CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
N icholas descended the stone steps of the dungeon, each footfall echoing with weight and memory. The air grew colder as he went, damp with the scent of mildew and the distant drip of water.
He hadn’t come down here since the day he threw Oscar Irvine behind bars. And even now, he wasn’t sure if he came for answers or vengeance, but Alexandra's plea had him thinking about the matter.
The flickering torchlight cast long shadows along the corridor as he passed the empty cells.
At the end, behind thick iron bars, sat the man who once claimed to be family.
Oscar Irvine lifted his head, his gray hair unkempt, his eyes sunken with age and guilt.
When he saw Nicholas, his mouth parted in shock.
“Nicholas,” Oscar rasped, staggering to his feet and gripping the bars. “Laird O’Donnell, please… why have ye kept me here all this time?”
Nicholas kept his stance rigid, eyes cold as stone. “Ye ken well enough why. Daenae play a bampot. I’ve come for answers, and nay lies this time.”
Oscar blinked rapidly, hope creeping into his expression. “I beg ye—let me out. I’ve paid me penance. I lost me mind after Annabeth—after me lass died. I wouldnae have taken Charlie if I were thinkin’ straight.”
Nicholas stepped closer, his jaw tight. “Ye stole me only son. Took him in the dead of night, left nay trace. That’s nay grief, Oscar—that’s betrayal.”
Oscar clutched the bars tighter, his knuckles white. “I raised him gently, never laid a hand, I swear it. I just… I couldnae bear the thought of losin’ both me daughter and me grandson.”
Nicholas felt his throat tighten, though his voice remained steady. “Grief or nae, ye broke me trust. Ye broke the boy’s heart.”
Oscar lowered his head, shame flooding his features. “Aye… I ken it. I’ve lain awake every night, thinkin’ on it. If I could undo it, I would.”
Nicholas studied the man—older, wearier than he remembered. There was no triumph in seeing Oscar like this, only the bitter ache of what had been lost. But Alexandra’s words echoed in his mind, and with them, the image of Erica being taken.
“I dinnae come to grant ye freedom,” Nicholas said at last. “But I need to ken how ye took Charlie from under this roof. I need every step, every detail.”
Oscar looked up slowly, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Why? What are ye plannin’?”
“That’s nay concern of yers,” Nicholas snapped. “Just tell me what I want to hear.”
Oscar nodded and slumped to the floor. “I used the east passage. The one beneath the cheese cellar—few ken it’s there.”
“I only meant to keep Charlie safe. But I got lost in it. In the grief.”
Nicholas turned to leave, but Oscar's words echoed in his mind as they struck him. "Meant to keep Charlie safe? What do ye mean by that? He's safe here in the castle. Safer than out in the wilds with ye."
Oscar's shoulders sagged as he lowered his eyes to the filthy ground. “I loved me daughter, Nicholas. Loved her more than breath itself. When she died… when ye told me she died in childbirth—I never truly accepted it.”
Nicholas narrowed his gaze, fists clenched at his sides. “That’s nay excuse for what ye did.”
Oscar lifted his head slowly, eyes reddened. “I dinnae believe she died naturally. Nae truly. I always thought ye’d gotten what ye wanted—an heir—and rid yerself of her afterward.”
Nicholas’s face darkened with fury, his voice low and sharp. “Ye dare accuse me of such a thing? That I took her life? I would never harm Annabeth. She was the maither of me son. I would never take that from Charlie or harm a woman.”
Oscar shook his head, gripping the bars weakly. “Grief makes a man mad. I ken it now. But back then, I thought I was savin’ the boy from a man I believed had murdered me daughter.”
Nicholas took a step back, disgust flaring in his chest. “That’s nae grief, Oscar. That’s delusion.”
Oscar’s voice cracked. “Then why did she die so sudden? She was healthy, strong…”
Nicholas turned, stepping away from the cell. His heart pounded, not with guilt—but with rage at the insult. “Because childbirth is a cruel thing,” he muttered. “It takes women too often.”
Nicholas stepped toward the corridor.
“Wait,” Oscar called, his voice suddenly desperate. “Nicholas—what’s goin’ to be done with me?”
Nicholas paused at the door, hand on the latch. “I havenae decided.”
“Please,” Oscar rasped. “Let me prove I’ve changed. Let me help. I ken things, things that could help ye now. Or if ye want I shall go south and ye will never hear of me again."
Nicholas didn’t turn back. His voice echoed as he pulled the iron door open. “We’ll see.”
Nicholas' rage filled his heart as he slammed the iron door closed.
It rang with an echo through the dungeon.
He marched up into the castle toward his study.
He never once thought that Oscar held such a dark secret.
All this time, he had considered himself cursed for what happened to Annabeth, yet Oscar thought him a murderer.
He paced the length of his study, jaw clenched, and brow furrowed. Oscar’s words were of some help, but only if he planned to sneak into McLaren Castle when the time came. However, he didn't know the castle layout, so he should prepare if the opportunity should arrive.
He grabbed parchments from the shelves and unrolled them. Maps lay strewn across the long oak table, edges curling and stained with age, all marked with notes and boundaries drawn in ink as he studied them.
His eyes kept drifting to the shaded portion of land that belonged to the McLaren clan—Leo Rankin’s stronghold. His fingers dug into the table’s edge as he leaned forward, thoughts full of war and strategy.
"I daenae ken what horrors the lass might be facin’. And all because she dared protect Alexandra, who now carries the weight of that sacrifice like a stone on her back."
He muttered to himself, tracing a possible route through the glen where his men might travel unseen. The thought of Leo keeping Erica in chains—or worse—tightened his chest.
"O'Donnell?" A soft knock came to the door.
"Enter," Nicholas responded.
The door opened and Councilman Alan stepped into the room.
“Laird O’Donnell,” he said firmly, folding his arms, “I heard ye’ve scouts tailin’ Leo Rankin. Is it true?”
Nicholas didn’t look up from the map. “Aye, it’s true. I’d be a fool nae to keep eyes on a man that showed up at our gate makin’ demands.”
Alan took a step forward, his voice growing tighter. “That’s a dangerous game, Nicholas. Are ye plannin’ to bring war upon us? Over a woman?”
Nicholas straightened slowly and met the man’s gaze. “Watch yer tongue, Alan. That woman is under me protection.”
“She’s nae yer wife,” Alan snapped. “And she’s nae O’Donnell blood. Ye’ve a whole clan to think of, men with families, land to protect. Ye cannae be ruled by yer heart alone.”
Nicholas’s hand slammed against the table, rattling the ink pots. “And ye cannae tell me what I may or may nae do. I’m the laird here, and I’ll make the choices needed to keep this land safe—and its people.”
Alan didn’t flinch. “Exactly. So think of all yer people, nae just the bonnie lass who’s caught yer eye. Ye’ve got farmers who’ll suffer if ye send their sons to die in some bloody feud. Merchants who’ll lose their trade routes if Leo brings down retaliation.”
“I daenae plan to start a war,” Nicholas growled, though the fire in his eyes said otherwise. “But I’ll nae stand by and do naught while a friend—a good woman—is in the hands of a beast.”
Alan took a breath, steadied himself, in an attempt to restrain his fear of Nicholas, “Then perhaps if ye could find another way? Before lifting yer sword consider that the clan follows ye, no matter what happens. But the woman that was taken is nought more than a handmaid. It seems to be Leo has a rightful hold over that handmaid if it be true that she is indeed his sister. Do ye not think we should stay out of this?”
Nicholas turned his back on him, staring out the window, his jaw tight. “I’ll do what must be done.”
Alan gave a small nod. “Then make sure it’s for the right reasons and that it will nae bring war down upon us.”
Nicholas turned to face Alan directly. “I will consider yer advice as always, but you walk a thin line between advice and orders. I will nay accept to be disrespected by ye or the council in an effort to control me. Take those words to heart.”
With that, Alan bowed his head in acceptance and turned and walked out, the heavy door closing behind him with a thud.
Silence settled over the study once more, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. Nicholas stared at the map, but he saw none of it now. Alan’s words rang in his ears like bells—heavy, unwanted, but not without truth. He could not lead his people into needless bloodshed.
But the image of Alexandra crying herself to sleep, trembling in his arms, would not leave his mind.
Nor would the fire in her voice when she spoke of rescuing Erica.
The lass had been through too much already, and it clawed at Nicholas to see her suffer.
He clenched his fists, wishing he could snap Leo Rankin’s neck with his bare hands.
Aye, maybe it is foolish to risk so much. Maybe it's mad.
But Nicholas knew he could not sit idle. Not when there was a chance—any chance—to bring peace to Alexandra’s heart and justice to the woman who had given up her freedom to protect her.
His eyes returned to the map, narrowing on a ridge to the north—unmarked trails, deep forests, and forgotten roads. But he would be relying on McLaren Castle to have some sort of hidden passage that they would have to bribe a guard to reveal.
Nicholas exhaled hard and rubbed a hand down his face. “Blast it, Alan,” he muttered. “Ye might be right… but I still cannae let her go.”
Later that night, the great hall of Castle O’Donnell glowed golden beneath rows of flickering torches. Laughter echoed through the rafters as men and women crowded the long oak tables, their goblets filled with mead and ale.
Platters of roasted venison, buttery neeps, and herb-stuffed pheasant were passed down the rows, accompanied by the scent of spiced apples and fresh oat bread. A trio of fiddlers played lively reels from the dais, while younger clansfolk spun in dancing circles near the hearth.
Nicholas sat at the high table, his arms folded as a half-eaten trencher of venison cooled before him.
He kept his expression firm as he surveyed the room, nodding now and again to a loyal clansman or a passing servant.
His people needed this—light in the dark, warmth after the storm.
But as he reached for his cup, he frowned, noting the one absence that now gnawed at his thoughts.
Alexandra has nae come down.
The scrape of boots on stone pulled his attention to the far end of the hall.
Alexandra stormed toward him, her eyes flashing with fury, skirts hiked up just enough to clear her boots. Her cheeks were flushed, and the moment she reached him, she didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“How can ye allow such foolishness?” she snapped, voice sharp and clear enough for those nearby to fall silent. “There’s music and dancin’ and laughter while Erica is still in the hands of that monster!”
Nicholas straightened slowly in his chair. His eyes narrowed as he met her glare. “Ye think I should starve me men of joy and order silence in the halls? That I should put down the pipes and give them only grief for supper?”
“Aye!” she barked. “At the very least, a bit of somber dignity! I cannae bear the sound of joy when she could be sufferin’. She gave herself up for me, and here ye sit with venison in yer teeth!”
He rose from the chair, his own temper flaring now as eyes around the hall turned toward them. “Do ye ken what keeps a guard’s sword sharp? What keeps his spirit from crackin’? ’Tis nae sorrow and silence—it’s meat in his belly and a reel in his feet.”
“This is nae just about yer guards, Nicholas!” Alexandra hissed. “This is about…decency!”
“And I’m tryin’ to hold together a clan!” he growled back. “Every soul in this hall is lookin’ to me nae just as a man, but as a laird, and ye shame me before them!”
With a cry of frustration, Alexandra spun on her heel and stomped out of the hall, her boots clapping against the stone.
Nicholas stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving, then cursed under his breath and followed her. "Damn her stubbornness."
He caught her in the corridor, the dim torches casting her in gold and shadow. He grabbed her arm, spinning her around. “How dare ye undermine me in front of me people?”
Her breath hitched as she tried to yank free. “Unhand me!”
“Must I remind ye,” he growled, voice low, “that ye are still me captive?”
The words struck the air like lightning, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
Her chest rose and fell, and her lips parted as her eyes locked on his. There was fury in her gaze—fury and something else. Her skin burned beneath his hand, and his own restraint snapped like a bowstring.
Without thought, without plan, he pulled her close and pressed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was fierce, bruising—born of rage, sorrow, and something deeper. He noticed that she didn’t pull away, not at first. Her hands fisted in the front of his tunic, and she kissed him back with a fire that startled him. When she did finally break away, her breath came in gasps.
He stared at her, stunned by her boldness. She stared back, shaken. Silence fell between them, heavy and unspoken. The corridor felt suddenly colder.
She stepped back, eyes wide and unreadable. “I… I need air.”
Then she turned and fled, leaving Nicholas standing alone, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.