He told himself it didn’t matter why she’d done it—determined not to care.
Gathering his tools and supplies, Clark made his way down to the dungeon, an area he hadn’t explored yet. Unsurprisingly, the cramped space was exceptionally dark, not to mention damp, the dirt floor flooded from the storm.
Clark reckoned Riley wouldn’t follow him down here, now that she knew he could resist her baiting. What fun was a dog who wouldn’t fetch?
As he descended the stone steps, the wrought-iron door of a cage that took up the entire room swung, creaking, in the cold morning breeze. Inside the cell, runoff from the damp soil rushed toward a drain in the corner. Clark tried not to think too hard about all the other fluids that might have been spilled here over centuries as he stepped inside.
It was macabre, but he loved dungeons. They held so much desperate emotion. And desperate people thought most about leaving a mark. That thought harkened back to something Riley had said early on about this castle and curses, but Clark shoved the memory away, unwilling to admit she’d polluted his mind.
Moss grew between the thick gray slabs of stone in the walls, the scent of undergrowth mingling with other minerals in the air. He searched methodically for loose stones, hoping to find a hiding place left by one of the dungeon’s former prisoners. According to his research, Malcolm Graphm was the most famous man held here. As far as Clark could tell, he’d also been the last.
It was slow work. Occasionally, he’d find a piece that shifted at his touch, but more often the deterioration came from age rather than intent. Still, determination fed him better than any food. He needed to find an artifact of his own today, something untouched by Riley and all her confusing theories.
Finally, at ground level, his eyes snagged on something. It was a collection of lines scraped into the iron cage that looked like they might be . . . tally marks? And then, as he wiped away layers of dirt and dust, underneath the count, tiny, was a line of Gaelic.
Bho a bilean, bàs
Immediately, he thought of the cave, though the etching here looked different, thin and slanted, and when Clark translated the line he didn’t see an immediate correlation.
His phone showed the phrase in English. From her lips, death.
“Tell me about it, mate.” Clark could feel the prisoner here in this dank cell, trapped but methodical, counting the days, hoping for rescue. Unsure if they’d make it out. Leaving a last word the only way they could.
When the walls yielded nothing else but dust, Clark went to work on the ground. Shoveling gave him an outlet for his anger. It was harder to think when all his muscles strained, working together to sift through the long-dormant earth.
A few minutes in, the tip of the shovel hit something. The clink of metal on metal in his ears was like crawling to water after days wandering in the desert. Clark’s pulse kicked up. Could it be? Salvation?
He didn’t care what he’d found. Let it be a chamber pot. All he wanted was to have something to show for coming here beyond emotional bruises.
Dropping the shovel, he got down on his hands and knees. The wet earth soaked into his pants as he gathered coarse soil between his fingers, too frenzied for gloves or even tools. Carefully, Clark swiped at the surface of something dark and curved in the ground. Whatever the object, it had been crafted in heavy metal.
When he’d cleared away enough of the surrounding dirt, he pulled out a coil of iron chain made up of thick interlocking rings about twice the length of his forearm. At either end, he found manacles—oblong and thick, each of the bands close to eight centimeters wide.
Clark tugged the artifact carefully from the ground. The manacles were unlocked, and he made sure not to press them closed in his inspection. He’d never encountered a pair this old. The ironwork was masterful, like the dagger they’d found but much less ornate, designed for service rather than aesthetics. His hands tingled where he held the artifact, excitement shooting up his spine like an electric current.
How strange, that a pair of manacles could offer him his escape. For surely Clark could go now. Take these directly to the HES for lab testing and analysis. He wouldn’t have to stay here, with Riley. He could abandon the memory of her, his foolish fantasies.
A sick sort of euphoria settled over him instead of the usual sense of pride that came after a find. He documented the scene, collected soil samples, and snapped photographs, all with shaking hands. When Clark finally packed up to leave, he took the manacles with him. Since Riley had joint jurisdiction over the dagger, he’d get Martin to deliver it to the lab at some point in the future. Whenever she left.
He hurried up the steps on his way out. He was so close, almost in the clear when—there she was. In the entrance hall, backlit by the setting sun.
All evidence that Clark had ever touched her was neatly obscured by dark jeans and a long-sleeved crewneck. The hair he’d had his hands in last night flowed loose, freshly washed, over her shoulders.
After a lingering beat between them, she opened her mouth, then closed it as her eyes fell to the dirty manacles in his hands.
“What are you—”
“I’m going,” he said, cutting her off. “Leaving Torridon.”
Who cared if he hadn’t finished surveying the entire blueprint of the castle? A man had limits. Plus, both Martin and the HES wanted this assignment done ages ago. They’d all be relieved to hear he’d finally agreed to leave.
Riley nodded, tightly, her face unusually pale. “And you’re leaving because of me?”
He could have lied. But what was the point of being kind? She didn’t even like it. “Yeah. You win.”
The announcement didn’t seem to please her.
“I suppose”—she wrapped her arms around her stomach—“nothing I could say would change your mind?”
He frowned. She must have woken up guilty, to even offer.
Clark thought about it—Riley asking for forgiveness. Riley saying she wanted him. Riley begging him to stay. While the images conjured brief flashes of emotion, none of it moved him enough to change his mind.
“That’s right.” He’d learned his lesson. He wanted an end to this and had grabbed the first meager opening he found. “One artifact isn’t much to show for six weeks on-site.” As he held up the manacles, Clark could hear his father’s voice in his ear. “But perhaps I’ve always been more cut out for desk work.”
He stepped forward, past her. Was almost at the door when she said—
“Clark, wait.”
He paused but didn’t turn. “If you’re going to take back what you said last night, don’t bother.”
“I’m not.” The signature defiance that had been missing in her so far this morning crept into the statement. “I was just going to say that even if it’s true—everything I said—about your brother, your dad—you’re wrong about what makes someone worthy.”
“I’m wrong?” He had to laugh. If this was her attempt at an apology, it was as awful as her pillow talk. “Those are the last words you had to have?”
“Yes.”
He did turn then to sneer at her. Of all the wretched games . . .
“I’m trying to say—I want you to know . . .” She ran a hand through her hair, making it wilder than it already was. “You’re good. A good person. And you’ll be good—the same amount—whether you’re a famous archaeologist or a disgraced layabout or god forbid you join a band.” She pulled a truly appalling face at the last.