The Bard

by Greyson, Maeve

  “I’m staying right here.” Sorcha angled around, sitting in the straw beside the animal’s head.

  Sides heaving, the cow strained, then struggled and returned to a standing position again.

  “She canna find the placement she wants.” He stepped out of the stall but kept the gate open, blocking the exit with his body. He waved her forward. “Come, lass. Give her space. I know she’s docile enough, but she could accidentally crush ye. She’s already come close to doing so once.”

  Sorcha stood but wasn’t about to leave the stall. Not only did her pet need her comforting, she wasn’t about to give Sutherland the idea that she would do his bidding whenever he asked. “I’m staying in here with her. All will be fine. She needs me close.” Inwardly, she smiled at the loud snort her announcement drew until he wrapped his arms around her, picked her up, then set her feet back to the ground, right in front of him at the gate.

  “Then ye will stand here where I can grab ye up and keep ye safe if need be, ye stubborn woman.”

  Momentarily speechless, she clenched her hands to her sides. How dare he do such a thing! She was not a child to be scolded and moved by force. But a little voice inside bade her admit that his act had secretly thrilled her. She scolded the idiotic wee voice in her head and gritted her teeth so hard her jaws ached. Nay. This was not acceptable, and he needed to learn that.

  Peigi chose that moment to settle back down in the hay and, with a huge shudder, expelled her calf.

  Sorcha held her breath, praying the mother would accept the baby. Relief and joy filled her as the animal nosed her offspring a few times, then busied herself with the task of cleaning the little one up.

  “Well done, my wee one,” she praised quietly. “Such a good mama ye are.” She eased back a step and bumped into Sutherland, then turned and glared up at him. Time for his lesson in manners. “Ye will do me the courtesy of getting out of my way, Master MacCoinnich.”

  “Master MacCoinnich?” He didn’t move, just widened his stance, and folded his arms across his wonderfully broad chest.

  “Aye.” She lifted her chin. If it was a battle he wanted, it was a battle he would get. “Move, Master MacCoinnich. Now.”

  He frowned and gave a slow shake of his head. “I willna be moving until ye address me properly.”

  “Ye will move,” she said with a hard but useless shove against him. “And I did address ye properly, sir. At least I didna call ye an overbearing arse.”

  “Nay, woman.” Sutherland leaned down until his nose was within a hair’s breadth of hers. His stubborn heat embraced her, held her prisoner. “Whether ye wish it or not, the two of us are now on a much more familiar basis than Master MacCoinnich.”

  “In whose opinion?” Every time the man opened his mouth, he only riled her more. She wished to become his wife, not his property, nor someone expected to follow his every order. He would not tell her how to speak.

  “This visit has taught me much about ye, m’lady,” he said in a low, deadly tone. “And I’ve a feeling we’re just getting started.”

  “Ye’ll be taking yer hands off the Lady Sorcha,” warned a voice Sorcha had known all her life. “Release the lady now or discover the true sharpness of my blade as it slides through ye.”

  Chapter Three

  The bite of a sword between his shoulder blades brought his battle-hardened instincts to life. Sutherland spun and slammed his fist into the assailant’s jaw. As the man flew backward, he spared him half a glance, ensuring the fool didn’t move once he hit the ground. The intruder landed flat of his back several lengths down the stable’s center aisle.

  What an idiot to threaten him in such a way. Sutherland turned back to Sorcha, but she shoved around him before he could speak.

  “Heckie!” she crooned as she knelt beside the unconscious man. A worried scowl puckered her brow as she framed his already swelling face between her hands. She shot a furious look back at Sutherland. “Did ye have to hit him so hard? Ye’re three times his size.”

  More like four. But he didn’t wish to sound vain. “I’ve never treated a sword at my back lightly, and I willna start now.”

  She had called the man Heckie. He looked like a Heckie. Tall, gangly, and a good wind would blow him away. Sutherland came to a halt at the lad’s feet and stared down at him. “If he’s willing to attack a man, he best be prepared for the consequences.”

  She glared up at him. “He’s like a brother and was only trying to protect me. He didna ken if ye were making unwanted advances or not. Ye didna have to be such a brute about it.”

  Unreasonable scolding aside, Sorcha’s fussing made him appreciate her fiery beauty even more. Her irritation colored her fair cheeks a lovely pink, and her eyes flashed with rage. The woman fascinated him. To be honest, she triggered something inside him, something no other woman had ever set off in him before. What was it about this fearless lass that drove him to possess her? And not just her body. Nay—much more. He found himself thinking of her as his own. His. No one else’s. Ever.

  “I repeat,” he said as he fixed her with a reproachful look that he hoped would infuriate her even more. Sparring with the lass was delightful. “If ye stick a man with a sword, ye’d best be ready to handle the reaction, ye ken?”

  “Well, ye dinna have to be such an arse about it,” she snapped.

  “Aye, m’dear one, I do.” He gave her a condescending nod. “Ye’ll find I can be the most relentless of arses when it comes to protecting myself and whatever I decide is mine.” Then he strode out of the stable. He’d leave her to stew about that for a while, wondering if she would realize the depths of what he had just said. The more the woman used her wiles to toy with him, the more he enjoyed this game. Both his heart and gut lurched as he realized Lady Sorcha was not a woman to be loved then left behind. Nay, she was a dangerous creature who would take hold of a man, body and soul, and never let him go. He pulled in a deep breath and blew it out. So, where did that leave him? And what did he intend to do about her?

  “Sutherland!”

  Magnus emerged from the tents stretched over the roasting pits of the keep’s outer kitchen. He jerked a thumb back at the spirals of smoke filtering up from the opened flaps of the makeshift shelters. “Salmon and boar. Clan Greyloch’s hunting and fishing shall grant us a fine feast tonight.” He cast a glance upward, looking wishful. “If Merlin were here, he’d be more than happy. Salmon is his favorite. Especially from the River Spey.” Merlin, Magnus’s falcon and devoted friend, had been left behind at Clan MacCoinnich’s keep due to the uncertainties of the early spring weather.

  “Ye know as well as I that yer wee buzzard is better off warm and safe at the keep. The children promised to keep him entertained.” Sutherland looked past Magnus. “Ye left Mistress Jenny’s company so soon?”

  Magnus twitched with a sheepish flinch. “Mistress Jenny is a fine lass, but her love of conversation makes my head hurt. I had forgotten how much that woman chatters about absolutely nothing.” One who usually kept to himself, Magnus preferred quiet.

  Sutherland laughed. “I wouldha thought ye better equipped to handle such noise after a winter at Tor Ruadh around all the bairns.” With Alexander’s five children, Graham’s two, and Ian’s four, the keep was anything but peaceful.

  “Who is that with Lady Sorcha?” Magnus frowned at something beyond Sutherland’s right shoulder.

  With a fair idea of who it was, Sutherland cast a glance behind him. The man in question limped along beside Sorcha, one hand holding his jaw while he draped an arm around her shoulders for support. “That is Heckie. Lady Sorcha’s champion, who is much like a brother to her and foolhardy enough to threaten me with a sword jabbed in my back.” Head tilted, he studied the man’s impaired gait. “Apparently, he landed badly when I knocked him on his arse. She isna verra happy with me.”

  “The man’s lucky to be alive,” Magnus observed.

  Sorcha shot him a stinging look as the two turned and disappeared into the kitchens.
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br />   “The man’s luck willna hold,” Sutherland mused. “Especially if he’s permanently knocked me from Lady Sorcha’s favor.”

  “Which reminds me,” Magnus said as he turned his attention back to Sutherland. “Ye behave differently around her. Have we finally found the woman able to conquer the unconquerable Sutherland MacCoinnich’s heart?”

  His friend’s insinuation grated on his nerves. He waved it away like clearing smoke. “Ye ken as well as I how much I admire a strong woman. Lady Sorcha isna the sort a man flirts with to get his way.” He wasn’t about to discuss his fears regarding Sorcha’s effect on him.

  “Ye dinna admire strong women. Ye fear them,” Magnus retorted. “I’ve seen ye go out of yer way to avoid yer brothers’ wives.”

  “I respect them. I dinna fear them.” The sky rescued him from further conversation by opening up the clouds and spilling out an even icier rain than earlier. “Time to find a fire and a drink,” he announced as he ducked inside the nearest door.

  Magnus hurried after him. “Lead the way, man!”

  As they turned the corner and strode into the corridor, Sutherland collided with something soft and smelling of very strong perfume.

  “Merciful heavens! The chieftain shall hear of yer carelessness, I grant ye that!”

  “Forgive me, m’lady. Allow me to assist ye.” He attempted to help the woman back on her feet but couldn’t get a proper hand hold because of all her floundering and the abundance of ruffles, skirts, and wraps in the dim lighting of the passage. Heaven help him if he happened to latch on to something he shouldn’t. “M’lady, stop struggling so I might help ye stand.”

  The irritating creature continued her flopping like a fish out of water. “Nay, sir! Unhand me, I say!”

  “Magnus, help me with this woman.” He failed to understand why the infernal creature couldn’t seem to gain her footing. He hadn’t bumped into her that hard.

  “Step back from me, the both of ye! My best slipper’s gone astray and so has my earring. If either of ye step on them with yer clumsy boots, I’ll have yer heads on a platter! I swear it!”

  “I’m nay touching her,” Magnus said as he backed up a step.

  Sutherland agreed. As much as he hated leaving a lady in distress, this one was beyond help. Even in the shadowy hall, he could tell she had gone to her knees, crawling around and patting the floor in search of her lost items.

  “For heaven’s sake, make yerselves useful and run fetch a torch!” she commanded.

  Magnus disappeared so fast, Sutherland wondered if the man would actually return. A distinct sense of relief filled him as the hall brightened with his friend holding not one but two torches.

  “There’s yer bauble.” He pointed to a glittering bit of metal encrusted with several stones.

  “That is not a bauble, fool. Those are the rubies my third husband gifted me on our wedding day.” She scurried over on all fours, snatched up the earring, and fastened it back on her ear. “And there is my precious slipper. My darling fourth husband bought me those. Brought them all the way from a fine shop in London.”

  Fourth husband? Sutherland took one of the torches and held it higher to better see this woman who appeared to go through husbands faster than grass through a goose. A fetching lass to be sure, probably several years older than his thirty some odd years and, from the looks of her low neckline, quite an expert at displaying her wares. Hair blacker than coal and eyes a watered-down blue, she reminded him of a harlot he once knew in Inverness. She was pretty enough, but there was a coldness about her, and it wasn’t just because he’d knocked her on her arse. He forced a polite bow and reached down to help her stand. “Sutherland MacCoinnich at yer service, m’lady. Again, forgive me for plowing into ye.”

  The woman’s manner immediately changed, became kindlier, and a great deal more beguiling even though it still came across as forced. “MacCoinnich, ye say? Clan MacCoinnich? The clan grown rich from selling the finest horseflesh in all of Scotland and England combined?”

  “Aye,” Sutherland said, leeriness setting in. The woman looked like Magnus’s falcon right before it ripped into its prey. He motioned to his friend. “And this is Magnus de Gray.”

  “M’lady.” Magnus bowed.

  “De Gray. I dinna ken that name.” She immediately dismissed Magnus and turned her attention back on Sutherland. “But I do know of Clan MacCoinnich. ’Tis my utmost pleasure to meet ye, sir. I am the Lady Delyth Culane.” Still sitting on the floor, she held up her hand and wiggled her fingers for his kiss.

  Damnation, woman. She could at least wait until she was back on her feet. He bent, took her hand, and kissed the air above her knuckles. Pretty or not, he’d be giving this one a wide berth. “M’lady.” He pulled her to her feet, then quickly stepped back and put an appropriate amount of space between them.

  “Well, will ye not be offering me yer arm and escorting me to the hall, Master MacCoinnich?” She inhaled deeply, expertly swelling her breasts to strain the limits of her neckline.

  This situation’s requirement of mannerly behavior made his arse twitch. He was trapped. At least for now. He held out an arm, swearing to divest himself of this money-grubbing hen as soon as possible. “M’lady.”

  Magnus cleared his throat. “I have duties elsewhere. I shall see the both of ye at dinner, aye?”

  Sutherland glared at the cowardly bastard. “Aye, I shall speak with ye later.” He’d be having a long talk with the man about deserting him with this bosomy leech.

  Lady Culane tugged on his arm. “Come, Master MacCoinnich. Shall we sit and learn more about one another over a glass of wine?”

  Teeth clenched, Sutherland managed a smile and escorted the woman down the entirely too long corridor leading to the large room at the heart of the keep. As soon as they entered the massive space filled with tables and benches, he spotted Sorcha pressing a wet cloth to Heckie’s jaw as Jenny held a bowl of whatever medicinal fluid had been chosen to help the man’s injury. They were gathered in front of the largest hearth on the other side of the room. The roaring fire crackled and popped, attempting to fight the damp chill from the air as servants bustled about readying everything for the evening meal.

  His heart lifted. This was his escape. “Shall we join Lady Sorcha and her friends?”

  Lady Culane made a snorting noise and pulled him in the opposite direction toward a smaller, more secluded table beside one of the smaller hearths. “That would be a most definite nay. Let us sit here in privacy where we can learn more about each other, aye?”

  He forced out a strained, “Aye.” After helping the cloying woman into her chair, he seated himself opposite her and waved down a passing maid. “Would ye be so kind as to fetch the lady a bit of wine?”

  “And yerself, sir?” the young girl asked with a polite curtsy.

  “Whisky. A bottle, if ye please.” This situation definitely called for copious amounts of whisky.

  “Ye dinna care for wine?” Lady Culane asked with a flirty giggle that nearly made him gag.

  “I prefer whisky or ale to wine, thank ye.”

  He had been chased by a great many women in his time, but he’d found none as unappealing as this one, and it had nothing to do with her age or her appearance. She had a vermin-like hardness about her. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she could slit a sleeping man’s throat without batting an eye. He allowed his gaze to wander back to Sorcha and her friends, wishing she would look his way.

  A rap on the table in front of him snapped his attention back to the female in front of him.

  “’Tis rudeness itself to watch another woman whilst already in the presence of a lovely partner, ye ken?” She tried to make the scolding sound like playful teasing, but her pinched look betrayed her fury.

  “Master MacCoinnich. There ye be!” boomed a great voice from across the hall. “’Tis urgent I speak with ye at once, sir.”

  Thank the saints. Sutherland jumped to his feet. Belatedly, he turned back and gave an apo
logetic bow to the scowling Lady Culane. “Pardon me, m’lady. Chieftain Greyloch calls.”

  The woman didn’t answer, but her silence cursed him loud and clear. If her glare possessed the power of fire, he would’ve been reduced to cinders. At this point, he didn’t care. At least he was free of her.

  He met Sorcha’s father halfway across the hall. “Chieftain?”

  Greyloch politely nodded at Lady Culane, then focused his full attention on Sutherland. “Ye mentioned returning to Tor Ruadh tomorrow, did ye not, sir?”

  Sutherland mulled over his answer carefully. He and Magnus had initially planned on setting out at dawn, but that was before Sorcha had intrigued him with their delightful repartee. He’d planned on asking Magnus if he minded lengthening their stay, but that conversation had been sidelined by the collision with Lady Culane. “We had talked of leaving tomorrow,” he said, deciding to remain vague to see what the chieftain had in mind.

  Greyloch pointed up at the windows on the gallery level, all of them rattling with the rising wind. “I fear Mother Nature has decided ye should stay with us longer.” The man stepped closer. After a cautious glance around the hall, he quietly added, “Old Aderyn, our white witch, swears the snow will be arsehole-deep to a Highland coo by morning.” Hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, a knowing look hiked one of his brows. “That wise crone’s never wrong about anything. Ever.”

  Spirits lifting with thoughts of ways to use this to his advantage, Sutherland cast a quick glance over at Sorcha. His buoyant mood immediately sank, scuttled by the arrival of what could only be considered a new adversary. A man, quite young but a man grown all the same, had joined the trio beside the hearth and was standing entirely too close to Sorcha. “Who is that?”

  Greyloch looked, then made a face that told Sutherland that the chieftain didn’t think much of the rogue either. “That is Garthin Napier. Lady Culane’s son by her first marriage.”

  He immediately saw the resemblance between the two, especially around their mouth and eyes. They also shared the same sooty black hair. Master Napier wasn’t an overly large man, but neither was he slight. Sound of build. Average height. Garthin Napier was a man easily forgotten. “Then, he and his mother should be on their way today in order to stay ahead of the storm.”