Highlander in Her Dreams (21 page)

Folding his arms, Aidan watched him take an all-too-leisurely sip of wine. “Out with it, my friend. How long were you standing there, straining your ears?”

“He only just walked in. I saw him out of the corner of my eye.” Kira defended him, lying just as surely as Tavish.

“See?” Tavish smiled and set down his wine cup. “You insulted me for naught.”

Aidan grunted. “'Tis impossible to insult you. Your hide is thicker than an ox's. Further, even if Cook wished my consent to plunder our stores of spices, he would have sent a kitchen lad. So tell me why you're here.”

Tavish's jaunty smile vanished. “Would you believe to save your hide? Leastways, to inform you of certain stirrings in the hall.”

Aidan sighed, believing his friend indeed.

Not that he was wont to admit it.

Instead, he folded his arms and cocked a brow, waiting.

To his credit, Tavish didn't squirm. He
did
cast an uncomfortable glance at Ferlie. “Your men are no' pleased about having been ordered to bathe the castle dogs,” he said, a frown marring his handsome face. “I suspect they fear they'll be next.”

“Oh, dear.” Kira spoke up. “That's my fault—”

Aidan held up a hand to silence her. “Nay,” he said, snatching up a choice bannock and tossing it to Ferlie. “The time is long past that Wrath's dogs stop fouling the air with their stink. My men, too, now that I think of it.”

“As you wish.” Tavish didn't bat an eye. “Shall I see that they cease their bickering?”

In answer, Aidan took him by the elbow and ushered him toward the door. “Just tell them that any that are no' bathed and clean-smelling within two days will find themselves scouring the cesspit and then scrubbing each other until their buttocks shine like a bairn's. Now off with you, and dinna return unless we're attacked.”

Tavish nodded, but jerked free just before Aidan could shove him out the door. Twisting round, he looked across the room to Kira. “The parchments and scribing goods you wished have been left in Aidan's bedchamber,” he said, making her a slight bow. “If you need more, let me know.”

Then he was gone.

Disappearing into his infernal shadows before Aidan could have the pleasure of closing the door on him.

He shut it, regardless. Even sliding home the drawbar, though there really wasn't any need. What he needed was to get to the bottom of the goings-on in his castle. Things he wouldn't mind at all had a certain flame-haired, big-bosomed vixen taken the time to mention them to him.

“When did you ask Tavish for scribing goods?” he demanded, turning to fix her with his best I-am-laird-and-you'd-best-answer-me-now stare.

She jutted her chin, not looking a bit impressed. “This morning,” she admitted, her gaze bold. “But I didn't ask Tavish directly. I asked the woman who brought me new clothes when you stepped out of the room to leave me to my ablutions.”

Aidan nodded. “One of the laundresses, then.”

Kira shrugged. “Whatever. I wanted the parchment and ink to keep record of my thoughts.”

She blew out a breath of relief when he nodded again, apparently believing her.

Not that she wished to deceive him, but at the moment she didn't wish to discuss her need to put together a story for Dan Hillard.
Her story
, though she'd add a caveat at the end never to reveal her identity.

Whether she ever made it back home or not, she didn't want to be plunged into the limelight. Heaven forbid, to be made an object for dissection on the Internet. The Viking affair had been bad enough. If ever her account of her experiences came into Dan's hands, he need only have the parchment carbon-dated to prove the validity of her tale.

Such a story would thrust
Destiny Magazine
into the big league and bring Dan a fortune.

A good turn he deserved, even if it meant being a bit secretive.

Aidan, too, had his duties and loyalties, as he'd said himself.

So she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, preparing to use her mother's best strategy for avoiding sticky wickets.

Diversion
.

“Are you really going to hold a feast to celebrate your cousin's capture?” she asked the instant he rejoined her beside the solar's hearth fire.

Aidan slid his arms around her, pulling her close. “Aye, I must,” he said, resting his chin on her head. “My people expect and deserve it. Locking him in the dungeon is no' enough. They need the
forgetting
of a feast. With luck, a fine and rollicking one can be arranged within a fortnight.”

“Your cousin is that bad?” Kira couldn't believe it.

“He is worse,” Aidan owned, his gut clenching at the thought of all the souls on Conan Dearg's conscience. “He has but one redeeming quality, though I am at a loss to explain it.”

“What?” Kira angled her head, peering at him. “Is he a horse whisperer or something?”

Aidan frowned, not sure what a
horse whisperer
was, but knowing full well that wasn't what he'd meant. “Och, nay,” he said, shaking his head. “Conan Dearg is none the like. What he is, is a charmer. There hasn't been a maid yet born who can resist him.”

“I don't think he'd impress me.” She flicked an invisible speck off her skirts. “From what I'm hearing about him, I'm surprised women even look at him.”

“Och, they look.” Aidan refilled his wine cup, drinking deeply. “They look and flock to him like bees to a hive. He's a great fiery-haired devil, bold and handsome, and strong as a wild Highland bull.”

“It sounds to me like he needs to be de-bulled.”

Aidan threw back his head and laughed, then caught himself, stunned to realize he hadn't laughed in longer than he could remember. “Aye, lopping off his bits should've been done long ago,” he agreed, serious again. “But he's suffering a meet end now. No' that his passing will bring back the victims of his viciousness.”

Dismay flickered in Kira's eyes. “There were many?”

“More than a soul can rightly count.” Aidan leaned a hip against the table, considering how much he should share with her. “He used to send large stones sailing down from the battlements of Ardcraig's keep onto the heads of any unwelcome visitors who'd somehow slipped past his gatehouse. The saints only know how many hapless wayfarers seeking no more than a night's lodging were brained in such a manner. He'd designed a special stone-throwing device and tied ropes around the stones, using his contraption to haul them up to be dropped again if the first aim failed to flatten a man.”

Pausing, he sighed deeply and looked away. The gusting wind was lessening now and great swaths of mist rolled past the solar windows, turning the night into a shifting mass of chill, damp gray.

“Dinna worry—the career of his stone-throwing device was short-lived,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Those days ended when he accidentally dropped a stone on his favorite mistress, killing her. She was the wife of one of his best allies and had taken it upon herself to pay him a surprise visit. Sad for the lady, she disguised herself as a man, and although she gave her identity to the guards, passing unhindered through the gatehouse, in the dark of night Conan Dearg mistook her for a stranger. Someone he didn't care to be pestered by.”

He turned back to Kira, not surprised to find her staring at him with rounded eyes.

“Good heavens.” She pressed a hand to her breast. “Too bad the husband didn't kill him.”

“Och, he tried, well enough,” Aidan told her, stretching his arms over his head and cracking his knuckles. “He rode hotfoot to Ardcraig to challenge him as soon as he heard. Their clash lasted all of a heartbeat, with Conan Dreag cleaving the man in two before he'd scarce whipped his blade from its scabbard.” He lowered his arms, looking at her. “My cousin is an expert swordsman.”

Kira shuddered. “I think he's also crafty,” she said, now more determined than ever to persuade Aidan to return to her time with her.

“Aye, that he is,” he agreed, glancing at the windows again, his expression hardening. “Cunning and devious as the wiliest fox.”

“I've always liked foxes.” Kira smoothed the soft, red-gold wool of her skirts, thinking how much the rich color resembled a fox pelt. “I once read a book where a really cute one with magical eyes was a meddling wise woman's familiar. I think his name was Somerled.”

“Somerled?”
Aidan shot a sharp glance at her. “I dinna think my like-named forebear, who styled himself
King of the Isles
, would've cared for that. And you, sweetness, wouldn't care for my cousin's kind of foxing,” he said, reaching to pull her against him. “With surety, not.”

“No doubt.” Her heart began to thunder as he took her in his arms, drawing her close.

“Indeed.” He slid a hand beneath her hair, gently massaging the back of her head. “Conan Dearg's craftiness would put Satan's most devious minions to shame. Once, many years ago, he took a dislike to one of his younger garrison men. The lad was a bit of a rogue and bonny enough to catch the eye of one of my cousin's ladyloves. Much to Conan Dearg's annoyance, because of the lad's sunny disposition and ready laughter, he was also popular with the other men.”

She shivered, guessing the outcome. “Don't tell me he ended up in two pieces?”

Aidan shook his head. “Nay, praise the saints, he was one of the few to escape my cousin's grasp. But only by the grace of a passing Mackenzie galley and the good eyes and ears of those who happened to be on board.”

Her jaw slipped. “Did your cousin set him adrift in a leaky boat or something?”

“
Or something
, aye,” Aidan told her in a voice like steel. “Because of the lad's popularity, he bided his time, not wanting to rouse suspicion. Opportunity finally arose when a ewe tumbled off a cliff, landing unharmed on a narrow rock ledge halfway between the cliff-top and the sea.”

Releasing her, he pushed away from the table to pace again, distaste making it impossible to stand still. Even with his sweet
tamhasg
pliant and warm against him.

“Agility was another of the lad's many talents, and so my cousin approached him, saying he'd chosen him to fetch the poor ewe,” he continued, a chill passing through him as he remembered the deed. “Together with two other men, they went out to the cliffs, a remote place far from prying eyes and where a call for help wouldn't be heard. Eager to please, and just as keen to rescue the ewe, the lad let himself be lowered on a rope down the cliff to the small foothold of a ledge.”

“Ropes and cliffs again?” Kira looked at him with a frown. She didn't shudder, but her opinion of his world rippled all o'er her.

His mouth twisted. “Ach, lass,” he said, wincing inside, “such is our way of life. The cliffs hold a rich harvest for us. Seabirds, with their eggs and oil, the latterly being a fuel we use to light our lamps. When a beast loses its footing and slips o'er an edge, if it survives the fall, we fetch it. Men here learn to brave the cliffs soon after their first steps. Some women as well, as you know from Annie MacQueen's fate.”

“So what was the young man's fate? Did he, too, plunge into the sea?”

“Nay…” He hesitated, wishing he'd ne'er mentioned the lad. “He reached the ledge with ease, but before he could secure the end of the rope around the ewe, the rope went slack in his hands. Looking up, he saw its other end sailing down toward him, and the two other men, apparently sacrificed to guarantee their silence.”

Kira gasped. “That's horrible.”

“To be sure.” He came back to her, crossing the room with purposeful strides. “Had it not been for the Mackenzies hearing his cries when they sailed past, a shade too close to the cliffs, he'd surely have died there,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “As it was, the Mackenzies anchored in the next cove, sending men to climb the cliffs and then toss down a fresh rope, rescuing both the lad and the ewe.”

“Thank goodness.” Kira exhaled. “But how did you find out? Did he come here after his rescue?”

“Ach, nay, he had more sense than that and sailed on to Kintail with the Mackenzies, settling and eventually marrying there. The tale did not reach us here at Wrath until some years later when a wandering bard mentioned having met him at a feast at Eilean Creag Castle, the Mackenzie stronghold.”

He paused to stroke her cheek. “You needn't look so worried, sweetness,” he said, lighting a finger across her lips. “The bard told us the Mackenzie chieftain, a man styled as the Black Stag of Kintail, took a great liking to the lad and saw that he received every comfort and a warm welcome into that clan.”

“But—” Kira broke off, frowning. “Didn't anyone wonder what happened to the three missing men?”

Aidan arched a brow. “You mean before the bard's arrival?”