“Sorcie!”
Sorcha turned, responding to the name her closest friends had called her since the three of them were wee bairns. Jenny Pratt, an orphaned lass Mama had taken in, the sister of Sorcha’s heart if not by blood, waved from the entry hall as she shrugged off her cloak and shook it out.
“The rain’s trying to turn to sleet again,” Jenny announced with a disgusted shiver. “Old Aderyn says we’ve got another big snow headed our way. Reckon she’s right?” The dark-haired girl brushed at the moisture beading up on her wool skirts. The cold had turned her nose and cheeks a bright scarlet that perfectly highlighted the deep blue of her eyes. “Have ye seen Heckie? I’ve nay been able to find him anywhere. He promised to sit with me at the meal tonight, but now I canna find him. Have ye any idea where he might be hiding? Ye know how I worry after him. Especially of late. I fear he might be having one of his spells. I have looked all over—”
Sweet Jenny always prattled nonstop. The only way to communicate with the lass was to jump in and talk. “I havena seen Heckie, but ye ken as well as I that he’s usually in the stables ’round this time helping Mungo.” Sorcha circled her friend and attempted to catch hold of her long enough to swipe away the water droplets collected on her shawl. Jenny was always in motion, keeping her plentiful curves bouncing. The lass left a trail of enjoyable chaos everywhere she went.
“I tried the stable,” Jenny said, yanking her sleeves straighter as she moved closer to the fire. “Reckon he hid from me? He had to hear me calling. I’ll box his ears if I catch him doing such.”
Heckie MacIlroy completed their close-knit trio. The only son of War Chief Hector MacIlroy, the boy had grown up in the keep alongside Sorcha and Jenny. The three had played and fought like siblings for as far back as any of them could remember.
“If he promised to sit with ye, I’m certain he will. He’s gotten better about not pestering and breaking his word so much, hasn’t he?” Sorcha straightened Janey’s lopsided shawl across her shoulders.
“Maybe he’s left off pestering yerself, but not so with me. I wouldna be far off the mark if I called him a boldfaced liar whenever he opens his mouth on most days.” Jenny turned and backed closer to the fire. She frowned at the servants buzzing about the hall. “My bottom’s cold as death, but I reckon I better not lift my skirts to warm it with so many about.”
“Ye best not,” Sorcha warned. “Someone would surely tell Da, and he’s still not happy about ye being in the guardhouse ’til well past yer bedtime.”
“We were playing tables, and I was winning.” Janey’s innocent grin turned wicked. “Lined my purse quite nicely, if I do say so myself. I’ve nearly enough saved for that bolt of silk I saw in the shop at Edinburgh.”
“Well, Da’s not forgotten about it, so ye best behave for a while if ye ever hope to be allowed to visit Edinburgh again.” Sorcha immediately lost interest in shielding her friend from her father’s wrath as Sutherland and Magnus strolled into the room. “And there he is,” she murmured under breath.
Jenny followed Sorcha’s line of sight. “My goodness. The man’s even more handsome than he was last summer. How is it he’s not pale from the winter? He looks all…” Jenny grinned and wiggled like an excited puppy. “He looks all dark and dangerous.”
Sorcha agreed completely. “It must be the beard,” she mused aloud, knowing good and well that Sutherland’s close-cropped beard was the least of his dark and dangerous look. She pressed a hand to her heart, remembering how hard his broad chest had felt when he had embraced her. As tall as she was, he had cradled her completely as though she was a wee slip of a girl. Sutherland MacCoinnich was a full head and shoulders taller than anyone she had ever met. Well, anyone except for Da.
“He looks like a pirate. A mountain of a pirate. I think it’s the way he walks,” Jenny continued. “And wasn’t his hair more golden last summer?”
“It probably goes darker in the winter.” Sorcha watched Sutherland as he and Magnus meandered beneath the gallery on the other side of the room.
Jenny’s observation about his stride held merit. The braw warrior moved with the strength and surety of a man who conquered whatever he wished. She could see the flex and ripple of his huge legs as they moved beneath his kilt. Her breath caught as she remembered his massive arms doing the same when he’d held her. “Let’s move closer to the window. The fire grows too hot,” she said as Sutherland looked her way and smiled.
Jenny giggled. “I dinna think it’s the fire that’s heating ye.” She scurried along at Sorcha’s side. Not nearly as tall and long-legged, poor Jenny always struggled to keep up.
Sorcha shortened her stride for her friend’s sake. “And now ye understand some of the many reasons as to why I have chosen him to be my husband.”
“He’s coming this way,” Jenny said without moving her lips.
“M’lady,” Sutherland said in a way that made the words feel like a sensual caress.
The richness of his deep voice had affected her the same way last summer. She hadn’t revealed her weakness to it then, and she wasn’t about to show it now. “Master MacCoinnich.” She gifted him with a cool nod.
“Master MacCoinnich?” Sutherland took her hand and kissed it, peeking up at her with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Not Master MacCoinnich, m’lady. Not after the kiss we shared. I beg ye call me Sutherland so I might replay the sound of ye saying my name in my dreams.”
“Take care, Sutherland,” Sorcha warned. “Ye’ll have me searching for my boots again to wade through such empty flattery.”
He rumbled out a deep laugh, all the while maintaining a hold on her fingers. “As ye wish, m’lady.” He kissed her hand again and released it with what appeared to be certain reluctance. “Let there be only genuine conversation between us, agreed?”
“Agreed,” Sorcha said, clasping her hands together to savor the feel of his touch. Belatedly remembering her manners, she inclined her head toward her friend. “Ye remember Mistress Jenny?”
“Aye.” Sutherland gave a polite nod, then motioned Magnus forward. “Ye met Magnus de Gray during our last visit to Castle Greyloch, did ye not?” he asked Jenny.
“Aye, I did.” Jenny bounced a quick curtsy. “’Tis good to see ye both again. Will ye be staying long this visit?”
“That depends,” Sutherland said with a look that sent more thrilling heat through Sorcha.
“On the weather?” Sorcha supplied, determined to appear polite but nothing more.
“Aye, dear ladies,” Magnus interjected with a glance toward the window. He shot a pointed look at Sutherland, then turned back to Sorcha and Jenny. “The weather and the preparation of the documents by yer clan’s solicitor.”
“I shall be certain the solicitor knows their importance over any other matters at hand.” She maintained a detached air. Sutherland needed to think she would like him out of the keep as quickly as possible.
“No hurry, m’lady,” Sutherland assured her. He moved closer. “No hurry at all.”
“Did ye get to see the chapel yet?” Jenny asked like a child excited to show off a new plaything. “It wasna quite finished when last ye were here.”
“I, for one, would love to see the chapel.” With a gallant nod, Sutherland offered his arm to Sorcha. “M’lady?”
Jenny gave Sorcha a look she understood all too well. Jenny planned to lure Magnus away, then Sorcha and Sutherland would have the chapel all to themselves. What better place to plant the seeds for future matrimony?
Magnus held out his arm to Jenny. She accepted it with a giddy smile, then pulled him forward and took the lead.
“Did yer father not say he built the chapel in honor of yer mother?” Sutherland asked as they followed.
He remembered. Womanizer or not, the man had remembered what her father had told him a year ago about the elaborate structure he had ordered built around her mother’s tomb. Sorcha nodded. “Aye. The cornerstones were placed just three days after she was laid to rest.”
&
nbsp; “I am sorry about yer mother’s loss,” he said in a tone she had never heard him use before. The man sounded genuine. All his flirtatious pomp had disappeared. Left in its place was the kindness of a concerned friend.
“Thank…ye.” This newest tactic caught her off guard. She knew how to counter the empty words and fawning gestures of a rogue. But kindness and caring could be deadly to any counter moves she possessed in her arsenal.
“Forgive me if I’ve upset ye,” he hurried to say. “Yer father still seems quite filled with grief as well.”
“Their love was rare and strong,” she said quietly. “Even now, he struggles without her at his side.” She quickened their pace as they entered the long covered corridor leading to the massive chapel behind the keep itself.
Most clan chapels were modest, dwarfed in size compared to other structures in the collection of buildings usually found within a fortress’s walls. Not Castle Greyloch’s chapel. More a cathedral than a small structure for worship, its vaulted roof rivaled the height of the keep itself. It was a wonder the building had been completed in two years. The place stood as a true testament to just how much the clan loved their chieftain and his lady.
“Majestic,” Sutherland said in a hushed tone once they stood inside the nave.
The place smelled of holiness, peace, and hope. The lingering fragrance of the incense the priest burned added to the reverent air. A quietness stood guard like a gathering of unseen angels. The waning sunlight of the early spring day struggled to filter through the stained glass windows, casting a rainbow of colors across the polished floor. The windows had cost the clan dearly, but they had borne it without complaint, proud of Greyloch Chapel and the last gift they had been able to give their beloved lady.
Sorcha led the way to the aisle. Maybe her nerves would settle if she introduced Sutherland to Mama. There was no crypt for the chapel. Her mother’s resting place was to the right of the altar, set upon a raised platform built into the southern transept. Flickering candles constantly kept lit by chapel servants, lent a soft glow across the ornate sarcophagus and effigy of her dearest mother. The sculptor had done well. Mama’s likeness was both calming and unsettling.
With a hard swallow, Sorcha struggled to maintain some semblance of composure. It had been well over two years since a stumble down the turret steps had stolen Mama from them, but every time she looked at the lifelike effigy in eternal sleep, the pain of the loss became raw once again. “The Lady Amelda Tiernan Greyloch,” she whispered as a tear escaped and trailed down her cheek.
Sutherland took her hand, eased an arm around her, and gently pulled her close. “I see now where ye get yer beauty,” he said quietly as he hugged her hand to his chest.
“Mama was the one who possessed true beauty. Inside and out.” She didn’t attempt to pull away, instead, she leaned into him, allowing herself the luxury of drawing from his strength. She had always found coming to the chapel difficult, but she endured it for Da’s sake. The place gave him solace, but it stirred too many precious memories for Sorcha’s comfort.
She lost track of how long they stood there, Sutherland holding her, his strong silence more soothing than words could ever be. It was as though they were the only two left in the world, standing on the precipice of eternity.
The main door of the church thudded, shattering the heavy stillness. Hurried footsteps scuffled toward them, growing ever louder.
“Lady Sorcha! It’s time.”
The hushed call rang with urgency, hitting Sorcha like a splash of cold water. Mungo Greyloch, stable master in charge of the clan’s prize stock, was a calm man. If he sounded an alarm, it was true. She stepped aside, hastily putting an arm’s length of space between herself and Sutherland as the agitated man rounded the last pew.
“Lady Sorcha, it’s yer Peigi. It’s her time. She’s baying and bawling something fierce.”
“That canna be. She greeted me as usual when I visited this morning. She seemed finer as could be.” Sorcha grabbed up her skirts to hurry to the call, then belatedly turned back to Sutherland. “Forgive me. I must go.”
“Who is Peigi?” In two strides, he caught up with her and Mungo.
“Peigi’s her wee one,” Mungo said, huffing and puffing as he struggled to keep up. Both age and girth plagued the man. His fondness for food and drink had made him resemble the fine Highland cattle he tended.
“When her mother refused her, I nursed sweet Peigi and raised her as my own,” Sorcha explained as they left the church and rushed across the courtyard.
“Ye nursed her? The daughter of the chief tended a calf?” Sutherland’s teasing tone hit her ill.
“I couldna verra well let her die, now could I?” Sorcha increased her pace toward the thatch-roofed building where the cows about to calve were kept. It was too early in the year, and the Highland weather too fickle to allow the precious expectant mothers to roam. Too many newborn calves could be lost that way. She pushed inside and hurried to the stall in the farthest corner. Her sweet friend, the largest Highland cow ever to grace Clan Greyloch’s herds, stood with her great legs in a splayed stance, swaying back and forth with her shaggy head hanging low. The bovine split the air with a loud, rumbling moo.
“Sweet Peigi, I’m here, fear beag, dinna fear.” She scooped up a handful of the special grain mix she prepared each day as a treat for her. “Here, my wee one. Have a nibble to ease ye.”
“Wee one?” Sutherland echoed.
As she entered the stall, she paused long enough to shoot a warning glare back at the man. Thoughtless fool. This was no time for jesting. What if Peigi died? Apparently, the man needed a lesson in compassion. “Aye, she is my little one, born so weak and sickly, her mother didna want her. I spent many a night in this stall, cradling this fine girl in my lap. I wouldna let her die then, and I willna let her die now. If ye canna be kind to my sweet lass in her time of need, ye can haul yer arse out of here, ye ken?”
All jesting fell away from him, replaced with a genuinely contrite look and a bowed head. “Forgive me, lass. I meant no harm. It’s just…I believe she’s the biggest coo I have ever seen.” He studied the animal. “I’ve helped with birthing foals. Shall I join ye? I swear I’ll be gentle with yer good lass and help her all I can.”
The cow bellowed a loud cry that sounded like an adamant refusal.
“Nay, not just yet. She doesna ken ye and isna in the mood for introductions at the moment.” Sorcha smoothed her hands down the shaggy animal’s swollen sides, cringing as the poor thing’s muscles knotted, then relaxed beneath her palms. “Ye must be strong, little one. Fight through this, aye? Just like ye did when ye were a wee one.” As she had hoped, the more she spoke to the agitated cow, the calmer the beast became. She combed her fingers through the long ruddy strands of the hairy coat, then smiled up at him. “Is she not a bonnie lass? I’ve often wished my muddy brown locks were colored as pretty as hers.”
With his powerful arms propped atop the stall gate, Sutherland nodded. “She is verra bonnie—as is her adopted mother, whose shimmering tresses are colored as rich and beautiful as a well-aged whisky.” He locked eyes with her. “And I’m not just trying to charm ye, Sorcha, nor fill this fine stable with shite.”
Her cheeks warmed. The man hadn’t meant any harm with his jest, and she shouldn’t have been so snappish. She forgave him with a smile. “I’m glad to hear it because the lads have quite enough shite to shovel.”
All conversation was forgotten as the massive beast lurched to the side and pinned her to the wall. Squeezed between the rough boards at her back and the heavy cow at her front, she struggled to breathe. Bursts of light flashed across her field of vision as the bovine leaned harder against her and bayed with a mournful bellow.
“This way with ye now, my wee beastie, before ye crush yer mistress.” Somehow, Sutherland convinced the shaggy animal to shift the other way. The beast went to its knees, then rolled to its side in the clean hay. He caught Sorcha up against his chest before she cru
mpled to the floor. “Are ye hurt? Can ye breathe, lass?”
The urgency in his voice warmed through her, as did the concern making his eyes seem all the bluer. She clung to him as she wheezed in slow, deep breaths. “Dinna fash, I’m fine,” she said. But the more she recovered, the more she realized she wasn’t fine at all. Sutherland’s embrace threatened to disturb her breathing even more than the tremendous weight of the cow crushing her. “Thank ye,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer, just stared down at her, unblinking.
Every sense she possessed sharpened, demanding she pay heed and savor this man holding her as though he cherished her. The hard length of him against her triggered a deliciously dangerous aching. His heat. The beat of his heart. Everything about him made the aching worse.
With a gentleness that made her long to toss all caution and plotting aside, the beguiling man nibbled a hesitant kiss across her mouth, paused the span of a heartbeat, then increased the bond, gently opening her mouth with his.
The laboring cow rattled the stall with a loud bawling.
Sutherland quickly stepped aside but kept a tight hold of Sorcha’s hand. Before she could kneel at the cow’s side, he stopped her. “Things are different when I’m with ye, m’lady—my Sorcha.” He spared a glance over at the animal and smiled. “But all that must wait for now since new life demands our attention.”
“That it d-does.” Heaven help her, she hadn’t stammered since she was a bairn. She slipped her hand out of his and knelt beside Peigi, leaning over to place her mouth close to the cow’s fuzzy ear. “Thank ye,” she whispered and meant it. If not for the interruption, who knows what she might’ve done. Her determination and planning haunted her. If she weakened and gave over so easily to the man, he’d slip away as soon as he achieved his conquest. It was far too early in this game to fall helplessly into his arms.
“I see a wee pair of hooves and a nose. All is looking good. Instincts are guiding her now.” Sutherland stepped back from the cow. “She looks to be doing well. We should step out of the stall and give her the room she needs.”
The Bard Page 3
