Ella paced in her tower chamber, the windows nailed shut, making the air more stagnant. Groggy from waking suddenly to realize that she’d lost a chunk of the night by falling asleep, she hadn’t taken the time to determine what time of night it was. With the courtyard below empty, she’d assumed everyone was still asleep.

Damn. She deserved to be captured for her folly, and she should have been reprimanded and ridiculed. Her father would have laughed in her face before knocking her to the ground. Curse Cain Sinclair for doing neither. Instead, the devil of Girnigoe had sought to save her, his classically strong features pinched in what looked like authentic concern for her wellbeing. Even the scars from his brutal past had made him look ruggedly handsome rather than threatening. Mo chreach. Surely, his kindness was a trick.

With her view cut off, there was little to do but give in to her lack of sleep. She woke to the sounds of laughter and music filtering up from the great hall below as the celebration around George Sinclair’s rigid body began. Ella had been to wakes before where there was more drinking and laughing than tears and mourning. It was a way to work out the sorrow and remember the good about a person rather than their death.

She pushed upright on the small bed, little Boo purring. The kitten yawned and stretched out upon the new cover Merida had brought up with breakfast. In exchange, Ella had to endure a scolding for not being more cautious with her life. Ella still had the key to the room, but she knew there would be a guard somewhere on the steps. Even the one who smiled kindly at her was too large to push by. If she only had a weapon. Of course, Cain hadn’t returned her daggers or her bow.

Think. A woman’s strength is in her reasoning brain. Her mother’s favorite bit of advice still echoed in Ella’s memory. She glanced up at the peaked ceiling. I surely disappointed you with my reasoning brain this dawn.

She ran fingers through her loosened hair along her scalp as if trying to rid herself of her anger, which was apparently muddling her mind. Where would there be a weapon? Anywhere in this blasted huge castle. Her fingers stopped, and her head popped upward.

“The devil’s old bedchamber,” she murmured. It was directly below her. If the guard was at the bottom of the stairwell, toasting his old chief, she might be able to sneak into George Sinclair’s chamber. The battle-crazed warrior would have weapons everywhere, maybe even a secret tunnel leading out of Girnigoe. Dunrobin had a couple of them.