Free When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel by Rowan Keats Page A

close, where the stone wall met the rock face. It was hidden in a small chamber that had once been a storeroom. Or so they guessed, based on the fragments of old wooden chests and shards of pottery found on the floor. He slipped behind a slab of granite that to the undiscerning eye appeared to be just the back wall, and entered. The stairs were narrow and steep, carved directly into the rock of the mountain. Aiden took them two at a time, his familiarity with the old ruin dating back to his childhood.
    Torches were seated in iron wall brackets every thirty feet or so, providing scant but welcome light. At the far end of the long tunnel, the narrow confines opened into a small cave that housed the chests and sacks and bits of furniture they’d managed to remove from the castle before it was overrun by MacPhersons. Lids were open, doors swung wide, and the contents of every chest revealed—including the rather small chest that housed his coin.
    In the center of the room, Isabail stood holding a torch, a sheet of parchment, and a thin piece of charcoal. Muirne and Brother Orick, the friar, were counting sacks of grain and calling numbers.
    “Seven bags of wheat flour,” Orick said, dusting off his hands.
    “Twelve of oats,” Muirne said.
    Isabail recorded the numbers on her parchment with a heavy frown. “Are you certain? That may not be enough to last until first harvest.”
    Muirne lifted her head, caught sight of Aiden, and gave a short signal of alarm.
    Isabail spun around and flinched. “Oh.”
    “What are you about?” he asked, annoyed at her reaction.
    Isabail’s hand trembled as she held out the parchment. Aiden did not take it. Was he truly that frightening? Most women found him attractive. “Answer me, please.”
    “You’ve no seneschal,” she said. “No one seems to be tracking the use of your stores.”
    “And why,” he asked, “did you feel the need to do so?”
    She lowered the parchment. “Only a handful of your people can count past twelve.”
    Which explained her role in the inventorying, but not her need to see it done. He stared at her, waiting.
    His silence prompted a further reply, “All right. If you must know, I found my accommodations unsatisfactory. By right I should be treated like a noble guest, not a servant. A straw pallet and threadbare blanket are hardly appropriate. I merely sought some additional comforts.”
    His eyebrow lifted. “And how does knowing how many sacks of flour I possess enhance your comfort?”
    Even in the dim light, he saw her cheeksredden. The disadvantage of possessing such fair and flawless skin. “Mistress Beathag and the cook suggested that while I was down here, and since I had the keys, they would benefit from knowing exactly what they had at their disposal.” Her gaze dropped to her feet. “You really ought to appoint a new seneschal.”
    “How did you acquire the keys?”
    Another flush, this one accompanied by a straightening of her spine and a fisting of her hand around the charcoal. “Your mother made them available to me.”
    “You mean you coerced her.”
    “I had no need. She is a woman. She sympathized with my plight.”
    Incredible. She’d been in the camp for only a few hours and she’d already befriended his mother, unearthed their biggest secret, and begun an assessment of his belongings. A very talented spy. “Cease what you are doing and return to your chamber immediately. You are not to be wandering the camp on your own. You are not a guest; you are a prisoner. Any comforts you receive will be those I choose to offer, not those you claim for yourself.”
    “And what am I to do in my empty chamber? Count cobwebs?” She stood there for a long moment, mutiny in the stiff cant of her shoulders.
    “Dwell on the names of those men who visited Lochurkie last autumn. Revealing them is your only path to freedom.” Aiden pointed down the tunnel. “Go.”
    She stood her ground, but with less surety.
    “Now!” he barked.
    Isabail