When she heard another low moan, she crawled toward the sound, awkward on her forearms because her hands were still bound, until her fingers touched cloth. She reached out and felt a limb beneath the fabric. She had a fellow prisoner, and he appeared to be badly injured.
“Tell me where you’re hurt and what I can do to help you,” she said.
“My leg,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll die if we can’t stop the bleeding.”
“I’ll cut a strip from my gown.”
Hector’s men had taken the dirk strapped to her thigh. While she had been lost in self-pity and despair, she’d forgotten that she wore the ragged cloak from her long journey north. Quickly, she felt along the bottom of it until she found the small, thin blade Rory had insisted she hide in the hem for added protection.
Removing the blade was fairly easy, but sawing through the rope binding her wrists was a struggle. The poor man moaned again. She was taking far too long.
“I’ll help.” The voice that came out of the darkness was young and female.
“Please!” Sybil did not have time to ask questions.
Cold fingers found her hands and took the blade from her. As soon as her hands were free, she took the knife back and cut a long strip of cloth from the shift under her gown. The injured man had gone quiet, and she feared he had died on her.
“I can’t see.” She shook his arm. “Ye must show me where I should tie this on your leg.”
He guided her hand to the gaping wound on his thigh. She swallowed back her panic and sopped up the blood with the skirt of her gown as best she could.
“I’m Sybil, the MacKenzie’s wife,” she said to distract him from the pain as she and the girl worked together to bandage his wound. “Who are you?”
“Lùcas,” he croaked.
“Malcolm’s grandson?” Oh, God, he had not delivered the message. That meant the Grants had heard nothing except that Kenneth was dead. Tears filled her eyes as she remembered that the boy might truly be dead now.
“And you, lass?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “Why does Hector have you here?”
“I’m Brighde, the wise woman’s granddaughter,” she said. “He’s told my grandmother he’ll give me to Big Duncan of the Axe unless she does what he says. But I believe he’ll do it no matter what she does.”
Nay, Sybil would not let this poor girl fall into Duncan’s hands. Nor would she let Malcolm’s grandson die here. It was time to stop wallowing in despair.
“The three of us are going to escape,” she said. “We just need a plan.”
***
“Quick, Brighde!” Sybil said when she heard the grate of the iron lock turning. “Help me retie my hands.”
Her heart pounded in her ears as she fumbled in the dark to find the longest piece of the cut rope. A shaft of light appeared at the top of the stairs. Somehow, the two of them got it tied, but she hoped her captors would not notice that the rope was shorter than before.
In the light from the guard’s torch as he came down the steps, Sybil saw the girl’s face for the first time and her heart clenched. The girl was young, not more than fourteen, and fair and pretty.
“We will get out,” Sybil whispered to give the girl hope just before the guard yanked her feet. Hope was a dangerous thing to lose.
A short time later, she stood alone in a room with Hector and Big Duncan. She squinted against the bright light of day as she took in the exquisite tapestries and French furniture.
Hector came toward her with his dirk pointed at her belly. She gasped as he flicked his wrist and the rope fell from her hands. After waving her into a chair, he handed her a cup of wine.
“Go ahead and drink,” he said. “I’m not a subtle man. If I decide to kill ye, it won’t be by poison.”
“How reassuring,” she said, and took a tiny sip.
“Tell me how it is that instead of Rory,” Hector said, leaning back in his chair, “I find his lovely Douglas bride dressed in rags and protected by just that tired old warrior Rory was so fond of.”
She swallowed at his mention of Malcolm, but she could not think about his death now. She needed to keep her wits sharp and decide how she would play this.
“Ye know I caught your messenger, so I know Rory planned to deliver Grant’s grandson at Beauly,” he said. “Why wasn’t he there?”