The Bard

by Greyson, Maeve

  “And why would she be so anxious to leave rather than remain in her ancestral home until she’s completely healed?” Magnus asked. “It must be believable. Everyone knew she really didna wish to leave here before. Why would she suddenly be in such a hurry to be shed of the place? Especially after what just happened?”

  “Because with Garthin’s execution, his mother’s death, all the strange accidents, and the grim memory of her mother’s passing within these walls, she fears a curse is surely brewin’ and doesna wish her unborn child endangered,” Greyloch suggested with a sly look. “I know ’tis early, but she wouldna be the first woman to think herself with child before she’s barely had time to seed one.” He nodded. “Old Aderyn has already helped with that rumor without even knowing it. Several maidservants were in the room when she swore yer union would be blessed with many bairns. The old crone’s voice carries. They had to have heard her, and if they did, I’d bet my finest whisky that the entire keep knows of it by now.”

  “And I can hide in the loft and see who meddles with the wagon,” Magnus said with an approving nod. “They’re sure to try something because this will be their last opportunity to get at Lady Sorcha and yerself since ye’re leaving for Tor Ruadh.”

  “And I will stand watch with ye,” Sutherland said. “Jenny can stay with Sorcha in the bedchamber and keep her safe. The lass swears she can wield a sword as well as any of the guards.” He turned to Greyloch. “Ye could stand watch here in the sitting room. Dinna allow a single servant inside. No matter what. Remember—we trust no one.”

  Greyloch agreed with a single dip of his chin.

  Sutherland rubbed his hands together. “Good, then. I dinna believe we have overlooked a single detail. Shall we set the game in motion?”

  All the men nodded. Alexander stepped to the window and glanced up at the sky. “I do think our timeline would be more believable if we left for Tor Ruadh tomorrow morning rather than this afternoon. Even though we feel all has gone well and the matter of the accident is settled, we wouldna normally set off on a two-day journey this late in the day. Not when traveling with women, especially if Lady Mercy has claimed to be feeling poorly.” He looked to Sutherland. “That would shift yer leaving to the following day. More believable that way. Especially after being thrown from a horse, ye ken? We can watch the wagons in shifts to ensure we catch the vermin when he decides to make his move.”

  “Agreed.” Sutherland went to the bedchamber door, pausing with his hand on the latch. “I’ll be sending the ladies out now. Let them know of our plans and the secrecy needed, ye ken? It’s time I returned to my wife.” He needed to see her. Touch her. Feel that she still lived and breathed.

  “Aye, son.” Greyloch waved him onward. “I will impress upon Jenny the need for stealth and closed lips.” One of his brows shot up as he shook his head. “That lass canna usually keep her mouth shut to save her soul, but I know this time she’ll manage it for Sorcha’s safety.”

  Sutherland eased open the door. All three women looked up from their sewing as though ready to skin whoever dared interrupt their patient’s rest.

  Catriona set her needlework aside and attempted to shoo him back out the door. “She sleeps still,” she whispered. “I told ye I’d fetch ye as soon as she awakened. Out wi’ ye now. I willna have ye thumping about the room and disturbing her. Ye men are all alike. Sound like a herd of stomping horses.”

  “Alexander has important information I need the three of ye to hear.” He glanced across the room at his lady love, peacefully sleeping among the collection of pillows propped all around to make her more comfortable. “And I also need to be with her.” He took Catriona’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I understand now, my sister, the connection ye spoke of. The need. The love. The fear.” He patted her hand again, then released it. “I never imagined I could feel what I do for the woman in that bed. If I ever lost her…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, not daring to speak the words aloud and challenge fate.

  Catriona smiled. “Aye, dear brother. I see it in yer eyes.” She turned and motioned for Jenny to guide Lady Mercy. “Come, my sisters,” she said quietly. “Let us leave these two in peace for a while.”

  Sutherland waited beside the door until the three women filed out, then closed it softly behind them. He fed the fire and stirred the coals, all the while glancing over at Sorcha to ensure his movements didn’t wake her. Settling down in the chair at her bedside, he relaxed more than he had since the accident. Her left arm was bandaged to her body over the top of her shift to hold it in place at her shoulder. Her right rested atop the covers, purplish and red bruising already mottling her fair skin at the knuckles and elbow. He knew it would get worse before it got better. Sometimes bruises took days to surface.

  Her breathing was steady and peaceful, even though he knew her battered ribs had been tightly bound. The healthy tint to her cheeks, even with the discolored bruising along her jawline, brought him solace, too. She had fallen hard, but she would heal.

  “Thank God,” he whispered, then tensed as her dark lashes twitched atop her cheeks. He held his breath, hoping he hadn’t awakened her. A glance at the bedside table assured him the herb-laced whiskey and honey was at the ready should he need them.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. She honed in on him and smiled. “I knew ye wouldna leave me,” she whispered weakly.

  “Never,” he promised. Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss to her forehead and tenderly caressed her arm. “Ye are my world, mo ghràdh. My verra reason for breathing.”

  Her contented smile remained, but her eyes closed again. “I dreamt the verra best dream,” she said in a voice as soft as a feather.

  “Tell me,” he gently encouraged, wondering what the whisky and herbs had whispered to her mind.

  “Four sons and five daughters,” she mumbled with a drowsy rubbing of her nose. She attempted a deeper inhale, flinched with the pain of it, then settled once more into the pillows. “All with Mama’s golden hair. Nearly white-headed, the littlest ones were. Like a troupe of wee angels tumbling and playing on the moss beneath the great oak in the garden.” A soft laugh escaped her as her smile returned. “Stairsteps in height. Looked to be just a year or two apart. Nine babies all in a row. Heaven help us, my husband.”

  Nine bairns? Heaven help them indeed. Sutherland kissed her forehead again. “Go back to sleep, dear one. Dream more of these precious babies, and how we shall raise them to be the finest of lads and lassies.”

  “Aye,” she whispered, tilting her head deeper into the pillow. Her breathing quickly settled back into the sweet rhythm of one at peace with her world.

  Sutherland laid his head on the bed beside her and closed his eyes, one hand resting on her arm. Maybe, if he stayed like this a while, he’d see her wondrous dream, too.

  *

  “Alexander and Graham didna wish to leave,” Magnus said. They stood atop the skirting wall, watching the riders and wagon grow smaller and smaller as they made their way across the glen. “Ye’ll always be the baby to them.” He huffed out a rare laugh. “The runt of the litter.”

  Standing at least a head taller than most men and twice an average man’s breadth, Sutherland hardly considered himself a runt. “We can handle this chore. Ye and I. The two of us can end this devilry we shouldha ended long before now. Sometimes fewer warriors assigned to an attack are more prosperous to the outcome of the battle.”

  “Have all in the stables been made to know which wagon ye plan to take tomorrow?”

  “Aye. Our evil-doer canna miss it. It’s being loaded now, right in the middle of the center aisle. The chief’s watching it until we take our posts. Right in front of the loft. Ye can watch it from above, and I can stand guard from the tool shed down below. We willna miss the bastard this time when he comes to work on his devilry.”

  “Did ye tell Sorcha?”

  “Nay.” Sutherland turned away from watching his kin ride away. “She’s still under the spell of Aderyn’s herbs and whisk
y. Ye know how painful injured ribs and a bedeviled shoulder can be. I thought it best not to trouble her and rouse any worries that might keep her from resting peacefully. Jenny is already at her bedside, and Greyloch will take his post in the sitting room once we relieve him from guarding the wagon.”

  Magnus nodded as they strolled across the wall. “And when shall we take our places?”

  “Now.” Sutherland scanned the courtyard below, noting every individual and watching them for any sign of treachery. “I dinna like leaving Jenny as the only one watching over Sorcha. I need Greyloch in that sitting room to prevent anyone’s entry, and I need him there as soon as possible.”

  “And how shall we take our posts without being observed?” Magnus offered his wrist to the falcon perched on his shoulder, then launched the bird up into the sky with a simple order, “Tor Ruadh.” Merlin soared into the sky and disappeared. “I didna wish to confine him to the loft since we’ve no idea how long this could take,” he explained.

  “Aye, the wee buzzard wouldha been sorely tempted by any mice rustling in the hay.”

  Sutherland led the way down the steps, then turned toward the chief’s private garden on the other side of the keep. “Ye should go to the stable first. Have Greyloch stay to ensure no one sees ye take yer place in the loft. Have him let me know when he’s headed to Sorcha. I’ll wait for him at the entrance of the garden.”

  Magnus grasped Sutherland’s forearm and squeezed. “Success,” he said, then thumped his fist to his chest.

  “Success, indeed,” Sutherland responded.

  As much as he wanted to watch Magnus walk to the stable, he forced himself to turn away. His own scrutiny of his friend’s movements could stir the suspicions of someone already on edge. Instead, he walked to the garden and stepped just inside the stone arch. The area lacked the usual servants tending the grounds. Good. He didn’t wish to carry on his playacting any more than he was forced.

  A hearty breeze set the limbs of the great oak in the corner dancing. Leafless now, it would only take a few more days of the warming weather to coax out the greening of the branches. The sight of the tree and the dormant carpet of moss all around its roots reminded Sutherland of Sorcha’s dream. Nine bairns. Four lads and five lassies. He frowned, wondering if there was any way to make it five lads and four lassies. Bonnie wee girls needed plenty of brothers to watch over them, so the more males, the better.

  The sound of someone approaching pulled him from his thoughts.

  “There ye are! We decided to wait until morning to cover the hay in the wagon bed with blankets and pillows,” Chieftain Greyloch announced loud enough for the entire keep to hear. “We dinna wish the wandering hens to soil them. Ye never know where some of those fool birds might decide to roost.” He clapped a hand to Sutherland’s shoulder and gave it a meaningful squeeze. “Ye might have a look at it and ensure they’ve layered it deep enough to suit ye. I want my wee lass comfortable after her little spill. While ye do that, I think I’ll go and have a good visit with her. I’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

  The old chief was good at this game. Sutherland nodded as he turned and headed toward the stables. “Ask her to tell ye about her dream,” he said, speaking just as loudly as the chieftain. “Nine bairns, she’s foreseen us having.”

  “Nine?” The old warrior puffed out his chest and gave a hearty chuckle. “Now, that would be a truly wondrous blessing.”

  “Aye—that would be wondrous all right,” Sutherland agreed without glancing back as he strode across the courtyard. He was more than ready for the task ahead. Time to inspect the wagon, fake the need of a minor repair, then return whatever tool he used to the shed and not come back out. Magnus would watch from the loft and signal if anyone was around who might notice he had remained hidden rather than left the stable.

  Just as he entered, Gibb, the stable lad, exited. Good—one less person to avoid.

  “Layered the hay good and thick for Lady Sorcha,” the young man said with a proud nod. “Me and mam are more than a little grateful she wasna hurt like she couldha been. We be keeping her in our prayers for healing. There’s none better than Lady Sorcha. She’ll be sorely missed here at Greyloch.”

  “Thank ye, Gibb. I’ll be certain to share yer kind words with her.” Sutherland didn’t slow, just kept heading for the wagon. Even young Gibb couldn’t be trusted. After all, who better than a stable boy to tamper with a saddle? But the only question would be why? He pushed away the thought as quickly as it came. If Gibb returned and turned out guilty, he’d figure out the motive then.

  Circling the wagon, he made a show of checking the depth of the hay, the wheels, the rigging. He assumed a concerned look as he examined the tongue of the wagon, grabbing hold of a peg and giving it a stern wiggle. “I’ll make that bugger more secure before it causes any trouble,” he said loudly. As he went to the tool stall and fetched a hammer, he kept watch in case anyone entered. He hadn’t spotted Magnus, but he felt the man’s gaze on him just the same. Good. If he couldn’t see Magnus, neither could the scoundrel.

  No one showed up, and Magnus didn’t sound the alarm, but he went through the motions of hammering the wooden peg anyway. There was no such thing as an unimportant detail when it came to a finely tuned trap. After one last look around, he took his post, perched on a keg of horseshoe nails, and hid himself beneath a length of tarp. With the way the wall was filled with knot holes and split boards, he could clearly see the rear, the right side, and a good bit of the front of the wagon. He could also watch for anyone attempting to do anything under the wagon. Magnus’s viewpoint from above would take care of everything else. Now, all they had to do was wait.

  After a while, Gibb returned, punched down the layer of hay one more time, then decided to add more. The lad gave the wagon one last satisfied look, patted the wheel, then exited.

  Sutherland wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or disappointed that Gibb appeared innocent. It would have ended their ploy quite nicely to have their trap so quickly sprung. Long minutes became even longer hours. Darkness came, and Gibb returned one last time to check on the stock, secure and light the lanterns, and close the wide double doors. With the dim lighting and the main entrance shut for the night, surely their blackguard would finally make his move. After all, the criminal would know that Lady Sorcha would be ready to leave at first light.

  Every rustle in the hay, every groan and creak of the building, the slightest hint of any sound set Sutherland’s teeth on edge. Where the hell was the fool? Why hadn’t he shown?

  He rubbed his eyes and allowed himself a tiny shifting of his cramped muscles. With his chin propped in one hand, he glared at the wagon. What if the bastard didn’t come? What if they had somehow tipped him off, and he had discovered their snare? But how? They had hardly spoken of what they’d plotted unless they were in the privacy of Sorcha’s chambers or completely alone. And once they had settled on all the details, the only way they had talked of traveling to Tor Ruadh was as though the situation was real, rather than a trap.

  But if nothing happened, if no one attempted more wickedness, then what would he do? Sorcha was in no condition to travel no matter how deep the hay was in the back of the wagon. His dear one needed several more days of rest before attempting to move, much less endure a two-day ride across the Highlands.

  An eye-watering yawn made him rub his eyes again. The longer he sat, the more he wondered how they would undo their snare when the sun rose, and nothing had happened. He and Magnus would have to find a way to slip out without anyone being the wiser. He finally relented to his cramped muscles and stood, rubbing his arse where the iron lip of the nail keg banding had left what felt like a permanent dent.

  Hay rustled overhead. Apparently, Magnus had needed to move, too. Something creaked, then was followed by a quiet thud. Hinges, perhaps? Had it been the closing of the small man door on the other side of the stable? Sutherland held his breath, positive he heard the unmistakable sound of boots walking on the packed earth
. The lantern light appeared to be growing brighter and took on the flickering of a torch.

  He understood why when the man stepped into view. War Chief MacIlroy had lit his way with a blazing torch. Sutherland readied himself to spring, wondering why in the world the war chief was their fiend. All he needed now to be certain about the man’s guilt was for him to commit whatever wicked deed he had planned.

  With the greatest of care, MacIlroy circled the wagon. First, he held his light high, squinting at every crack and seam. Then, he bent and held the sputtering flames low, lighting up the underbelly and examining it closely from stem to stern. He took hold of each wheel and gave it a hard shake. Latching hold of the seat, he rumbled out a mighty growl as he attempted to shake it, too. He kicked the wheels, thumped the sides, and bent and checked underneath again. Then he stepped back, scowling as he rubbed his chin and scanned the length of the vehicle one last time. It was then that Sutherland realized the man hadn’t come to scuttle the wagon. MacIlroy had come to ensure it was safe.

  Shite. Another damned innocent. Although, for Chief Greyloch and the clan’s sake, he was glad the war chief had turned out to be loyal rather than a blackguard. He lowered himself back to his uncomfortable seat and scrubbed his face with both hands.

  Dawn would break soon, and he doubted very much that their trap would be sprung this late. What a waste. He propped his chin back in his hand and watched MacIlroy leave the same way he had entered. As soon as the tiniest bit of light started coming in under the double doors, he and Magnus would steal their way up to the private suite.

  He rubbed his gritty eyes. His weariness for this task was fast becoming impossible to ignore. While he waited for the sun to rise, he would attempt to come up with another plan. He hoped like hell Magnus thought the same and would come up with one, too. This one had proven to be a dismal failure.