He couldn’t lie nor could he tell the truth—not if he valued his hide.
“A new venture,” he said, assuming his most winning smile. Mam had always said he could charm a dog off a meat wagon by twisting the truth into any version he needed. He prayed she was right. “My brothers and I have been mercenaries for years. Fought hard. Traveled hard. Lost much.”
With a dismissive shrug, he assumed a secretive demeanor and looked Matheson Mackenzie dead in the eye. “I need a change. More coin. More…options.” He winked. “I’ve arrived at a point in my life where I prefer an adventure where I’m not always dodging a bullet. I dinna mind a bit a danger, mind ye, but a shifting away from the mercenary life would nay be a bad thing.” There. That sounded believable, and it was vague enough to hide the truth. If he picked his words with care, he would have the chief believing he was ready to set up a new enterprise based in Inverness. Then he would make his escape, find Sern MacDonald, and fulfill his oath to learn smuggling for Chieftain MacDonald of Skye.
“More coin, ye say?” Matheson Mackenzie’s one-sided smile came off just as chilling as his sister’s scheming looks. “And adventure?”
“And options,” Duncan added, with the sudden, intense feeling that his usual guile had failed him, and hell awaited with gates thrown wide open. He didn’t care for the glint in the Mackenzie’s eye.
“Oh, I’ve got options for ye, man.” The Mackenzie snapped his fingers, and Nell came running.
“Aye, my chieftain?” The buxom young lass stood with her tray tucked to her middle, and Duncan would swear on his life that she’d shoved it up under her breasts to plump them to a more enticing angle. He held his breath to keep from groaning aloud. The fair-haired girl looked more than ready for a quick tumble.
Mackenzie tapped the heel of his glass on the table and nodded toward his sister hovering near the entrance to the pub. “Tell Mistress Mackenzie this man’s room is to be on my floor. The verra best for him, aye? He is to want for nothing. He is family. Clan Mackenzie claims him now.”
“Aye, my chieftain.” Nell curtsied with a low, revealing dip of her cleavage, then hurried away.
Duncan couldn’t help but allow his gaze to follow her.
Mackenzie rumbled with a low chuckle. “That one is mine, lad.”
“I…” What the hell could he say? The man read him true. Duncan shrugged and gave Mackenzie a polite nod. “Fine woman.”
“She serves a purpose,” Mackenzie said in a quiet, thoughtful tone as he, too, allowed his gaze to follow the lovely Nell. With obvious reluctance, he returned his focus to Duncan. “Ye shall stay here, and tomorrow we shall discuss yer options.” He leaned forward, the scheming in his look unmistakable. “If ye have heard of the Mackenzies, I am most certain ye get my meaning.”
Shite. Now what? Another bit of shaded honesty, perhaps? Duncan folded his hands around his glass and lowered his voice. “I well know the Mackenzies, chieftain, I assure ye, and I am honored at what ye suggest.” He leveled his gaze with Matheson’s. “But I have a business partner to meet here in Inverness.”
Matheson Mackenzie’s intense look hardened, and his chin bumped upward in a defiant jut. “What sort of business?”
“Clan MacCoinnich absorbed Clan Neal when my brother became their chief. Be the name familiar to ye?” Duncan prayed with all his might that Matheson Mackenzie had heard of the prized and much sought-after herds of horses bred at Tor Ruadh, his brother, Alexander’s, keep at Ben Nevis. “Perhaps, ye’ve heard of the Neal line of horses? Much sought after across the isles?”
The Mackenzie relaxed back in his chair, nodding. “Aye. Best in all of Scotland. Ye could do well with them here in Inverness.”
Duncan allowed himself to breathe and even managed a real smile. “’Tis my hope to do better than well.”
Mackenzie leaned forward again with a sharp rap of his knuckles atop the table. “Ye will do better with us.” He shrugged and flipped a hand as though tossing scraps to the dogs. “Business already established. No costs of yer own other than yer time.” He waved away Duncan’s proposal with a snort. “Forget about yer horses. Ye’d lose yer arse bringing a herd from Ben Nevis to Inverness. The clans betwixt here and there would lift the lot of them from ye.” He thumped the table with his fist and rose to his feet. “’Tis settled. We shall work out the particulars on the morrow.” He rubbed his hands together and nodded toward Nell. “This day has been bitter and long. Time to seek a more pleasurable end.”
Without another word, the Mackenzie strode across the room, curled a powerful arm around Nell’s waist, and disappeared with her into the hallway.
A choking sense of doom grabbed hold of him and squeezed. “Shite, shite, shite,” he hissed low and fast between clenched teeth. Either the Mackenzies or the MacDonalds would string him up by his bollocks for certain. He scratched his jaw, scrubbing his fingertips through the stubble of beard as he pondered how to turn the situation to his advantage.
With a huffing snort, then a quick gulp of whiskey, he searched for an escape. He had wished to learn smuggling and now by damned, if he had read the Mackenzie’s innuendos, he was about to learn more than he had bargained. The only problem? ’Twas the MacDonalds who had thought to teach him first and even advanced him a fair bit of coin to get him settled in Inverness. He had most of their money still in his pocket but not all. If he found Sern and returned what he had with the promise of the rest when he got it, surely, they would release him without slipping a noose around his neck. He had to find Sern MacDonald. Tonight.
His intent hidden by the casual sipping from his glass, Duncan scanned the room. The old she-dragon appeared absent at last. Mistress Mackenzie must have relaxed her guard once her brother arrived. Two more barmaids moved around the room, but he doubted they were a danger. He rose and strode toward the exit, moving with purpose and determination. Once outside, he expelled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d held.
A glance up and down the street helped him gather his bearings. Sern had said to meet him at The Dock’s End. Said he’d be there every evening until they met. Duncan glanced around as he hurried down the street, deeper into Inverness. The MacDonald of Skye had said the Dock’s End was where its name implied. He followed his nose, searching out the buildings built along the firth by the unmistakable tang of salt and sea in the air.
The earlier pelting rain had reduced to a weary misting. The moisture hung heavy in the air. Up ahead, lit by a pair of sputtering torches on either side of the door, he spotted it, the Dock’s End.
He entered, swiping wetness from his face with the back of his hand. His nose twitched with the unmistakable smell of a wharf-side pub. Stale piss, unwashed bodies, and cheap ale. Smoke from an ill-tended fire filled the shadowy room. Duncan made his way closer to the hearth. Usually chilled to the bone, Sern had told him he always sat beside the fire that burned year-round at the Dock’s End.
“Ho, there!” Sern’s unmistakable voice boomed through the thick air and noisy seafarers crowding the room. “About time ye dragged yer arse in here!”
The tall, brawny man with the look of a warring Norse, rose from a small, ramshackle table snugged against one side of the hearth. He waved Duncan forward with his tankard. “Ale, whiskey, or both?”
“Whiskey!” Duncan shouted above the racket of the pub’s patrons. He wove his way through the tables and benches, then grabbed hold of Sern’s extended hand, clutching his forearm hard and slapping him on the back. “Good to see ye, man!”
“And yerself!” Sern pulled him forward and motioned to the only other chair at the small table. “Sit ye down. ’Tis a long haul from Skye to Inverness.”
A thin barmaid, weariness lining her face and sagging her narrow shoulders, plunked down a bottle along with two chipped glasses. She thumped a knuckle beside the bottle and aimed her scowl at Sern. “Time to pay. Ye’ve filled yer tab. Dunner’s ready for ye if ye dinna have the money.”
Duncan glanced over at the bar where a balding m
an who he presumed was Dunner stood. A gold hoop in each ear, the man glared daggers at Sern before leaning to the side. One meaty hand disappeared behind the bar, then he straightened and held up a lethal black cudgel. He pointed it at Sern.
Broad smile never wavering, Sern pointed at Duncan. “My friend here’s agreed to pay. Is that not kindness itself?”
The barmaid grunted out an impatient huff and shoved her grubby palm in front of Duncan’s face. “A quid for yer friend then.”
Duncan complied without a word. He’d expected it. Sern never paid.
The haggard girl snatched hold of the money and marched away.
“Such a lovely lass,” Sern commented as he filled both their glasses. “Speaking of lovely lasses, how are yer brothers’ wives? Bored with yer brothers yet?”
“Lady Catriona and Lady Mercy are quite well, thank ye.” Duncan rubbed his thumb across the lip of his glass as he lifted it to his mouth. “And ye know as well as I that Alexander and Graham will kill ye if ye try yer wee games at Tor Ruadh.”
Sern MacDonald loved the ladies—married ladies who offered no risk of commitment. In his spare time, after seeing to the fine art of smuggling, he pleasured any wife kind enough to ensure the safety of an absent husband and an easily accessible bed.
Unperturbed, Sern waved away Duncan’s well-meant warning and lifted his glass in a toast. “Slàinte mhath!”
“Slàinte mhath.” Duncan sipped at the watered-down whiskey, wondering why the hell Sern liked this place so much. He shrugged away the thought. It didn’t matter. Time to get the business of the MacDonald out of the way. He reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat and drew out the leather pouch handed to him by the MacDonald himself. He slid it toward Sern, keeping his hand atop it. “The MacDonald’s money. I trust ye to take it to him and ask that he grant me release from our agreement. I can no longer fulfill it.”
All levity left Sern, a rare thing to witness. In fact, Duncan couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Sern without a smile.
“Are ye daft or just ready to die?” Sern looked at Duncan as though he feared him addled. “Ye gave the MacDonald yer word, man. Took his money.” He reached into his own jacket, pulled out a folded bit of parchment, and smacked it down beside the bulging wallet. With a jab of his finger hard atop the letter, he continued, “He sent fine words about ye. Said I should train ye well.” Sern leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Ye know he’ll kill ye, aye?” Pale brows arched, the man bent even closer and whispered, “No one leaves a deal with the MacDonald and lives.”
“I have no alternative,” Duncan said. He could trust Sern with the truth. The man was a womanizer, but he could find no better friend. “As of today, I have found myself somewhat bound in an alliance with Matheson Mackenzie.”
Sern’s light blue eyes bugged wider. “Matheson Mackenzie?”
Duncan nodded.
“Somewhat bound?” Sern sagged back in his chair and shook his head. “Ye be a dead man for certain.”
Aye. He felt the same, but there had to be a way out. “That’s not what I need to hear.” Duncan shoved the wallet toward him. “Most of the money is still there. I’ll send the rest as soon as I get it. Ye be a charmer, Sern. Speak on my behalf, aye?” A possible option came to him. “Convince the MacDonald I’d be useless at smuggling. Tell him I wouldna be worth a whit.”
“My charm only works on women—not my ruthless uncle who would as soon gut ye as to look at ye if ye cross him.”
“I have no choice.” Duncan waved down the barmaid, summoning her to the table. Pulling a crown from another pocket in his waistcoat, he held it up in front of her. “For a bottle that’s not watered down.” He clicked the coin on the table. “One of these be yers if ye make it so.”
Unimpressed and scowling, the lass made her way back to the bar, leaned across it, and pulled a bottle from a hidden shelf. She returned to the table and filled Duncan’s glass, waiting with defiance in her stance as he took a sip. “Suit ye?”
It was a far cry from good whiskey, but it was potent, and he needed potent. He pressed two coins into the girl’s hand. “Aye.”
With an assenting nod, she tucked the money into her bodice and sauntered away.
“How the hell did ye find yerself somewhat bound to the Mackenzie?” Sern held out his glass for a refill. “Did the MacDonald not warn ye to stay away from the man and his like? He’s uncle’s worst enemy.”
“Aye. He warned me. But the Mackenzie’s daughter…” Duncan paused. He didn’t wish to start tongues wagging about Tilda. She had been through enough. “Three blackguards kidnapped the girl, and I recovered her. I didna ken she was a Mackenzie until after.” Not that it would have made a bit a difference.
The lass needed saving no matter her family name. Remembering the relief in her eyes once she’d awakened to find herself safe and returned home, Duncan felt strengthened. He was glad of what he’d done, and the only thing he would change about it was that he would have killed all three bastards that had tormented her so. He locked eyes with Sern and shook his head. “I have been inducted into Clan Mackenzie, and I dinna see a way out of it as yet.” He shoved the wallet closer to Sern again. “We’ve been friends for years. Do this for me. Convince the man. I dinna care what ye say but get me free of it. I fear crossing the Mackenzie worse than the MacDonald because that man’s a damned sight closer, and I’m sorely outnumbered here.”
A rare scowl darkening his fair features, Sern scooped up the wallet, tucked it into his jacket, and rose to his feet.
As Duncan stood, Sern took hold of his forearm and set a hand to his shoulder. “I shall do my best, but I fear it shan’t be enough.” He squeezed Duncan’s forearm hard and dug his fingers into his shoulder. “But I will swear one thing for certain, a thing of which I know I can accomplish.”
“What might that be, friend?”
“I swear when the MacDonald kills ye, I shall return yer body to yer brothers for proper burial at Tor Ruadh, aye?”
“Aye,” Duncan replied. What more could a man ask?
Chapter Five
“Ye should eat breakfast abed.” Auntie Moira held the bodice aloft for Tilda to slip on. “Ye should spend the entire day abed. Seek yer rest. Agnes left herbs to steep. Herbs to restore ye and help ye sleep.”
Tilda ignored Moira’s endless rant. Hiding from life helped nothing. The best thing to do was resume her duties and not let yesterday’s darkness imprison her. Besides, she didn’t feel as though she’d given Master MacCoinnich proper thanks for his chivalry. The maid had mentioned he’d be at their private family breakfast. She wouldn’t miss this chance to express her gratitude. This second meeting would also help cleanse Agnes’s silly prophecy from her thoughts. Marriage to Duncan MacCoinnich. Indeed. Tilda smiled at the silliness of it.
Pushing the matter from her mind, she tightened the laces of her bodice, then slid the stiff stomacher down in place. She ran a thumb around her neckline for a quick tucking of her chemise and ignored Auntie Moira’s endless stream of fussing. If she did as Auntie wished, she’d never step foot outside the safety of her bedchamber again. With a final pat to her dark blue skirts, she stepped in front of the full-length mirror and leaned close to examine the bruising on her cheek.
“It looks much better than it did,” Auntie supplied. Her usually dour expression shifted to a wince as she pressed a hand to her own throat. “Could ye bear a ribbon, lass? The burn around yer neck looks fearsome painful, and I dinna believe yer kerchief will hide it.”
Tilda peered at her throat, then examined both her wrists. The wounds were still sore but well-crusted over, so perhaps something to cover them wouldn’t be amiss. Da would be in enough of a state. For his sake, she’d hide them as best she could. “Aye,” she said as she turned. “A wide ribbon would do. Do yer best, Auntie.”
Moira sorted through the top drawer of the bureau. She turned with ribbons in one hand and a small pair of shears in the other. “Here’s just the thing.”
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An impatient ringing sounded from the next room. Da was ready to eat but wouldn’t do so until all had joined him.
“Best hurry.” Tilda held out her wrists, then turned and lifted her chin as Moira fitted the ribbon around her throat, cut it to length, then pinned it at her nape.
The old matron stepped back and admired her handiwork with a quivering smile. “There now. Much better.” She jerked with a hitching sniff, then covered her mouth and turned away.
“Ye promised, Auntie.”
Moira waved away her words, then opened the door and ushered Tilda into the sitting room. Tilda came to a halt.
Duncan MacCoinnich sat at the table. Merciful heavens, what ailed her? She had known he’d be there. Expected him even. But for the life of her, she hadn’t remembered him looking just as Agnes had described in her vision. Had the wily healer already seen the man? Hair black as sin. Fearsome broad shoulders. And those eyes. Aye. They did resemble a fierce night sky during a lightning storm.
Duncan rose when she entered the room. Tilda measured him against Da and failed to find him lacking. Duncan might be shorter than Da, but he still looked a mountain of a man. He possessed the unmistakable look of a fearless warrior and wore his colors well in short-coat, waistcoat, and kilt.
Tilda swallowed hard, pressing her lips tight together. God bless that kilt and the way it had covered her during her time of need.
“Daughter? Dear, sweet Tilda.” Her father’s voice broke as he hurried to her, took her hand, then slid a gentle finger beneath her chin. His scarred brow lifted as he tilted her face first one way, then the other. Teeth clenched and bared like a cornered animal, Matheson Mackenzie gave a hard shake of his head. “I wish I could take yesterday’s pain from ye, child, and burn it in the fiery pits of hell. I swear, I’ll see justice done, my wee gal. I swear it on my verra soul.”
The Warrior Page 5
