Page 150 of Taming the Highland Misfits

“We do not know that for sure,” the Laird said sternly. “His story is very weak.”

“But why would he want to kill his own brother?” Ailsa asked plaintively. “He will not gain the Lairdship. His father despises him and so does everyone else.”

“Except you, it seems.” Her father’s voice was dry and somewhat sarcastic as he stared at her. He was concerned; this was not the kind of man he had in mind for Ailsa. Not only was he illegitimate, but he was possibly a criminal of the worst kind.

Ailsa straightened her spine, tilted her chin up and looked her father in the eye. “No, I do not despise him,” she said defiantly. “I do not believe he killed John, and neither do I believe that he tried to kill me. John was the only person he loved, and the only person who loved him back. He would never try to hurt him.”

The Laird sighed loudly and looked at his daughter in exasperation. She had always been a handful, but now she was growing into a woman, and that brought with it a whole new set of problems. He had a sinking feeling that Ailsa was developing feelings for this young, handsome fellow, and the last thing he and his wife needed was to have to deal with a broken heart. There was absolutely no way under the sun that the McBain family would let her marry a murderer. However, he would keep that to himself for now.

“Everyone deserves a chance to prove their innocence,” he said soothingly. “Ramsay Ormond too. He will be given a fair hearing.”

“If he goes to the dungeon then I am going too,” Ailsa declared, her eyes blazing with anger. “This is a miscarriage of justice, Father, and you know it!” Then she turned and flounced away.

Her father stood and watched her for a moment, completely unruffled. Ailsa was usually a calm person, but occasionally she was given to acts of melodrama like this one, and he had no doubt that her threat was empty. Even the smell of the loathsome place would be enough to discourage her, he thought.

* * *

“Molly!” Ailsa called as she swept into her chamber, banging the door behind her.

Molly was sitting eating her midday meal when the door opened, and she jumped in fright at the sudden loud noise, then frowned at the expression on Ailsa’s face. “Has something happened?” she asked anxiously. “You look angry.”

“That is because I am,” Ailsa retorted furiously. “Molly, I need my warmest dress please, and a fur cloak. No, two. My thickest boots and two warm blankets as well.”

Molly looked at Ailsa in puzzlement. “What is going on?” she asked as she moved over to the armoire and fetched the items Ailsa had asked for. “It is a summer day. Why do you need warm clothes and blankets?”

Ailsa turned to her and looked her squarely in the eye. “Molly,” she said, placing her hands on her shoulders. “You are the best friend I have ever had, and you know me very well. You know that I cannot stomach unfairness, so I hope you understand when I say that I wish to prevent a great injustice from happening.”

Molly frowned deeply as she gazed at Ailsa. “Please explain this to me,” she asked. “I am utterly at a loss.”

While she was dressing, Ailsa outlined her plan to Molly, whose eyes grew wider and more horrified as she listened. “No!” she cried as Ailsa finished laying out her plan. “You are never going to be able to do this, Ailsa. Have you ever been down there? Do you know what it smells like? Do you know what the prisoners are given to eat? It is horrible!”

For a moment, Ailsa felt a flicker of doubt, but as she looked around her luxuriously appointed bedroom with its carved mahogany bed, polished tables, silk rugs, and crystal vases of flowers, her resolve hardened again. Ramsay had never had any of these kinds of possessions; the least she could do was show some solidarity with him.

“Is everything ready?” she asked, ignoring her friend’s protests, and Molly nodded before she helped Ailsa slip into the dress and the cloak.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked doubtfully.

Ailsa remembered that Molly had asked her the same question the previous night before she had gone out to meet John, and again she hesitated, but she soon recovered her determination. “Yes, I am,” she replied before she turned and swept out. “Please, have the cook bring down some food for Ramsay. God knows what they have to eat down there.”

She made her way down to the stairs that led to the prison and stopped on the top step. Everyone had told her about the foetid stench of the place, but at the moment Ailsa could smell nothing.

Tentatively, she began to descend, and as she did the foul odour began to waft upwards towards her. She stopped on the stairs, but as she saw a guard passing at the foot of the staircase who looked up at her, she tilted her chin up and resumed her downward journey. She was trying to look as confident as she could, but inside she felt terrified.

The bottom of the staircase led to a small space where the guards sat talking and drinking their ale. As soon as they saw her they jumped to their feet and bowed to her, and she acknowledged their greeting with a nod. If any one of them thought it was odd that a lady should be walking alone in the dungeons, none was brave enough to say so.

“Ramsay Ormond.” The words were clipped and full of authority, and one of the guards went in front of her and led her down a broad corridor into the cells. The only light came from torches on the walls, and even that was feeble.

At last, Ailsa drew abreast of Ramsay’s cell and looked in to see him lying sideways on the thin pallet on the floor, his legs drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them. His eyes were firmly closed, but they were moving from side to side behind his eyelids as though he was watching a scene unfold before him. He was dreaming, and she had a feeling that what he was seeing in his dreams was not pleasant, judging by the pained expression on his face.

Ailsa ordered the door of the cell next door to be opened, laid down everything except the cloak and blanket, then she stood in front of Ramsay’s cell. She watched him for a while. He was everything a woman could want in a man, she thought; strong yet gentle, sensitive enough to show his feelings, but not weak enough to let them overcome him. Moreover, he had the kind of looks that made most women want to throw themselves into his arms—including herself.

She waited until a tray of food had been brought down from the kitchen before calling his name to wake him up.

Ramsay’s countenance showed her that he was having a bad dream, and she wondered what it was, but the satisfaction of her curiosity could wait.

He must have heard the servants’s footsteps, because a few moments later he sat up and rubbed his eyes, then he looked straight at her and frowned. “Ailsa.” His voice was still hoarse with sleep, and he looked puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

She answered his question with one of her own. “Are you hungry?” she asked, although the look on his face told her it was unnecessary.