Go with the English-man, and he will show you the strand,
her half-brother had said. Father has traded you to make an ally, but you’ll have a keep on the shore as your recompense, her half-sister had said.
Trust us,
they had said.
The woman stood in a cold guard’s chamber and stared out the small slit of a window before her. The only thing she could see was darkness, but perhaps that was a boon. It obscured the bleak, endless stretches of land that surrounded the keep in which she found herself captive—land seemingly so far removed from the sea she wondered if the villagers even knew that such a thing existed. ‘Twas almost a certainty she would never see the like now.
She was tempted to weep, but she knew it would serve her nothing, so she forbore. After all, she was a MacLeod, and MacLeods did not weep with fear.
Despite how desperately she wanted to do so.
That she found herself in straits terrible enough to warrant tears was difficult to believe. Was it possible that just a fortnight ago the English-man had come to her home? She had stirred herself only long enough to determine that he held no interest for her, then thoroughly ignored him. ‘Twas odd to see an English-man so far north, true, but her father often had men from many foreign places at their keep. She’d had much to occupy her and had paid little heed to one more unfamiliar fool loitering at the supper table.
