MY HIGHLAND PRISONER
“I brought ye some tea, lass ,” Glenda announced with faux cheer, as she shuffled into Ailsa’s bedchamber, balancing a tray of hot tea and sweet biscuits on her ample hips. The motherly nursemaid moved quickly, but quietly, over to the desk where Ailsa was bent over. She set her load down and said, “Ye should drink it before it gets cold. It may help take the cold from yer bones.”
Ailsa looked up from the papers she’d been pouring through to the kind, older woman. She was hovering over her like a mother Lapwing over her newborn chicks, but she had always been that way. From the moment Ailsa was born on a warm spring morning on Ostara, Glenda had held her in her arms, wrapped her in cloth, and let her suckle at her teat.
It was the only motherly comfort Ailsa knew, since her own mother died on that same morning, choosing to sacrifice her own life for the life of her wee bairn. At least that was what everyone told Ailsa.
“I will, Glenda. Thank ye.”
Ailsa heard the fatigue in her own voice and the strain those few words placed on her; but, it could not be helped. As much as Glenda had cared for her as a child, Ailsa knew it was high time to return the favor, whether she wanted to or not. The laird of Castle Dunn, her kind and wonderful father, had been shackled and thrown into Invavary, the prison where killers, thieves, and crooks were sent. Ailsa’s father was none of those things. He was a good man, one who hadn't deserved to be sentenced to that horrible place. Death, Ailsa knew, would have been better.
Her father had been sent to jail for fraud charges, claiming to be someone he was not and possess things that he did not have. She knew that it was not the laird’s fault. After Evanna died, while giving birth to Ailsa’s twin half-brothers, her father had changed. Sadness had crept into his heart and was only assuaged by mulled wine and a tavern wench’s bed.
Ailsa’s hands shook, as she turned away from Glenda and to the pot of tea on the table beside her. “Ye can leave, Glenda. I will no’ be needing ye again this night.”
“Pleasant dreams, lass.” The servant bobbed a quick curtsy before throwing the young woman a concerned glance and disappearing through the door where she’d entered.
Tears snaked down Ailsa’s cheeks, but she dashed them away angrily. She’d cried for nearly a sennight when they’d taken her father away nearly a year ago. Ailsa refused to cry for him again, especially not with the situation he’d left his lands in.
Ailsa loved her father, but bitterness and anger had seeped into her bones. As the months passed, she watched their food grow sparse, the crops rot in the fields, and the villagers pledge their allegiance to another laird.
Forcing her shaking hands to calm, Ailsa gripped the brown clay pot and poured the steaming liquid into her tea cup. Leaves danced at the top of her cup, chasing an invisible master. She sighed deeply before setting the pot down and wrapping her hands around the heated clay cup.
Carefully, she drew the cup up to her lips, blowing on the surface to cool the liquid. Her eyes slowly traveled around her sparse bedroom, a thing she’d done often these days. Chipped, cold stone stood out where was there had once been thick tapestries. Slick, unpolished stone stretched the length of the room, chilling Ailsa’s toes in her soft leather slippers.
Her room had once been one of the warmest in the keep. It always boasted a roaring fire and was usually lit all around with soapy candles. Bales of lavender used to hang from the rafters above, while sheep and goat pelts graced her bed and the floor. Those small luxuries were now gone, since they were either sold or traded for coin or food.
Very few things remained from what once filled her room. She still had an ancient chest at the foot of her bed with three simple dresses tucked inside. There was a four-poster
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