Page 59 of Highlander’s Mercenary Lass

The look that Fiona sent her was so forbidding that Aileen stopped dead. Her slender face twisted in puzzlement.

"Why?" she asked.

Fiona glanced at Grace.

"We're nae sure," said Fiona, finally. "But there's something fishy going on, an' I dinnae think that Paton's going tae tell us what, so we need tae find out for ourselves."

Aileen frowned. "How?" she said.

The wind blew a stray autumn leaf in from the grounds outside; absently, Grace crushed it in her hand.

"Someone needs to get into his chambers," she said. "An' find them."

Grace looked at Fiona.

"But who?" Fiona asked. "No one can get in there wi'out being noticed. The auld bodach will nae let anyone near."

"I'll do it!" said Aileen immediately.

But Fiona shook her head. "Ye cannae; it's too dangerous," she said.

Aileen just gave her a look. "Dangerous? This is Paton," she said, scrutinizing Fiona's face. She wasn't stupid and knew something was being kept back.

"Aileen," said Fiona, reluctantly, "Paton may nae be the man ye think he is," she said. Aileen looked more closely at them both. "He is trying tae force Grace tae marry him wi' a lie that we have been instructed tae bring her down."

Aileen's youthful face paled. Grace felt bad for her.

"It's true, sweeting," she said, taking her hand tenderly. "Paton says yer mother warned ye all about me an' that ye've been told tae do her bidding an' drive me away from the Duncan clan."

Grace stopped short of telling Aileen about the threat to murder her. The poor lass's face was so white that she did not think she could take any more shock.

But Aileen's face had settled into an expression of grim determination.

"Well, it's decided then," said Aileen resolutely. "I will go tae Paton's chambers an' find these letters." Her eyes flashed passionately. "An' dinnae try tae stop me!"

The room spun. Raising his head, Andrew tried to focus, but his tired eyes were no match for the darkness in the cell. Gradually, a shaft of light grew slowly from beneath the door.

Head racing, Andrew scrambled to his feet. Except he didn't. Tugging himself off the hard, cold floor, something cold and clanging stopped him. Looking down, Andrew saw what.

Chains.

"Och," moaned Andrew in despair, but his voice was muffled and strange.

A voice made him jump. "Dinnae fash, lad." The poor light made it hard for Andrew to see him properly, but eventually, a frail, elderly man stared up at him.

"Wh-Where—" Andrew cut himself dead, stopping his own question before it came out. It was all too clear where he was. Glancing around at the dank walls and barred windows, Andrew sighed in resignation.

"Aye, lad, save yer strength," said the wretch beside him.

Andrew gazed at the churl splayed out on the damp rushes with pity.

He laughed, treating Andrew to his cavernous black mouth. Andrew recoiled. The man smelled bad. In fact, this whole place did—a combination of human waste, rotting food, and stale air.

Looking around, Andrew saw the likely cause: a large chamber pot beside him. Repulsed, he pushed it away.

"Dinnae fash, lad. It was emptied yesterday. This is paradise!" he chuckled.

Andrew did not think he was in paradise and sank to the floor, his ribs aching with cold.