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several
moments before he took the clothes from her hand. Brona resisted the urge to
look at him and try to see why he was moving so slowly. She had the sinking
feeling she was going to need Colin and Fergus to help with Peter as well as
with Sir Heming, and hoped the brothers had not weakened from the lashes her
cousin had given them.
    “I
wish naught more than to flee from this hell, mistress, but I dinnae think I am
strong enough to do so.”
    “Are
ye dressed now?”
    “Aye,
mistress.”
    Brona
looked at him and had to hastily swallow a gasp of horror. She knew she had
probably gone nearly as pale as Peter was for she could feel all the blood
draining from her head. For a brief moment she had to clutch at the bars of his
cell to steady herself. Peter’s throat was not really torn out, but there was a
gruesome wound there. She wondered how much of that injury had been caused by
her cousin and how much by Sir Heming, but now was not the time to satisfy her
curiosity.
    As
her horror and dizziness eased, her ability to think clearly returned and she
frowned. Peter wore no bandage and had no stitches, yet he did not bleed. In
truth, he should be dead, having bled his life away soon after the wound was
made. Horrible as the wound looked, it was closed tight, not even oozing a
small drop of blood now and again. There was livid bruising and a raw, ragged
mark, but the skin was not open at any point along the wound. Since he had been
wounded only a mere two days ago and she doubted he had any care taken of his
wound, that made no sense at all. She was abruptly yanked from her thoughts
over that puzzle when Peter began to sink to his knees, the simple matter of
tugging on his clothing enough to weaken him badly.
    “Nay,”
she said, putting as much authority into her voice as possible, “dinnae ye go
and faint on me now, Peter. Then it will be verra difficult to get ye
out of here.”
    “I
am so verra weak, mistress. I willnae be able to flee here e’en if ye can open
this cursed cell,” he said.
    “Dinnae
worry o’er that. We shall have some help. Colin and Fergus are here.” She took
a deep breath, struggling to organize her thoughts so that she could adequately
refute the argument she knew he was about to make. “I mean to free them as
weel. Them and Sir Heming.” Brona was surprised when Peter only blinked very
slowly and then frowned.
    “Are
ye sure freeing Sir Heming is verra wise, mistress? I think that is one verra
dangerous mon.”
    “That
may be but he has ne’er wronged the Kerrs. Nay more than ye or Fergus or Colin
have. This is wrong and I finally saw that I was little better than my cousin
for I was closing my eyes to all of his cruelties. Nay more.”
    “Ye
put yourself in grave danger by acting against the laird.”
    “I
ken it, which is why I am also leaving Rosscurrach. Try to muster some
strength, Peter.” She unlocked his cell door, ignoring the twinge of guilt she
felt for having stolen the keys. The theft had been a necessary sin. “We will
gather ye up as we leave this place.”
    “Be
careful, mistress,” Peter said as he sat down and leaned against the frame of
the door. “I cannae recall much of what happened to me after the laird cut my
throat, but there is something verra dark in Sir Heming.”
    “Aye,
I ken it, but he will be as eager to leave this place as the rest of ye are,
willnae he. We can deal with the mon, come to some sort of truce that will get
us all out of here.”
    Peter
did not argue with her plan so she hurried along to the cell that held Fergus
and Colin, pausing to check that the few cells between theirs and Peter’s were
empty. Both men were standing at the front of their cell obviously aware of her
approach. Brona was relieved to see that neither man had a wound upon his neck.
If Sir Heming had drunk from either of them she knew they would never agree to
help her free the man. It was going to be difficult enough to get them to help
her now.
    “Mistress,
who