Page 25

With that, the three of them left. Owen’s wide eyes remained fixed on Amber’s immobile body.

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, please, let her be alive.

He wouldn’t forgive himself if she died. Wherever he went, trouble and tragedy followed. The feud with the MacDougalls, the deaths of his grandfather and Lachlan, Marjorie’s misfortunes, Ian’s…

Even when he was a wee lad, he’d always managed to make a mess of things. Like when the MacKinnons had come to visit Glenkeld. Owen had begged his da to let him go out on the hunt with the men. He was a good shot for a ten-year-old. But his father had barely acknowledged Owen’s request. He’d been too busy talking to his guests.

A disgruntled young Owen had fed the hounds so well that morning, they’d been tired and not interested in the hunt. Consequently, an angry boar had almost attacked the MacKinnon chief. It was only Owen’s father’s excellent aim that had saved the man’s life.

Later, when his father realized who was responsible for the mischief, he’d given Owen a hiding with a soft whip that hadn’t broken his skin but had stung nonetheless. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taught Owen to behave. It had taught him a way to get his father’s attention.

But Owen couldn’t mess this up. Not when the life of an innocent woman was at stake. Especially since the woman was Amber. He put the torch into a sconce on the wall above the bench and sank to his knees by Amber's side. In the light of the fire, he could see her back rising and falling in small, shallow motions. She was pale, but she looked serene. They hadn’t hit her face.

Carefully, he lifted the cloak a little from her shoulder. Bare skin. De Bourgh had undressed her. What else had he done to her? A painful chill went through him, followed by a hot rush of anger.

That bastart… Oh, he will pay. If there’s a single bruise on her…

He lifted the cloak higher, until he saw the first cut. It was a lash, red and broad. The skin in the middle of it was broken, and the cut bled.

“Oh, lass,” Owen whispered. His fists clenched, fingernails biting into his palm.

He uncovered her back completely and saw a dozen or so long, bleeding cuts.

“Holy Mother of Jesu,” he muttered in horror.

He needed to treat her. Wounds like this could be deadly. She could get a fever, especially here in this dirty, moldy underground. But he had nothing, not even clean cloth to cover the cuts. And where were her clothes? She needed to stay warm to stay alive.

Owen covered her again and stood. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around, hoping to find something that would help him. Any warrior knew the basics of how to treat cuts and wounds, so he was ready to help her. But all he had around him was dirt, dust, and rocks.

He sank to his knees again and felt Amber’s pulse on her neck. It was weak, but it was there. Had she passed out from pain? A dozen lashes would be tough for a healthy man, and as strong as Amber seemed, she was a woman. And the days on the road weakened her.

He needed to speak to the guard. Plead with de Bourgh to take her to a healer. He could make a deal, trade some insignificant or even false information for Amber’s recovery. It had been a brilliant move on de Bourgh’s behalf to start the torture with Amber and not Owen. He couldn’t stand to see her suffer so.

The door to the dungeon screeched and gnashed again, and he rushed to the bars.

“Please, help,” he called to whoever carried a torch towards him. “She needs a healer.”

The person first stopped by the other prisoner. Owen heard a metallic clang and some liquid being poured, then came the noise of a hungry man gulping food down. Then the light came towards Owen.

Soon, he could distinguish the features of a guard. He was short and hunched over with a crooked back. He looked about fifty years old and wore a simple cap on his bald head. He had a large nose, a protruding lower jaw, and small, deeply set eyes that made him resemble a hound.

No, this man wasn’t a guard. As far as Owen could see, he was unarmed. He must be a warden.

The man put the torch into a sconce by the grating and then removed a large purse from behind his back. He fished out a waterskin and he tossed it into the cell through a gap in the bars. Then he took out a loaf of bread and did the same. It landed right on the floor, in the dirt, but Owen’s mouth watered at the sight of it.

Nae, he had more important things to think about.

“Please help,” he said. “My wife is badly injured. She’ll die if she isna treated. Can ye take me to de Bourgh? Or bring a healer here?”

The man looked sharply at him, his furry brows knotting together.

“Where’re ye from, lad?” he said, his Highland accent even thicker than Owen’s.

“Argyll. Loch Awe.”

“A Cambel?”

“Aye. Owen Cambel.”