Free The Firebrand by May McGoldrick Page A

the edge off the winter chill. The ancient woman never looked up at her once.
    “Good morning to you, mistress,” Nichola offered.
    There was no response. But then again, there had been no response to anything she’d said or demanded in the last two places that she’d been kept.
    She crossed over to the table and poured some of the water from a pitcher into a bowl. She glanced again at the woman’s back. The difference this time over the last two keepers was that a woman had been sent in to see to these basic needs. Nichola considered that a positive sign.
    “Is it still raining outside?” The ride had been wet the previous day. Her own horse had slipped a number of times as her captors had led her to this keep.
    Again, the old woman gave no sign of answering. No movement of the head. No straightening of the back. Not even a glance of curiosity.
    Nichola dipped her hands into the icy water and raised them to her face. The cold against her skin felt good, and she glanced again at the woman as she turned to the door.
    “Can you stay? Just for a few moments to keep me company while I eat?”
    No acknowledgment. Only a heavy shuffling toward the door.
    Nichola watched as the spotted, blue-veined hand rose and rapped on the heavy oak. A frown pulled at the prisoner’s mouth as the iron banded door opened again only enough for the visitor to slide through and disappear. In a few moments, Nichola heard the heavy door at the bottom of the stairwell open and close.
    “Who are you people?” She found her temper rising and made no attempt to check it. “What do you want from me?”

CHAPTER 7
     
    Wyntoun stared at the gray line of Ardnamurchan’s coast rising above the mists. On a clear day, the worn crags of Bienn na Seilg would be visible from here, but the day had been anything but clear and darkness was closing in fast. He turned his attention up at the sailors scurrying through the rigging. In a couple of hours’ time they’d be running into the smoother waters of the Sound of Mull. And assuming Argyll’s men at Mingary Castle didn’t take a fancy to sending a few cannon balls their way as the carrack passed, he’d be dropping anchor in Duart Bay before dawn, if the breezes held.
    In front of him, Alan shouted orders upward at the men in the rigging before walking aft to where Wyn stood at the stern rail. The shipmaster took note of the wind to the south, eyed the coastline, and nodded—his unsmiling face giving no indication of satisfaction. Wyntoun knew from experience, though, that Alan would take his ship home without mishap.
    As the two men stood in comfortable silence, Coll, one of Wyntoun’s oldest and ablest sailors, came up from below and mounted the short ladder to the aft deck.
    “Any change?”
    Coll shook his head, his blue eyes as clear as the day he’d gone to sea as a lad. “The drink ye gave must have been a strong one, master. The lassie ne’er stirred a finger the whole watch.”
    “And the lad?”
    “Nary a blink from that one.” The sailor pulled off his tam and scratched the bald spot on top of his head. “He’s still huddled at the foot of the bed, guarding the lassie. He’s got spunk, the lad does.”
    “But he doesn’t seem to have brought us much bad luck in the crossing, would you say?”
    Coll’s face turned a shade of red as he shook his head at his master. “Nay...but ye know I do not put much faith in such rubbish, master. I did hear the men saying that we had no trouble because ye locked the lad up in yer cabin...there was no way he could spread his bad luck from down there.”
    “I say we spread the word that the ducking Gillie got in that cold water yesterday must have washed off all of the lad’s bad luck.” Wyntoun’s comment brought a chuckle from Coll and a nod from Alan. “The lad will be staying at Duart Castle for a while—at least until we have another ship going back to Barra. And the last thing I want is for our men to be bringing any rubbish ashore