A familiar female voice gave a tinkling giggle followed by a string of intense moaning. The sounds churned disgust from deep inside Eilidh. Clamping her hands over her mouth, she hurried her steps toward the flickering light at the end of the castle’s hallway. She had only meant to reach the kitchens, urged forward by her grumbling belly.
Resuming her hunt, she stayed close to the shadows, trusting her nose. Surely, that was bannock she smelled on the air. If she were lucky, there would be some lying leftover on the kitchen tables.
She remembered just recently serving her baby brother bannock and soup, and her heart squeezed in her chest. He had crossed his little arms and pursed his lips with determined stubbornness. No matter how much Eilidh had prodded, begged, and cajoled, he had refused to touch the food. But Eilidh had known a trick that had always made him eat a bite or two—she would break the bread in half and take a gulp of the soup. Nathair would flash his toothless smile and clap his little hands. Then, he would take a bite too.
Eilidh relished reliving memories and talesin her head. Her imagination was boundless. While trying to put Nathair to sleep, she would often tell wild stories about powerful Lairds and their adventures. Her brother had listened intently, barely batting his dark lashes as she spun her yarns, frequently clapping in delight as another evil brigand was brought to his knees. Many nights, they had slept entwined in each other's arms, Eilidh exhausted from her story, her brother long worn out.
As she rounded the last corner before the kitchens, closest to the door from which the delicious aromas were spilling, a soft but keening cry echoed in her mind.
Her entire body froze at the memory, and she felt colder than the hurling winter winds rattling the castle’s windows. A pounding began behind her eyes, growing hotter until tears burned there. The cry came again in her head, a baby’s voice, followed by the frantic hushing sounds of a guardian.
Eilidh had awoken two nights ago with her body hotter than fire. It had been one of those storytelling nights. Her brother was curled up against her, teeth clattering and skin paler than death.
Alarmed, she had sprung up and run to the locked room in the house. Her mother's moans could be heard through the door. That night, she disregarded her mother's strict instruction not to interrupt her when she was with a guest.
“Maither!” Eilidh pounded on the door. “Maither please, it’s Nathair! I dinnae ken what’s wrong! He’s burnin’ up!”
She hit harder against the door, bruising her knuckles. It was her mother, Isla, who kept their money safe. Without payment, the healer wouldn't even look at Eilidh. She didn't care if it was as dark as a blackened pot outside; she'd rush to the healer's house in an instant.
The door had remained shut, and after a minute, the passionate groans resumed.
She had dashed back to Nathair, whose eyes had begun to roll back in his head. She had ripped off a piece of her gown, drenched it in water, squeezed it out and covered his burning forehead, wrapping him tightly in the covers of his cot. His shivering had worsened, and he was now thrashing his head from side to side, babbling.
Eilidh yanked him off the bed and headed for her mother’s chambers again. She pounded on the door, yelling until her voice grew hoarse.
An eternity later, the door creaked open. Eilidh was met by her mother’s disheveled strawberry blonde hair and infuriated dark eyes. It was as though Eilidh was looking into a mirror, casting herself twenty years into the future.
Before she could open her mouth, she knew Nathair had passed. His thrashing had ceased, his body stiff as a rock. Her mother's cries stung her ears like poison. She walked away, leaving Nathair by her feet. They were both aware that her mother had never truly cared for her son. She saw him as a blunder, made with a man whose purse held nothing but air.
Her mother had learned to tolerate Eilidh’s presence, but Nathair was only an obstacle in her grand scheme of ensnaring a rich Laird. With it, she thought to live in all the luxurious comfort she craved. Her children had been an inconvenience.
That was how, after her brother’s death, Eilidh had found herself in the Graham clan’s castle… where mother was pleasuring yet another man.
Eilidh glanced down at her shaking hands. Two chilly nights ago, she had lost the most precious person in her life. He had died, cradled in her arms. And now here she was, hunting for food in the dead of the night like a rat.
Her knees trembled, and she made no effort to hold herself up as she slid down the wall, wracked by silent sobs.
She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them tightly. She lowered her head to her knees and shuddered in her gown, wishing her mother's black hatred and crushing guilt away. Nothing could change the fact that she had failed her brother.
A hand tugged on the back of Eilidh’s hair, yanking her head up. She gave a shocked gasp at the mountain of a man grinning down at her.
The flickering firelight cast shadows on the right side of his face, and it made him appear more sinister. She recognized Laird MacAdam, swaying on his heels and stinking of the strong ale he had shared with Laird Graham and his men earlier.
She yanked herself away. “Laird MacAdam,” she greeted with a small bow, through gritted teeth.
“Ye’re the lass that spilled ale over me earlier,” he answered and belched, rubbing his potbelly.
Eilidh turned a dark shade of red, “I apologize, milaird. ‘Twas mighty clumsy of me.” She remembered him positioning his foot right in her path, making her trip.
“Aye,” he agreed and drew closer to her, pushing her back to the wall. “Ye should apologize properly, lass.” He pressed his lips to her left cheek.
Eilidh forced back a dry retch. She reminded herself that the Laird was a guest of clan Graham, and that at MacAdam’s behest, they could have her head—her mother’s, too.
She thought for the right words. “Milaird,” she started, stepping out of his hold, “I can bring yer food in the mornin’. ‘Tis late now, so the kitchens might be locked.” She cringed at her frail voice and stupid idea.
His large paws grappled her left upper arm and yanked her to his broad chest. Eilidh bit back a scream. Certain of the Laird’s intent, her heart hammered.
His fingers dug into the sleeves of her dress. She squirmed and made to leap away, but he grabbed a fistful of her hair and held her in place.