She plucked at her dirty shirt. Sweat and dust coated her skin. Bits of leaves tangled in her hair, and the dried scabs on her palms needed cleaning. She sighed. “If I am to die, I want to die clean,” she said to the sparsely furnished room that sported three broad, glass-paned windows and several transoms higher up. She grabbed one of the heavy buckets and lugged it to the iron grate over the fire.

…

“Mackay is demanding to be released,” Gideon said to Cain as he threw himself into a chair opposite him before the cold hearth in the empty great hall.

Even though the stones kept the interior of the keep cool, the summer temperatures made a fire unnecessary. Would Ella be cold in the tower room? He would make sure that Thomas, the loyal warrior who guarded the stairs, had started one for her.

“He wants to come above to argue for his release.” Gideon took a haul off his tankard of the fine summer ale Merida brewed.

“As soon as he orders his men to deliver enough oats to make up for the field he burned,” Cain said. Clan Mackay had been a thorn in their side, swaying between ally and enemy over the years. Hew Mackay was the young chief who had taken the reins of the clan last year, although it was said that his steward, Randolph Mackay, often acted as leader while Hew was sleeping off his whisky.

The young chief’s latest attempt to make trouble was to burn Sinclair fields in hopes they would starve or become dependent on them come winter. But Hew was an incompetent fool. His small band of loyal and misguided warriors had been caught and thus identified, so he couldn’t blame it on the Sutherlands. The two Mackays who had survived had been sent back to Varrich Castle, seat of the Mackays, with Sinclair demands for retribution. So far, the only retribution that Cain’s father had seen were letters demanding Hew’s release. Something George Sinclair would never do, and neither would Cain.

Cain might not tolerate torture under his command, but he wasn’t going to release the bastard without recompence. The arse had taken their grain, so he needed to pay for his freedom with grain. If the elderly couple had died, he would have paid with his life.

Gideon pulled his freshly stitched arm around where blood seeped through the wrapping.

“Does it pain ye?” Cain asked. None of his brothers would complain about a battle wound. They’d been trained by their father to brag about their scars as proof of their invincibility in battle.

“A bit,” Gideon admitted quietly, trusting Cain not to rib him for it. “But Merida has cleaned it with tinctures and slathered it with salves. I doubt it can become tainted. She is likely brewing feverfew tonight just in case.” He smiled.