Red Silk Pt. 04

My first Scottish week was relaxing. The place was as beautiful as it was isolated. I took long walks around the bay, hiking through heather covered moors. I found hidden ponds in the valleys, my boots sank in bogs, and I learned to identify the peculiar scent of peat. Midges feasted on me and Eoghan taught me how to avoid them.

Wherever I went, Storm followed.

The tall stallion had made it his mission to escort me whenever I stepped outside the walls. I wondered whether he felt the need to protect me, watched me as a potential menace for his herd, or simply considered me good entertainment. I assumed it was the latter; I'd swear I saw him laugh when my boot was sucked off my foot by sticky mud.

Mary visited me daily, bringing me food under the pretense of needing my opinion on a new recipe. When I mentioned it to Eoghan, he shrugged.

"Indulge her," he said, "she loves having another human here who appreciates her culinary skills. She claims her talent is wasted on me, as I would eat just about anything."

I certainly didn't mind that, or my daily delivery of fresh pastries. Yet I worried it placed one burden too many on her shoulders.

The castle was rather small, a medieval fortified tower with a Renaissance house attached to the south side. Stables, pens, barns, workshops, and the antique version of a laundry room snuggled the base of the rampart, and that was it.

Still, this was the largest place I ever lived in, and the maintenance had to be a full-time job. Or several. I bet the past lairds had an army of servants. I expected to run into cobwebs and layers of dust in unused rooms or outer buildings.

Nope. All surfaces were squeaky clean. I couldn't fathom how Mary, or her husband, managed to maintain it so meticulously. Perhaps they had robot vacuums and mops, and they just did the dusting and bathrooms? When asked, they refuted it.

"The brownies," they quipped.

Right. I nodded and smiled, pretending to be in on the joke.

As I explored further, I began to notice plenty more things. Small things. Details really.

First was the aversion of the owner for steel. Aside from the rusted door said to defend access to the basement of the tower, I could find no sign of iron anywhere. Not a single nail to hold the furniture together. All visible metal was copper or silver, door hinges were made of leather, stoves were ceramic with glass inserts. I thought I had lucked out with the range top, until Eoghan revealed it was cast aluminum. His boss allegedly had an allergy to iron. Did that even exist? I was quite sure they were making this up.

Second were the electrics. No power sockets but in the kitchen and my room. Lights and fireplaces lit up on their own. I guessed there were sensors; I had yet to spot one. And how do you automatize a peat fire? Unless they were kept burning low and the air flux was increased by some machinery? But then, who was restocking them?

Third was the plumbing. I counted a dozen bedrooms, three dry toilets and one en-suite bathroom: mine. I assumed they had modernized the place for my comfort, which led me to wonder, why so little? If money wasn't an issue, bringing all accommodations up to modern standards would have raised property value.

Clearly Eoghan's boss fancied his house medieval style. Which was his right, after all.

I however, begged to differ. I've always been fond of my creature comforts, and I'm glad I was born in a century blessed with A/C and central heating, which this place was sorely lacking.

And it got worse. No insulation. Single glazed windows.

I was so going to freeze, come winter.

I didn't get it; aren't all woke geeks raving about energy efficiency and saving the planet? Not that I ever paid attention to such issues before; we have oil in Texas. Now I might have to move in with Eoghan and Mary to avoid turning into a snow-woman. I hoped they had a guest room.

As much as I enjoyed roaming the magnificent countryside and playing fairy tale princess on the castle grounds, it soon became lonely. Eoghan was as busy as he was friendly, and despite his best efforts, Storm lacked conversational skills. Mary was chained to her kitchen and garden. None of the infamous Scottish ghosts had taken residence here, and the creaking and cracking of old floors and beams failed to impress after the first couple of nights.

I began to spend more and more time on the first floor of the tower, where the original Hall had been turned into a spacious library. Some afternoons, and most evenings, I curled in a deep armchair between a high and narrow window and an antique fireplace, wide enough to roast a beef whole. I chatted with my father on the dial phone, or perused one of the thousands of ancient books lining the walls.

Most of these I couldn't understand, because the language was foreign or too old, or, in one particular series, because the writing itself didn't resemble anything I knew. Some form of hieroglyphs, cuneiform, or maybe Sanskrit? The paper was unusual, so thin it was translucent, and yet it didn't crease or tear. The covers displayed superb craftsmanship, respectively picturing a dark forest, a roaring sea, a frothy river, a stormy sky, a raging fire, a sinister cave and an icy blizzard in finely carved strokes, so lifelike I could swear I saw them move. I stared at the alien volumes quizzically for a while, before shrugging and placing them back on their shelf.

Further digging unearthed English literature classics from the past three centuries, and, tucked inside a chest, a box of paperbacks clearly intended for my viewing pleasure. There was a good fiction variety, from romance to mystery, purchased three weeks ago, as I cleverly deducted from the expedition tag. My secretive breeder wouldn't let me die of boredom.

Speaking of whom, a week after my arrival, an envelope waited for me on the side table, in the spot reserved for my mug of coffee.

"Dear Moira,

Please wait for me tomorrow night in the room above this one. Make the bed with red silk sheets and light the candles.

You'll find a small vial on the bedside table, eye drops, the kind used by ophthalmologists to dilate your pupils. They are harmless but will blur your vision for a few hours. Put one drop in each eye at nightfall and get into bed naked. I'll join you soon after.

I expect you to follow these instructions exactly. Failure to do so will void our contract.

D."

Not exactly the most enticing letter. Not the most reassuring either. I spent the ensuing twenty-four hours a nervous wreck, pacing and mumbling to myself, trying to gather the fortitude to do what was needed, what I had signed for, back when it was still theoretical; when I could still bury my head in the sand and pretend it was just a bad dream.

Too late for that. I cried and nearly bolted, and then I called my dad and remembered why I had to stay. Better rip off the band aid.

I marched to the spiral stairs and climbed to my doom.

***

Two nights done, three more to go.

I am sore again this morning, a different soreness. My lady bits are swollen and tender from overuse. After my shower I lather them with the miracle healing cream; maybe it DID help me handle his size.

It felt all right last night, but he had driven me so crazy I wouldn't have registered a bus running over me.

The memory makes my cheeks burn; a picture of me, writhing and twisting and begging him to grant me release. Strong women broken by orgasm denial? I had read about it, and discarded the idea as unrealistic. The notion itself was ridiculous.

Here I stand, on shaky legs, thoroughly corrected.

The silk boy shorts are a blessing. The mere thought of cotton briefs pressing and rubbing my inflamed flesh has me cringing. Same with trousers. Today is skirt day.

Warm Danish pastries are waiting for me on the kitchen table. No sign of Eoghan. It's late morning, he's probably at work somewhere on the estate. I stick one of the fluffy marvels in my mouth while I fix myself a cup of Joe.

I nearly jump out of my skin when Mary walks out of the pantry. My left hand slaps my breastbone, the right catches my flying breakfast. I hope my heart is still in my ribcage. This woman could give stealth lessons to a ghost.

Oblivious to my near-missed death by surprise, she smiles widely and pulls me into a hug, triggering my second Danish rescue in as many minutes. "Well, hello there, sleepy love bird, how are you feeling today?"

She leaves me no chance to answer as she chirps away. "I thought you'll need to replenish your energy, you are such a skinny slip of a girl. I see you found the baked goods, I put a shepherd's pie and a salad in the fridge, and homemade jam on the shelves. Eoghan fed the brownies, don't you worry about them. Are you okay?"

I swear she delivered her tirade in a single breath. Add giant lungs to abilities' list. I guess her last question is referring to the yelp I just let out as I sat a little too straight a little too fast on the hard chair.

"I'm fine," I mumble, and decide to take advantage of her chatty mood. She's usually more cautious when her man is around, I might have caught him slipping her a warning glance once or twice. Maybe he's worried she'll gossip me dead. Anyway, I jump on the chance to learn a bit more on Sir Dark and Mysterious.

"Your boss is exhausting me though. He's really... intense. Is he always like that?"

Her eyes shift away. "I don't know him all that well. I suppose he could be..."

Her sudden elusiveness doesn't discourage me. "Does he stay in the castle? I haven't seen him around. I didn't hear him either, but then he moves like a cat." It's strange, thinking of it, I haven't noticed another house or croft nearby. Or any form of transportation. Unless he bunks in her cottage? There isn't a hotel within walking distance, for sure.

Is that sweat on her forehead? She looks sick. "No, he lives outside..." She coughs and wheezes and claws at her throat. I try to help her and she waves a hand to stop me. She rushes through the door, face turning purple.

I run to the window and watch her, ready to sprint after her should she get worse. My Heimlich maneuver is rusted, but I'll give it a try. How does one choke on air anyway? Is she having anaphylactic choc? I'm seriously considering calling an ambulance, except I have no idea where I am. I'm halfway to the stairs when she comes back, red and out of breath, yet very much alive.

"I think I'll go home, if you don't mind," she whispers, grabbing her bag and keys and heading out before I can ask if she is okay.

I watch her leave, dumbfounded. Did I say something offensive? She didn't even look at me...

I spend the rest of the morning looking for Eoghan, but he is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he went back home to take care of his wife, or he is away shopping. I try calling his house and get no answer. Maybe he had to bring Mary to see a physician?

I am worried. I feel sorry for whatever happened to her, and somewhat guilty. I'm afraid my nosiness triggered some sort of episode. I should have been more considerate; I knew she wasn't allowed to talk about their boss. It reminds me of some spy stories, where minions are implanted with a device that can blow them up at their master's leisure. It doesn't happen in real life, does it? I hope not. I'd hate causing anyone harm.

The weather has turned for the worse. Heavy rain and strong winds are blocking me inside. No beach stroll for this gal today. I'm gonna miss Storm, although I doubt he'll miss me. The big softie loves water. He is probably singing in this shower right now.

***

The shepherd's pie is a blast. I love the salad as a friend, but I'd happily marry that pie. I leave the kitchen with a swollen stomach and head to the library for a few hours of literary food-induced coma. Both location and weather calling for a spicy romance, I pick a book with a swooning regency girl on the cover, and head for my favorite nook. Bad choice. I try hard to concentrate on the cliché storyline but the torrent of water pelting the glass and the blasts of air shaking the frame make me worry the window won't survive the storm.

I stand up and close the inner shutters, cutting the natural light. No way am I staying anywhere with a window for the time being, and it's too early for the lamps to turn on. One mini brainstorm later, I decide to switch my reading venture for an exploring one. I have already checked every inch of this castle, bar the lower level of the tower, the one with the steel door.

Eoghan told me it was unsafe, an area yet to be restored, with the ceiling's plaster hanging by a thread. He insisted that his boss strictly forbade entrance.

It makes me pause, or rather it would, were I not bored out of my mind. Right now, I'd sign up for anything exciting, even skydiving or bungee jumping, and I'm afraid of heights. I shrug. The door is probably locked anyway.

After a detour to my bedroom to fetch my phone, I proceed down the spiral staircase, using the torch app to secure my steps. It's very dark, the stone slippery and uneven, and I begin to question the wisdom of my actions. Why am I willing to risk an accident? It might be hours before Eoghan finds me, were I to break a leg. But I'm stubborn, and nearly there, and I keep going.

Eventually my foot finds even ground, and there it is, across the narrow landing, an ominous slab of rusted medieval steel with a recent wooden handle.

If the place was condemned, why the new handle?

Did Eoghan lie to me?

Is there something in there they don't want me to see?

Is there something in there I should see?

I hesitate, having a Bluebeard's wife moment. What if I discover a criminal's den or a terrorists' cache?

I shake my head. I really should ease off on my detective stories' consumption. Armed with a frown of resolve, I grab the handle and pull.

Nothing. The steel protests but doesn't budge.

I check thoroughly for a latch, but there isn't even a keyhole. Or rather, there is a hole where it should be, the metal twisted as if the lock was torn away.

I direct the torch light through it, but it's too narrow to figure out anything aside stones.

This is annoying. I braved darkness, stairs, and ghosts for nothing. I kick the door in frustration and jerk the handle one last time.

With a rusty shriek, it gives, a little. There is a two inches gap with the doorframe.

Powered by excitement, I plant my feet firmly on the floor, and put all my strength in my next try, nearly ending on my butt when it surrenders in a loud, ominous screech.

Cringing, I freeze on the threshold of the pitch-black room. Did someone hear? Did Eoghan decided to visit?

When no one comes, I peer in the darkness. We are underground, there are no windows. My nose is assaulted by a powerful stench of dampness and rotten wood.

A strange feeling is growing in my chest, guilt and wrongness. I shouldn't be here.

I want to turn back, but my stubborn side wins. Pointing my phone forward, I force my legs to step in.

My first move is to inspect the ceiling. It is vaulted, and there is no plaster. I notice traces of limewash here and there, but like the walls and floor, it is built of stones. And cobwebs. While I'm not found of spiders, I very much doubt they have black widows or brown recluses in Scotland. I'm certain they don't even have venomous snakes or any sort of apex predators in this country.

I turn the beam of light to the floor, and sure enough, no rubble to be seen, except I now know where all the dust in the castle went. A thick layer covers every surface, some of it propelled in the air by the draft from the open door. I sneeze a good dozen times before it starts to clear.

Eoghan was lying through his teeth. I won't be buried under a ton of rocks.

With that sorted, I start exploring.

I am in a large square room, with a heavy slab of stone in the center, an altar, just lower. The broken remnants of manacles are chained to each corner, not the modern or erotic kind. These things are thick enough to hold a bear, or maybe a dragon. They don't seem comfortable either.

Four narrow cells are lined up on the farther side, just long enough to lie down, and no wider than their doors. A few planks still hang from the hinges of three of them, while the fourth is wider, closed by steel bars, with another set of heavy restraints sealed in the walls. I'm in a jail, slash torture chamber.

Thankfully, there are no awful implements left behind. I don't want to imagine what was done here.

I wonder why Eoghan was so mysterious. There is nothing of value and very little to see. Shrugging, I turn to leave, and that's when my phone chooses to die on me.

I don't think I ever knew absolute darkness. Not until this moment, standing in a windowless, underground dungeon. It's downright terrifying. I am terrified. I'm alone in a place I'm not supposed to be, and I can't figure my way out.

I try to calm my frantic breathing. Ever since I walked in, there has been a squeezing sensation around my chest, and it's getting worse by the minute. It's probably guilt, from doing something forbidden. I'm such a good girl usually.

Think. I was facing the door, the last I saw. If I go straight ahead, I should get back to the landing, and then I can follow the wall to the stairs.

Ok. That's a plan.

My first tiny steps go smoothly, and I get overconfident. I take a bigger, energetic one and I bump my shin. Hard. I yelp in pain and topple forward, catching myself on my extended hands, a short distance from the floor. I barely have time to guess I'm leaning on the weird altar before the world starts to spin.

Paine. Ma wholle body is paine. Ma stamack is skirlin in hunger, ma thighs burn, but it's naething compare't tae ma cunt. A'm in agony. A'm sure A'm torn, mebbe bleedin? This lad is faur too big, faur too lang for any wumman to haundle.

Why are thay duin this? He isna willint aither, shackled down like a rabid hoond, wrists and anklets raw from his desperat strugil. Why do thay mak us fuk him, day efter day, when it's not even for their enterteenment? Thay look bored and tired, stuck as thair prisoners are, until... Until whit? A dinna know how long A hiv been thare. Other lasses hiv come and gane, takken away efter thair monthly bluid didna show. Whit is the poynte of breedin us wi this man?

He is unuisually tall, A give him that. Quite dirten too, A canna real see his face under his mattit locks. His skin is dry and scaly. Thay wash us ance a day, poorin a bucket of freezin watter on our heid before draigin us to munt him. Thay never clean him, barely allou him to drink a cup a day. It's a mirackle he is still alive. A'm certaint thare is some sort of potioun in that drink, because he is alwais painfullie cockit soon after.

A'm too distractit, ma legs too tired from croochin on him and daein all the wark. A falter, loss ma pace, and thay dinna likit. Thare's a whistle, a line of fire across ma back. A screym, and the gaird lifts his whip again...

"Moira!"

My hands are torn from the stone, and I collapse against a cool chest. I shriek in pure horror. The impact of the whip is still there, throbbing. I fight against the arms holding me, desperate to escape.

"Moira, it's me! I heard you scream. Are you hurt? What happened to you?"

My brain short-circuits, being in two places at once. I am me, squashed in Dour's embrace. I'm a tortured Scottish girl in a medieval dungeon.

I'm shaking like a leaf, fat tears running into his tunic, slowly returning to myself. The burning in my back lessens, leaving only the phantom corset around my ribs. What happened indeed? Did I hallucinate? I never had any kind of episode before. Is this room driving me crazy? Something in the dust maybe? It felt so real...

"Moira!"

There is concern in his voice. Of course he is worried for me. How could a lunatic carry his child?