt like only an hour since Bram had fallen asleep when the sounds of the horses awakened him. He looked towards them wondering what had caused them to become so riled, as they stirred in their stalls. As he looked around the barn, he spied a wee lad, no more than seven or eight, who had entered and had been watching him as he slept. Taking a step back, the lad looked at him cautiously.

“Why do ye look like that?” the lad asked as he teetered back and forth along wooden beam.

“How do I look?” Bram smirked wondering which the lad referred to, his size or his scars.

“Like ye were attacked by wolves. I saw a wolf once. I was no’ afraid of him though,” the lad replied puffing out his chest as if he was showing off his muscles. Immediately he continued, “He was big like ye are. He killed one of our sheep. Would have killed another if it were no’ fer my da. He bested him wit a shovel. Hit him over the head. If I’d had me a shovel, I would have hit him too,” he proclaimed, swinging his arm back and forth as if he had some imaginary shovel in his hand. “By the way, me name is Tavish. What’s yers?”

“Bram. Ye must be a brave warrior, Tavish,” Bram chuckled giving the young lad a sense of pride.

“No’ yet. But someday I will be a great warrior and I will kill all sorts of wolves. Are ye a warrior? Ye wear colors like one,” he said eyeing Bram’s kilt.

Bram looked down at his kilt. It no longer represented the brilliant colors of red and green that the MacKinnon Clan proudly wore but now displayed a dull hue of faded colors.

“I am,” he admitted.

The lad smiled at him as if he was proud just to be in Bram’s presence. Attacked by wolves? Bram chuckled at the lad’s imaginative assumption. Even though that was not what had happened, the brutal treatment he’d received in the dungeon was comparable in nature to those of vicious wolves.

Just then an older man entered the barn. Tavish jumped down from the beam and ran past him back outside as if he would have been scolded for being there. Dressed in a stained tunic and dusty trews, the man raised a brow to Bram.