“And all these years, folk have simply let you… stay here? Nobody's tried to make you leave?”
“I challenge anyone to try,” Bridget proclaimed. “In any case, it's been nigh on nine years now. They're not going to drag us out now. ”
Cormac slowly leaned back in his chair, and for the first time since they'd stood together on the beach, he met Marjorie's eyes.
The force of his gaze was a physical thing. She'd had something she was about to say, but it froze on her tongue. She tried desperately but couldn't seem to make her mind produce words.
“It was abandoned, after all. ” Bridget's tone was breezy, and if she'd noticed anything pass between Marjorie and her brother, she didn't let it show.
Cormac cut his eyes down, the spell broken. “Abandoned? It's barely livable. ”
“Och, 'tis a fine place. ” Bridget clapped the ash from her hands. “Folk know we've no other home, and so they let us stay. ”
Cormac sneered. “Or they're afraid of us. ”
“Aye. ” Bridget giggled. “That, too. ” She turned to Marjorie, explaining only half-jokingly, “My brothers make a fearsome trio. You should've seen them when we lost our cottage. ” Marjorie pasted a smile on her face. Trio. Because the fourth went missing thirteen years ago. The thought didn't seem to occur to Bridget. So pretty and carefree, she'd been only two years old when Aidan was taken.
“You mean when you lost your tenancy?”
“Aye, when Father was killed in battle. ” Bridget sauntered to Cormac's chair, and Marjorie sensed him bristle.
“Oh Marj,” she said, patting her brother's shoulder, “these lads were glorious. And so young, too — Gregor was sixteen at the time, and Declan only ten! But they looked out for me even then. I worried the laird would resort to burning our old, wee cottage down in his attempts to remove my brothers from it. ”
“I'd always just assumed… “ She'd always thought the MacAlpin siblings had simply made the odd choice to live there. It'd never struck her that they had no other recourse but to squat in an abandoned castle. “Have you no place to go then, no other family? Nowhere
in all Scotland?”
Bridget shrugged. “Gregor made inquiries, after Father's death. But no distant relatives popped from the heather to deed us any sort of ancestral home. ”
“Is Gregor here?” Marjorie brightened. Gregor was the eldest MacAlpin son, and he was a hard man not to like.
“Why would he not be?” Bridget asked.
“Oh, I suppose… “ Marjorie furrowed her brow. “I just assumed he was living in Aberdeen now. ”
“Gregor doesn't live in Aberdeen,” Bridget said, as though Marjorie had just asserted that the sky was green.
“Well, sometimes he travels to Aberdeen, but he certainly doesn't live there. ”
“Oh, I'm mistaken, of course. ” Though she would've sworn she'd heard rumors that Gregor kept a home near Broadgate.
“Aye, and Declan's about, too. ” Bridget shot one last look of disgust at the fire and strode toward the door.
“Come, we'll finish our tour, and perhaps we'll run into them. ”
Marjorie stole a glance at Cormac. He was staring into his empty ale mug, his face blank. A dull ache crept across her chest, until breathing became a conscious effort. She nodded a mute good-bye, which he didn't acknowledge.
How would she ever get him to help her? She was as alone as she'd ever been. Was she deluding herself to think he'd ever come to her aid? She'd written her fate, a silly fool of a girl, with a dare thirteen years ago.
Marjorie left the room with a heavy heart but quickly came back to herself when she realized she'd lost sight of Bridget. Looking left and right, she spotted her down the hall, already bustling up a spiral staircase. Marjorie jogged after her, struggling to catch up while keeping a careful eye on her feet so as not to slip on the treacherously narrow stone steps.
“It's for the better, you know,” Bridget said when Marjorie reached her. “Dunnottar is more spacious. Though I know as well as any that it's a mite threadbare… “
Her voice trailed off, and Marjorie followed the girl's line of sight. A window that'd been destroyed by cannon fire had caught her eye.
She felt a pang of sympathy, wondering what Bridget's life was like, just seventeen and shut away in this dreary castle, probably never knowing when her brothers would breeze in or out. Bridget had only been three when her mother died and seven when her sister Anya was married off, leaving no other women about. And that had been before they'd even moved into the castle — aside from kitchen help, Bridget had always been the only female at Dunnottar.
With Bridget's outgoing manner, Marjorie was certain she had friends. But still, did the girl have true intimates with whom she could share her innermost secrets? At seventeen, she'd be interested in men. Who would guide her? Certainly not her brothers, who'd probably sooner kill a man as see him woo their youngest sister.