“Thanks.” She fiddled with the edge of the leaf. “I’m not really hungry.”
“What troubles you, lass?” He reached for her hand and took it between his. “Tell me, so that I might vanquish the sadness I see in your lovely eyes.”
“Just tired.” She took her hand back and broke off a piece of the fish. “It’s been a busy day, what with getting conked on the head and kidnapped and all.” She huffed out a breath.
“Rather than going after you myself, I sent Hunter. Because of his fae abilities, I kent he had the greater chance of finding you.” His earnest gaze sought hers. “I wanted to be the one who came to your aid, Meg. You ken that, aye?”
She nodded.
“’Twas your safety I thought of first, lass. Never doubt that your safety comes first.”
“Yeah. I get that. Both you and Hunter always put my safety first.” Her tone sounded bitter, even to herself.
Tieren’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized her. “Something happened that has caused you grief. Tell me.”
“Well, let’s see.” She canted her head. “We were ambushed this morning. Cecil, the bowlegged weasel, carried me off with the intention of forcing me to marry him so that I could make him powerful with my witchy or fae abilities.” She popped a piece of fish into her mouth and took a minute to chew and swallow. “I killed a man. Again.” She sighed. “That makes zero people I’ve killed in my own time and two in yours. My head aches. My knees hurt.” She turned her palm over to show him the scrape at the base of her thumb. “This stings too. I’m exhausted.” And heartsick.
“Och, you’ve had a time of it, my lady.” He took her hand again, brought it to his lips and kissed the scrape she’d shown him. “We’ll reach Castle Inverness on the morrow. You can rest there until you have recovered.”
She grunted.
“Meg, I ken we have discussed this already, but . . . I fear the faerie will no’ send you home. Doing so is no’ how Giselle has acted in the past. ’Twas Haldor who returned Lady Erin to her century, no’ Giselle.”
Her heart raced. This was not the time for this conversation. She opened her mouth to ask him to stop, but he plowed on.
“I ken well where your heart lies, and I ken why you refused me. Indeed, you made yourself most clear on the point.” He gripped her hand tighter. “But . . . do you no’ see, lass? If you find yourself stranded here, you must marry. ’Tis the way of things. We get on well with one another. I would be a good husband to—”
“Meghan,” Hunter’s voice boomed. “I would prefer it if you returned to the safety of camp. Now.”
“You don’t get a say,” Meghan snapped.
“As long as you are under my protection, I will have the final say in all matters pertaining to you,” he roared. “Return to camp.”
Tieren’s scrutiny intensified. His glance flew from her to Hunter and back. “Think you I canna keep her safe, my lord?” He stood up and faced off with Hunter.
“I dinna doubt your skill, Tieren.” Hunter held out his hand to her. “Come, Beag Curaidh. I want you where I can see you.”
Oh brother. Hysteria, thy name is Meghan. A broken laugh escaped, and she clamped her mouth shut. “Of course, my lord.” She took another bite of fish. “I shall return to camp—the minute I decide I want to, and not a second sooner.”
She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “I have my sword, several daggers and a tree to guard my back. If I need either of you, I’ll call out. Now, go away and leave me alone. Both of you.” She waited, holding her breath, holding on to her sanity by a slender thread.
Hunter growled. Tieren raised an eyebrow at her. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the tree and ignored them. It worked. The two men stomped off. Several seconds of peace and quiet ensued.
Once she was sure they were gone, she stood up and hurled her supper as hard as she could. It flew through the air, hit a pine and tangled in its needles. Then she burst into tears. Too much. It was all too much. Being ripped from her home and family, only to fall for the single most stubborn man in the fifteenth century.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Castle Inverness dominated the horizon ahead, and the closer Hunter came to the imposing keep, the more agitated he became. The day had been dreary and damp, and the air now held the stillness of early eve. Fog rolled over the land from the sea, muffling the sounds of their passing.
’Twas Meghan who had talked him out of abandoning his role as baron to the MacConnells. Had she not done so, mayhap he would have set a new course for his life. The two of them could have wed. They might have spent the rest of their days in relative peace with the MacKintosh clan. Aye, this churning in his gut and the heaviness in his chest were all her fault.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Nay. ’Twas no good. He could not lie to himself. Giving up his inheritance had never been an option. He simply could not put Meghan in peril. He would not.
She sat upon Nevan’s destrier, her posture straight and her head held high. Regal—so beautiful it pained him to look upon her. Damnation. She had torn his carefully laid plans asunder and rendered him defenseless. Mayhap she was a witch after all, for truly she had stolen his heart against his will. ’Twas pitiful the way he could not keep her out of his thoughts for even a moment’s peace. Aye, and ’twas pathetic the way he could not keep from seeking her out every waking moment. He shook his head.
“Something on your mind, little brother?” Tieren smirked.
“There is much on my mind.” He glowered. “And that’s little brother, my lord to you.”
Tieren laughed. “What would you have me do once we arrive at the keep, my lord?”
“Have your squire see to gathering our armor and gear. Tell George to make the armor ready for travel. We’ll leave the tent and banners behind for now.” His attention strayed once again to Meghan. She had ignored him since the morning he’d lain with her under the clear blue sky and evergreens. Even thinking of her naked made his tarse harden and throb.
God’s blood, he’d never imagined being with a woman could transport him to such heights of ecstasy—or reduce him to such depths of misery. Overtaken by profound relief to find her alive, coupled with battle lust, he’d been too weak to turn away from the enticing temptation she’d presented. Battle sometimes did that to a man. ’Twas proof of life he’d sought in her arms—for them both.
He’d taken her maidenhead. Possessive satisfaction swept through him. He’d had it aright from the start. She had been formed solely for his pleasure. Then guilt rose like bile in his throat. He must be the lowest sort of churl to feel pride in light of what he’d taken from her. She was not his. “Have one of the lads make inquiries as to whether or no’ Áine is still in residence.”
“Áine?” Tieren’s brow rose.
“Aye,” Hunter said, lowering his voice. “I can no longer think of her as Madame Giselle, the old crone she pretends to be whilst amongst mortals. ’Twas Áine who warned me of the MacKenzie ambush, and she who guided me to Cecil after he took Meghan.”
Hunter shuddered. “I tell you, Tieren, her magic filled me. She lent me her strength when I had none left. Had it no’ been for her . . .” He let out a shaky breath. “The faerie is kin to me, and I will deny her no longer.”
“’Tis just as well, Hunter. Though I dinna envy you, you may need her aid in the days to come.” He shot him a questioning look. “Were you no’ frightened?”
“Humbled, aye, but no’ frightened. I ken now she would never harm me.” His gaze slipped to Meghan once again. “Gratitude, more than aught else, is what filled me.”
He and Tieren reached the portcullis, and the rest of their party trailed behind them. Hunter nodded to the guards who called out to him in greeting. He spurred Doireann into a canter and rode through the gate into the outer bailey. Several stable lads rushed forward. He dismounted and greeted the tallest
. “Wallace, you were a mere lad the last time I laid eyes upon you.” He slapped the lad’s shoulder. “You’ve grown.”
“Aye, Sir Hunter. I’m ten and six now.” Wallace beamed as he took Doireann from him.
“Give Doireann a thorough rubdown, lad.” Hunter gave Wallace’s shoulder a final shake and let him go. “He’ll want a measure of grain as well.”
“I will, sir.”
“You must call him lord now.” Tieren handed the reins of his horse to the stable lad next to Wallace. “Sir Hunter is now the baron of DúnConnell.”
“Och, my apologies, my lord.” Wallace bowed. “I had no’ heard ye’d come up in rank.”
“No apology necessary. ’Tis a recent occurrence, and I’ve no’ had time to send word.” Hunter scratched at the stubble covering his chin. “That reminds me. I must send a missive to our king and another to Cecil’s uncle, informing them of yesterday’s events. ’Tis fortuitous for us the ambush took place on MacKintosh land. None can doubt we acted in defense. Tieren, instruct our guardsman to billet beneath the great hall with the rest of the castle’s soldiers.” His new commander nodded and went off to see his order carried out, and Hunter took his pack from Doireann’s saddle.
Once their belongings and horses had been taken care of, he, Tieren and Meghan headed for the great hall of the keep. The lump at her temple had turned an ugly greenish-purple, and scabs had formed over both of her knees. A fierce wave of protectiveness swept through him. He wanted to snatch her up in his arms and shield her from any and all harm. As if she felt his perusal, she raised her eyes to his. He glimpsed a shadow of hurt before a flash of anger took its place, and she averted her gaze.
How could he leave it this way between them? ’Twas love for her that forced his hand, and he had to make her understand. Aye, he loved her more than life. He could no longer pretend otherwise. Even considering wedding any other soured his stomach, while the thought of another man touching her had him curling his hands into fists.
He took the stairs leading to the door to the keep, threw it open and strode inside. Rupert, the castle’s steward, hurried to greet them, followed by Margaret, the keep’s châtelaine.
“Sir Hunter, Sir Tieren, welcome! ’Tis good to have you back on Scottish soil, lads. All is well at Loch Moigh I trow?” Rupert snapped his fingers, and several servants appeared.
“All is well indeed, though I’m certain you received word of Robert’s passing,” Hunter said.
“Hunter is a baron now, Rupert. He’s recently inherited his grandsire’s title, baron of DúnConnell.” Tieren puffed out his chest. “I command his garrison.”
“We did hear of Lord Robert’s passing. ’Twas grievous news indeed.” Rupert turned to Hunter. “Well, well.” He bowed low. “I am pleased to hear it, my lord. Sir Tieren, I am also quite pleased to hear of your appointment as his commander. Good news always follows bad, aye?”
“Mayhap you have it aright.” Hunter smiled at the older man. He and Tieren had oft been scolded by Rupert for getting into some mischief or another as lads. ’Twas odd to think he’d gone from beggar to baron, and Tieren from the son of an alewife to his commander. The changes hadn’t yet settled in his mind.
Margaret curtsied. “My lord, how long will you be with us this visit?”
“Only a night.” Hunter gestured to Meghan to come forward. He took her elbow and presented her to the steward and châtelaine. “This is Lady McGladrey. Put her in the very best chamber we have to offer, and have a bath brought to her.” He looked her over. She stiffened, but he ignored it. “Do you think you might find something suitable for her to wear whilst her garments are laundered and mended?”
“Aye. I’ll see to it anon,” Margaret said, calling forth a serving maid.
“Also see to it that my men are fed. We have six with us, and two more may yet join them this eve. ’Tis too late for them to take their meal with the keep’s soldiers. Tieren, do you wish for a chamber above stairs, or would you prefer to stay below with the castle guards?”
Tieren grinned. “Och, a chamber would be most appreciated, my lord.”
“I’ll see one is prepared for ye, Sir Tieren.” Margaret gave orders to a bevy of servants, and they scattered in all directions like wheat chaff in the wind. “Will you take your supper in your chamber, my lord, or would you prefer we bring refreshment for the three of you here to the hall?”
“If you don’t mind, I would prefer to eat in my room.” Meghan’s voice sounded strained to his ears. “I’m really tired.”
“If it pleases you, my lady.” Margaret curtsied again. “I will take you there anon.”
“Tieren and I will sup in the solar, Margaret. I’ve a few missives to write before I take my rest.”
“Once the Lady McGladrey is settled, I’ll see to it, my lord,” Margaret said, leading Meghan to the stairs. “’Twill no’ be long afore your bath is prepared, my lady. I’ve sent a maid to fetch a gown and night rail for ye as well. Sally will assist ye this eve.”
“Thank you.” Meghan followed the châtelaine up the stairs and out of sight.
Hunter didn’t like having her out of his sight. Worry prickled at his senses, and he looked upon the stairs, longing to follow.
“My lord, would you like a bath brought to your chamber as well?” the steward asked, bringing Hunter’s attention back to the hall.
“Aye, and I’ll take my usual chamber, Rupert.”
“Och, but ’tis no’ fitting for one of your rank to be placed in such humble surroundings.” Rupert frowned.
“Nonetheless, it is familiar and comfortable. I will sleep this night where I have always slept whilst visiting Castle Inverness.”
The steward bowed. “As you wish.” He gave instructions to several servants who scurried away to do his bidding. “If it pleases you, my lord, I will take my leave to see that all is prepared.”
“My thanks, Rupert.” Hunter turned to Tieren. “Once you see to the men, join me in the solar for our evening meal, aye?”
“Aye. I’ll return by the time the kirk bells chime for Compline.”
“Until then.” Hunter took the stairs two at time. He reached the hall just in time to see Margaret usher Meghan through a door. Good. At least he kent where she would be. He turned toward the opposite direction. A servant was just leaving his chamber. ’Twas similar to the small room he had shared with his foster mother at Moigh Hall when first she came to the MacKintosh. He’d always preferred small and cozy to overlarge and grandiose. Smaller surroundings gave him a sense of safety. Would that change now that he was a noble?
“’Tis ready for you, my lord.” The servant curtsied. “Lads will be up shortly with a tub and hot water.”
“My thanks.” He entered the small chamber and smiled. Recollections of his many stays here as a lad played through his mind. He’d oft shared the space with Tieren when they were both pages, following Malcolm everywhere he went. He’d thrived as Malcolm’s page, then later as his squire. No lad could be luckier than he when it came to a mentor.
Once he’d bathed, shaved and dressed, Hunter sought the solar. There he selected three pieces of parchment, ink and fresh quills stripped of their feathers. He sat at a table and began the missives to King James and the earl of Glencairn, relating details of the ambush that had cost Cecil his life. The third he addressed to Edward at DúnConnell, alerting him that there were MacKenzie spies within their walls. He wrote briefly about the ambush and assured the older man that he’d emerged unharmed and victorious. By the time the kirk bells chimed Compline, his stomach rumbled with hunger.
Servants bearing food and drink entered, followed by Tieren. Hunter sealed the last missive with hot wax and affixed the seal from his signet ring. He stood up and stretched his cramped muscles. Sitting at a table and writing were no’ for him. Mayhap he’d employ a scribe once he’d settled into his role as baron. He turned to on
e of the lads carrying their meal. “I’ve missives to send. Have the steward send someone for them anon.”
“Aye, my lord.” The lad set a pewter pitcher of ale and two mugs on the table.
“The guards upon the catwalk reported seeing two riders approaching. I trow it is our two guardsmen.” Once their supper had been laid out, and the last of the servants had departed, Tieren took a seat and broke off a large chunk of bread. Then he reached for a thick slice of cold beef. “Áine is in Inverness.”
Hunter nodded. The news should have brought him relief. It didn’t. He couldn’t draw breath. His heart pounded, and his mouth went dry. He poured ale into the two goblets and handed one to Tieren.
The hunger that had plagued him but a moment ago had fled. The very thought of eating twisted his gut. Taking a long drink of ale to wet his mouth, he walked to the narrow window and stared out over the Moray Firth. He needed to lay eyes upon Meghan.
“Will you no’ eat, Hunter?” Tieren asked.
“In a moment.” He took another swallow of the ale, his mind in turmoil. “There’s something I must do.” He moved to the table and set down the half-finished ale.
Tieren’s brows drew together. “What must you do at this hour?”
“I . . . Stay, Tieren. Eat.” Hunter strode to the door. “We’ll talk on the morrow.”
His heart had climbed to his throat by the time he reached Meghan’s chamber. He stood before her door. What could he say to make things right between them? Truth. He would tell her the truth, and she would forgive him. She would understand and see the rightness of his decision. He reached out with a trembling hand and knocked. God’s blood! Facing his fiercest enemy was far easier than facing Meghan.
The door opened a crack, and she peered at him, a puzzled look upon her comely face. “Hunter. What brings you here?”
She didn’t open the door any wider. She wore a night rail and a robe of midnight-blue velvet. Her hair, still damp from her bath, fell about her shoulders in a shining coppery veil. He had to swallow a time or two before he could find his voice. “I wish to talk.”
The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3) Page 25
