To Love a Highlander (21 page)

She, too, had loved nights such as this. She’d stand at the window, stars in her eyes and awe on her face, claiming the wind and rain entertained better than any troop of dancers and tumblers at the royal court.

And wasn’t that a place that sent a dagger straight into his heart?

As if she knew, Breena’s smile faded. “The men should be in here with you, not casting dice in the solar.”

Archie thrust out his chin. “Who do you think sent them there?”

“They shouldn’t have gone.”

“They had no choice. I’m still laird. My word is law, however old and feeble I am.”

“You’re nothing the like.” She slipped her arm around his shoulders, gave him a squeeze.

“There are many who’d argue with you.”

“I’d welcome setting matters aright.” She straightened, smiling again.

“You see to keeping that man of yours happy.” Archie thumped his hand on the table. “About time he returned. It isn’t natural for a husband of less than a year to stay away from his lady wife so long.”

“Seeing this empty hall, I must agree it’ll be good to have him back. You know”—she set her hands on her hips, her green eyes flashing—“were he here, he’d not have stood for the men leaving you alone.”

“Aye, he can be as cantankerous as me, what?” Archie
lifted his cup in mock salute. “Here’s to thrawn men, the more stubborn the better.”

“Grim means well, always.” Breena glanced about the hall, surely noting he’d put out some of the torches, allowing the shadows to deepen.

“And you, my lord”—she turned back to him—“will not spend the rest of the night alone. I’m away to the solar now and bringing the men back with me.”

“Och, nae, you willnae, lassie!” Archie leaned forward, gripping the table edge, moving with startling speed, considering his ancient, moldering bones. “I want my peace.”

“I do not believe you.” She raised a hand, silencing him when he tried again to protest. “I’ll sing and play the harp. You know you enjoy listening.”

“I like sleeping, too,” Archie huffed. “That’s what I’m a-wanting. Rufus is also ready for his bed. We’re both tired.”

The dog was at Archie’s chair, his rheumy eyes as bright as an old dog’s eyes could be, his scraggly tail wagging.

He didn’t look at all sleepy.

“Some help you are, laddie.” Archie scowled at him.

Breena laughed. “A bit of music and song will do you good. Didn’t you enjoy our Yuletide feast?” She lifted a brow, clearly aware he couldn’t argue. “There were lots of folk here then, plenty of cheer and revelry.”

“That was Yule, and an exception.” Archie busied himself scratching Rufus’s ears. “It was also long ago, nigh onto a year now.

“And”—he snapped up his head, fixed her with a narrow-eyed gaze—“the folk who came only did so because you and Grim rode about the hills for days, bribing them. Dinnae think I don’t know what you did. You paid them all to make merry to please an auld done man.”

“We reminded them what a good neighbor you are and that Christmastide should be celebrated with cheer.” She
gave him the same nonsense she’d offered him since the day. “No other persuasion was necessary.”

“Pah!” Archie hooted. “Some of them were my most evil-tempered foes. They wouldn’t have come for naught. I’ll ne’er believe it.”

Breena leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Does it matter why they were here? They remained friends, and that’s a blessing.”

“No’ the kind I need.”

“Friends are aye treasures.” Straightening, she reached to smooth back his hair. “One never knows when we’ll need them. Or when they might need us.” She angled her head, giving him a look that would’ve scared him if he wasn’t so fond of her. “Love and forgiveness have more power than the sword. Even Grim believes so.”

“Humph!” Archie jutted his chin. “Sounds like wedded life has addled his wits.”

“Could be.” She shrugged, looking so pleased he was suspicious.

But before he could question her, she winked and dashed from the hall.

She’d be on her way to fetch the men as she’d vowed to do. The few kin he had left and the Mackintosh fighting men from Nought, who he was sure would rather keep playing dice in the solar.

He’d rather trudge up the stairs with Rufus, seeking his bed and pulling the covers up to his chin.

Scowling, he took a bit of cheese off a tray and gave it to Rufus.

He leaned down as Rufus ate it, whispering in the beast’s ear. “It’s a sad thing when a man realizes he’s no’ just old and feeble, but a liar as well, eh?”

Rufus licked his face in answer.

And Archie leaned back in his chair, secretly eager to hear footsteps nearing the hall.

S
orley stood at the edge of the road, looking at the candlelit windows of the Red Lion Inn. It was later than he’d hoped to arrive, the afternoon damp and fog-shrouded. The woods were already dark, the chill air scented with wet pine needles, wild thyme, and the peat smoke rising from the sprawling inn’s chimneys. Indeed, gloaming was nigh. But certain matters had kept him overlong at the castle.

A greater folly than he’d e’er engaged in, for sure.

Yet…

Wouldn’t a man do anything to please a lady?

Knowing it was so, he blew out an annoyed breath. Praise be, the MacKenzie plaid he’d flung across his shoulder, and the sleeves of his shirt, hid the scratches on his arms. Regrettably, there wasn’t much he could do about the ones criss-crossing his hands.

He was fairly sure his beard concealed the wee, but oh-so-irritating slash on his jaw.

If anyone was bold enough to comment on his appearance, he’d give him a slow, commiserating smile and hope
he’d assume he’d enjoyed a particularly vigorous round of bed-sport.

Sadly, no such lusty female had given him these scratches.

Not a female indeed, if he was a judge of such things.

“Ungrateful wee bugger!” Feeling a fool, he rolled his shoulders and then straightened his plaid, well aware he was stalling.

Now that he was here, the Red Lion only a few paces away, his feet didn’t seem to want to leave the road.

He knew in his gut that the Highland warrior waiting inside was trouble.

Anyone named Grim had to be.

If he was still at the inn, late as it was. He’d sent word to William that he’d arrive before midday, and that was long past. If he were waiting on someone he didn’t even know and the wretch didn’t show for hours, like as not he’d have left before now.

Or he’d assume the day’s wet gloom kept the man away.

Not many ventured out in such miserable weather.

A glance up and down the road proved it. Nary a soul moved anywhere, only the thick, drifting mist. He could scarce see the deep piney woods behind the inn. Across the road, low, heavy clouds crouched over the rolling hills and pasturelands, hiding them as well.

And didn’t the day’s dreariness pose another problem?

Such weather was good for William’s trade, always drawing a crowd to the inn.

The place was surely packed.

Wyldes kept a huge fire blazing on days when the mist rolled in, and everyone within a hundred miles knew it.

Wayfarers turned up in droves, wishing a rest from their travels, good ale, a filling meal, and a clean bed for the night. Locals also looked in. Farmers mostly, strapping, rough-hewn men who worked hard and enjoyed gathering
at the tables to drink ale, laugh, curse, and warm themselves before they trudged home to their wives.

Now and then the guests were strangers, men from afar, unknown hereabouts, their reasons for calling at the Red Lion a mystery.

Others, like Munro MacLaren, came to clamber about on the inn’s roof, poking at slate moss and pondering its healing properties while their she-vixen daughters set about to bewitch any man who happened across their path. Sorley scowled, annoyed that it took but the space of a heartbeat for Mirabelle to claim his thoughts. Worse, he could still see the tempting fullness of her breasts, pressing against the linen of her nightshift, feel the silky-hot thrill of her peaked nipples between his fingers. Forcing her from his mind, he adjusted his plaid, then blinked to find that somehow his feet had carried him away from the road and up the well-trodden path to the inn’s door.

He didn’t want to go in.

His gut warned him, tightening to a cold, hard ball as he reached for the latch.

As he’d expected, he opened the door to a swell of voices and the clatter of cutlery and tankards. Too late for retreat; he stepped into the Red Lion’s low-beamed and crowded long room.

Trade was better than he’d guessed, the inn noisy, smoke-hazed, and with every available table occupied. Sorley stood where he was, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness as the familiar blend of smells assailed him: peat and wood smoke, roasted meats and savory stew, fresh-baked bread, and the richness of ale.

The Red Lion was a grand place to be on a chill and wet afternoon.

It just seemed that a certain wild-haired, bushy-bearded Highland warrior said to wear a silver Thor’s hammer amulet didn’t agree.

Such a man was nowhere to be seen.

Sorley pulled a hand down over his own beard, torn between relief and annoyance.

Moving deeper into the room, he looked about, trying to peer into the dark, murkier corners without noticeably doing so. He saw no one but the expected assortment of travelers and farm men, until he looked toward the table nearest the open archway to one of William’s smaller rooms.

Three men sat there, each one doing his damnedest to appear invisible.

They failed miserably.

They also increased Sorley’s perturbation, for he knew them well. They were none other than his three archfiends and fellow Fenris, Roag the Bear, Andrew the Adder, and Caelan the Fox.

Caelan sat beneath a wall sconce. The flickering light burnished his rich, dark auburn hair so that he stood out even though he busied himself tucking into a large bowl of William’s famed venison stew.

Andrew appeared fascinated by the bannock he was smearing with way too much butter. Dark as Sorley and Roag, he held his head lowered, his gaze fixed on his task.

Only Roag caught his eye and grinned. He lifted his pewter ale tankard in salute, confirming the first thought that popped into Sorley’s mind when he’d spotted the three of them: They knew why he was here.

They’d come to spy on him.

Sorley knew that Caelan and Andrew should’ve ridden north with Alex Stewart, the Wolf. Their presence here, instead, indicated they’d heard rumors about Grim Mackintosh and his quest. They deemed his business with Sorley important enough to postpone their journey to the earl’s distant Badenoch.

Sorley headed their way, their chosen table telling him where Grim waited.

The Highlander would be in William’s smaller room, the one that offered the most privacy.

A pity he’d have to sit alone a few moments longer.

Not feeling at all guilty, Sorley strolled up to his archrivals’ table and plucked Caelan’s spoon from his fingers. For good measure, he also nabbed his bowl of venison stew, holding it out of reach.

“Dinnae tell me our good friend, Alex, doesn’t serve just as tasty victuals in Badenoch.” Sorley flicked a glance at the thickly buttered bannock in Andrew’s hand. “Or did the two of you have another reason for no’ riding north with the earl when he left Stirling? With so much clean, fresh air up his way, and bountiful grazing, I’d think a Highland venison stew would be even better, wouldn’t you say?” Sorley set down the bowl and spoon. He braced his hands on the table, leaning in to meet each man’s gaze. “The truth is, you’re no’ here because you prefer William’s stew.

“And you”—he flashed a glare at Roag—“can wipe that smirk off your face.”

Roag’s expression didn’t change. “I dinnae understand your upset.” He gestured to Andrew and Caelan. “We’re sitting here quietly, enjoying a meal, and minding our own business, behaving—”

“You dinnae ken how to behave.” Sorley straightened, wishing, not for the first time that day, that he’d stayed in his bed.

“Have you seen the sky?” Caelan pushed aside his buttery bannock, his tone reproachful. “Full of woolly clouds, it is. Today like sheep, tomorrow come the wolves. You ken what that means.”

“Aye.” Sorley did.

He didn’t like it all the same.

While he might agree that the coded Fenris warning applied to his meeting with Grim Mackintosh, he didn’t see it as a reason for Roag, Andrew, and Caelan to sit guard outside the inn’s small room.

Nor did he need their help.

As if he read Sorley’s mind, Andrew leaned over and gripped Sorley’s arm. “No need to get riled. No’ when you’d be playing sentry, too, if one of us was about to walk into that room.” He glanced at the shadowed archway, lowering his voice. “Thon’s a mean-looking brute. Big enough to take on all four of us with one hand tied behind his back.”

“The more pleasure to fight him.” Sorley broke free of his grasp and swatted at his sleeve. “I face my challengers alone.”

The looks his rivals exchanged said they didn’t care how he saw it.

They weren’t budging.

“Stay if you will.” Sorley stepped back from the table. He looked round for William, not surprised to find the innkeeper hovering right behind him. “William, give these loons all they wish to eat and as much ale as they can drink. Even a lass or two if they desire such entertainment. I’ll pay, and gladly. Just keep them out of my way.” He shot a warning look at the table. “If I see them again before I leave, if I suspect their flapping ears are pressed to the wall, fists will fly. House rules or no’.”

“Nae bother.” William’s light blue eyes twinkled as he made a slight bow. When he straightened, he gave Sorley a comradely nudge toward the archway. “Be glad you have friends. There’s lots who dinnae, the gods pity them.”

“That I know.” Sorley turned to him, meaning to say more, for he liked the innkeeper, appreciating his good humor and honesty. But William was already moving through the closely set tables, heading for his kitchen.

And somehow, with the surprising ease of many big, burly men, he’d done more than give Sorley a friendly push toward the small room.

He’d maneuvered him right into it.

Sorley blinked, for the small room, in truth a private
parlor, was awash in golden candlelight. Every wall sconce was lit and slender tapers stood on the linen-draped tables. The glow shimmered on the walls and spilled across the polished flagstone floor. Even the ceiling rafters glistened, the age-smoothed wood as black as a midnight sea reflecting the light of the stars.

Any other time Sorley would’ve appreciated the sumptuousness, especially the fine hint of peat in the air, the earthy-rich scent coming from a small, handsomely tiled hearth on the far side of the room.

It was there, at a lavishly set table, that the Highland warrior sat.

“I didnae come here to fight you.” The Highlander stood, proving himself every bit as large and fierce-looking as everyone said.

Still, he didn’t strike Sorley as hostile.

Unfortunately, his greeting indicated he’d heard Sorley’s quip to Roag, Andrew, and Caelan.

If he’d caught anything else, he gave no sign.

He just looked across the room at Sorley, almost measuring him. Leastways, that’s the impression he gave. He had a gaze that seemed to peer deep, and his eyes were the same dark gray as the mist rolling past the room’s small-paned windows. His face was a good one, strong and open. But his expression was hard to read, not friendly or unfriendly, though the silver warrior rings he wore braided into his beard proved that he wasn’t a man to anger.

“Grim Mackintosh, of Nought in the Glen of Many Legends.” He extended a hand, waiting for Sorley to come and clasp it.

When Sorley did, he discovered Grim’s grip was as firm as his own. “Sorley.” He nodded once, annoyingly ashamed that he couldn’t state a surname. The lack hadn’t bothered him in years, but Grim’s steady, assessing gaze made him uncomfortable. “Men call me the Hawk.”

“That I ken.” A touch of warmth lit Grim’s eyes and he flicked a glance over Sorley. “All the men hereabouts speak highly of you. And”—he quirked a half smile—“so do the women.”

“We’ve agreed you aren’t here to fight, which much surprises me,” Sorley returned, gauging his words. “But I dinnae believe you’re here to praise me either. I’d know why you’ve been asking about me.”

“Aye, well…” Grim’s levity vanished and he pulled out a chair, patting its back. “Will you no’ join me for a meal and ale? There is much we must speak of, important matters that’ll go down better with good food and libations.”

Sorley remained standing.

He didn’t like Grim’s answer.

And the man’s soft, Highland voice, its deep richness and lilting tones, wore on his nerves.

“I have ne’er been to the Glen of Many Legends.” Sorley crossed his arms, not ready to claim the offered seat. “Nought territory is a place I’ve heard of often enough. There are many tales, saying it’s wild and bleak.”

“So it is!” The Highlander’s face warmed. He even smiled, his glance going to the fire as if the red-glowing peat bricks could take him home. “There is nowhere more grand than Nought.” He turned back to Sorley, his gaze intent. “Imagine a place so breathtaking, so heartwrenchingly beautiful that each time you walk there, your awe is as great as if you’re seeing it for the first time. That is Nought, my friend.” He sat back, a corner of his mouth hitching up as he reminisced. “It is a place like no other.”

“Yet you tore yourself away to come here.” To Sorley’s amazement, he was sitting.

He didn’t recall taking his seat.

Grim met his eye, nodding once. “See you? Even just hearing of Nought has spelled you.”

“I am nothing the like.” Sorley took an oatcake and a bit
of cheese, not wanting Grim to sense his discomfiture. I ken that Highlanders love their land.” He met Grim’s strange gray gaze, hoping he wouldn’t guess his lifelong fascination with rugged, heathery hills, empty moors, and soft Highland mist. “All Scots ken how the men of the north feel about their glens.”