“You don’t have any way for me to contact my planet, do you?”
Ciaran shook his head.
“Okay, then. Plan B.”
“What is plan B?”
“I have no idea.” Red blinked, then stared past Ciaran to the left. “But I’m not panicking. See me not panicking?”
Ciaran raised a brow. The way Red’s voice pitched higher sure sounded like panicking to him, but he sensed Red would not appreciate him saying so.
Red winced as he threw his leg over the horse’s head. He stood with one foot in the stirrup for several moments, with his hand gripping the pommel, as Aunt Agatha and Ian came down to greet them.
“Welcome home, Ciaran. I see we have guests?” Agatha reached out to Ciaran.
Reaching for her hand, Ciaran said, “Indeed we do. Can y—”
A gasp sounded.
Out of the corner of Ciaran’s eye, he saw Red bobble. Still in the stirrup, his knee gave out, and he started falling.
Ciaran turned to catch him, knowing his foot would get hung in the stirrup.
Apparently Red had the same thought. He turned, trying to free his foot as he fell, and slammed into Ciaran’s chest.
Wrapping his arms around Red, Ciaran stared into those grass-green eyes from mere inches away. Everything seemed to stand still. Warm breath caressed Ciaran’s lips, and lust ignited in his gut at the feel of another so close. Or perhaps it was the new knowledge that Red liked men as well. Whatever the reason, a frisson of delight speared through Ciaran. He should set Red on his feet.
“What are these?” Ian asked, effectively breaking the spell.
Ciaran set Red on his feet.
Ian crouched down and began picking something up off the ground at their feet. Several small objects. Gold pieces of various shapes. One round piece with elegant carvings of vines had a chain connected to it. There was another rectangular piece with letters on it. Jefferson. Was that a name?
“Oh! Those are mine!” Red snagged the objects from Ian and stuffed them back into the pockets of his odd-looking jerkin. What was the purpose of such a close-fitting jerkin with no sleeves anyway? It couldn’t offer much warmth. He’d have to ask Marcus the next time he saw him. The things must have fallen out of the garment when Red had taken a tumble off the horse.
“What is…? Oh!” Louisa came around the horses and started helping Red pick up the small objects. She too quickly hid them away in the pocket of the coat she wore. A coat with a torn sleeve that appeared to belong to Red.
In no time, they had the trinkets tucked away.
“Are ye all right?” Ciaran asked Red once he was standing upright again.
Red nodded. “My leg gave out.”
Ciaran frowned and noticed the bloody gash on Red’s leg for the first time. That must be why he was limping. “Aunt Agatha, can ye patch our guests up?”
“Oh ho.” Agatha chuckled beside him. “So that is how it is. It’s ’bout time.” She slapped his arm with glee. “I’ll get him all fixed up, dinna ye fash yeself.” Agatha sniggered and held out her hand to Red.
“I’m nae fashed. I—”
“Oh my galaxy! You have purple hair.” Red’s dark auburn brow rose, and a smile curved his lips. At least he no longer looked so shocked. Unfortunately, with his swollen and bruised eye, he now looked demented. Matter of fact, so did Agatha.
She had stars in her eyes as she peered up at Ciaran. She even waggled her eyebrows. “He’s a bonnie one.”
“He’s nae staying.”
“We’ll see about that.”
That did not sound good. It sounded as though his aunt was matchmaking again. “No, we will nae. He’s only here until his people resc….”
She walked past him, not even listening.
Red stepped away from him, right up to Agatha. “Why is your hair purple?”
Louisa joined them, and the three walked off toward the keep. Ian wandered off toward the front gate, probably going up to the tower.
Horace shuffled his hooves and snorted as Ciaran stared after their retreating backs. Was it just him, or had Red seemed eager to get away from him?
He glanced around to ask Angus if he’d noticed it as well, but there was no one about. Ram and Angus had left with their horses and the two horses that Red and Louisa had ridden, leaving Ciaran and Horace in the courtyard all alone.
Turning Horace around, something glimmered on the ground in front of them. Ciaran bent and picked it up. As he opened his hand to look at it, someone clapped a hand around his forearm from behind and started tugging him forward toward the outer bailey.
He nearly dropped his prize and had to make a fist to keep from losing it. “What…?”
“Shh….” Fiona put her finger to her lips and kept dragging him. “Frasier is searching fer ye.”
“And ye just happened tae be here tae save me?” He glanced over his shoulder for the council member, allowing his ward to lead him.
“Nae, I dinna happen tae be here. I’ve been waiting on ye. I was in the stables preparing a surprise fer Ian.” There was a wicked gleam in her eye when she said surprise.
God help him, she and Ian were going to be the death of him. The two were constantly pranking each other. This explained why she wasn’t at the keep to greet him.
She was dressed in a kilt and boots, with her knees clearly on display. What was he going to do with her?
“Where are ye skirts?”
She peered up at him through her lashes with an expression of annoyance and completely ignored his question. “Lachlan and Jane are missing twelve chickens.”
Bluidy hell. First goats, then cattle, and now chickens too. “Twelve? Are ye sure?”
“Aye. ’Tis why Frasier is looking fer ye. All the eggs were gone this morning tae.”
Groaning, Ciaran pondered the news. The day before yesterday, they’d lost six goats, last night it had been an entire herd of cattle, and today chickens and eggs. They could not afford to lose any more food. They were already having a hard time feeding everyone.
The stable door opened as they reached it. “Oh, Ciaran, guid. I’m glad I found ye.” Ram came inside and turned to close the door behind him. “Gavin is looki—Guid God, lass! What are ye wearing?”
Fiona gave him the same look she’d given Ciaran when he’d questioned her clothing.
Ram shook his head and came forward. “Gavin heard that we brought back outsiders, and he’s trying tae call a council meeting.”
Gavin was another one of the council members.
“How did he find out we brought Red and Louisa back with us so soon?” Ciaran asked. He supposed someone at the gate could have told him, but the guardsmen were loyal to him.
“So Red is the name of the pretty little man ye were flirting with?” Fiona asked.
“I was nae flirting with him.”
“That isna what it looked like tae me. Ye kept staring at him, and ye dinna want tae let him go.”
“I was staring because he was injured, and….” Why am I arguing with her? Damn it, he had been staring. Red was pretty, but that didn’t mean he was flirting with him. Ciaran shook his head and ignored her, turning to Ram instead. “How did Gavin find out this fast? Isna it past his bedtime? He must be what, eighty?”
“I think he’s seventy-six.” Fiona reached out and plucked something out of Ram’s hair. It looked like heather. She held it up and arched a brow.
Ram’s face turned pink, and he snatched the sprig from her fingers. “Uh, that may be my fault. I told Bridget.” Bridget was Frasier’s niece and apparently Ram’s newest lover. Och, but the man worked fast. “Ye’ve only been back ten minutes.”
Ram’s blush got darker. “I only needed five.”
Fiona snorted. “I wouldnae brag about that if I were ye.”
“Ciaran!” The stable door slammed open again. This time it was Angus who poked his head in. “Greer hasnae….” His gaze lit on the group of them, and he stopped.
They all looked at him.
<
br /> Angus gawked at Fiona, and he did a double take. “Och! Lass, what are ye wearing?”
Before Fiona could give Angus the “go to hell” look she’d given him and Ram, Ciaran held up a hand, the hand that still held the object he’d found. “What about Greer?”
“What?” Angus looked at him. “Oh, Greer has nae made it back from the Campbells yet. But I sent a group out tae the crash site tae bury the bodies.”
“Guid.” Ciaran opened his hand. In his palm lay a small round disc with the emblem of a bird with outstretched wings. Not just any bird, but an eagle. The same eagle he’d seen on the fabric from seats in the wrecked ship. “He’s hiding something.”
Ram stepped to the end of Horace’s stall and held out the slate. “Aye, but then so are we, or had ye forgotten?”
§ § § §
Ellenwine Castle, the Campbell keep, on Campbell land, twelve kilometers west of MacKay territory
Marcus was well and truly stuck; he couldn’t even get his leg to obey. Bloody hell, this rained meteors. He thought about moving it, even willed it to move, but his leg had disconnected from his brain. “Bugger!”
Leaning his head back against the battlement wall, he stared up at the cloudy sky in disgust. After the accident, his leg was good for only one thing—pain. But even now, it didn’t match the ache in his chest at the moment, and that was a pang that wouldn’t go away until he could see the riders clearly. He’d spotted the light of their torches twenty minutes ago, but now they were close enough he could actually tell how many of them there were, assuming he could get his decrepit arse off the cold stone floor.
Using his other leg and his arms, Marcus tried to scoot over to the crenel opposite him but got tangled in his cloak. So he rolled onto his left side and got his good knee under him. He gripped his cane in his right hand and tried to get his right knee up with his left. A sharp stabbing sensation arced through his thigh and up his spine. He pounded on the offending limb, trying to work the kinks out, but he didn’t have much luck. Stars, that hurt. Tears welled behind his eyes, but he kept them at bay. The pain in his chest and his need to see the riders was stronger than the throbbing in his leg and back. It was a gnawing need, like his life depended on it. And in some respects, it did. Marcus used all his upper body strength and sheer determination to get his leg under him and get to his feet.
Leaning against the battlement wall, he stared at the riders as they approached the barbican and under the portcullis. There were three of them, thank galaxy, and they looked no worse for wear. They chatted and laughed among themselves, their voices carrying all the way up the battlements. The tightness in Marcus’s chest didn’t ease up until he spotted the nearly white tresses blowing in the breeze.
Patrick always did hate things on his head. He sat tall in the saddle, with an inborn pride that made him look bigger than he was. He stood out like a shiny new penny among stones in the midst of the other two riders, with their dark cloaks and dark hair. Patrick moved with the easy gait of the horse, like a man who spent a lot of time in the saddle. And he did. Nearly as much time as he spent training with a sword. As if sensing him, Patrick looked up as he approached the castle.
Their gazes met, and that connection they’d always shared flared to life inside Marcus. Relief stole his breath, and his chest loosened its stranglehold on his heart. He hated not being able to watch Patrick’s back in battle. Hated Patrick going to battle in the first place. This was not the life he’d planned for them all those years ago when he’d asked for Patrick’s hand.
Marcus lifted a hand in greeting, but Patrick’s brow creased, and a frown marred his beautiful face. Accusations and guilt built behind those eyes. There was an argument brewing in that pretty head, but Marcus didn’t care. He almost relished it. Because it meant they were both still alive. He held Patrick’s gaze until the wall blocked their view.
Once out of sight, Marcus turned his attention to the open trapdoor and the stairs. Galaxy be damned, it might just be easier to fling himself over the parapet than navigate those stairs. He wondered how much time he had until Patrick came to get him? If he could just sit and scoot down the stairs on his arse…. Wouldn’t that be a sight. Probably better than his broken body at the bottom of the stairs, but he’d never been sensible when his ego was involved.
He was still contemplating sitting, when a shout echoed up the stairwell.
“Don’t you dare come down those stairs by yourself.”
Well, that answered his question about how long he had. And bloody hell, it also meant that now he had to navigate the stairs himself. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place, because he honestly didn’t know if his legs would hold him. He took one step to test it out.
“You’re not the boss of me, Patrick!” His leg buckled, but he managed to slow his fall with his cane. Cursed useless leg. He ended up on his arse, with his legs out in front of him. Pain burned through his hips to his thighs. Sleeping tonight would not be happening without help. He was going to have to stop by Glenna’s cottage on the way home and get some more valerian. It didn’t work as well as a bioinjector full of heavy-duty painkillers, but it was better than nothing. Maybe a hot soak in the tub with the herb mixture Glenna made him for pain. He’d make Patrick wait on him hand and foot, and maybe bathe him wearing only a kilt, since it was his fault. It might not take the pain away, but it would certainly distract him from it.
The sound of footsteps increased in tempo and reverberated off the walls. “Did you just fall? What was that thud? So help me, if you’ve cracked your thick skull open and killed yourself, I’m going to be quite put out.”
If he didn’t ache so much, Marcus would’ve grinned. “If I’ve killed myself, I won’t really care about you being put out, now would I?” He scooted forward, deciding dignity be damned. He was not about to be carried out of the tower in front of the warriors who’d just rode in. He’d just scoot on his arse until he had a wall to hold on to.
He got down two steps before outright laughter rang out below him.
So much for the worry he’d heard only seconds ago. With a sigh, Marcus ducked his head below the trapdoor opening. At least one of them was amused. It was dim with the wall torches being spaced every twelve steps or so, but making out Patrick’s fine form wasn’t difficult.
Standing just around the curve in the stairs, Patrick had one hand braced on the wall and the other at his stomach. The fiend was slightly bent at the waist and laughing his fool head off. He was beautiful and annoying at the same time. If a more joyous sound existed, Marcus hadn’t heard it. The laugh was damned near musical. Gads, what he wouldn’t do to hear music again. Real music, not clumsy lute playing.
Marcus raised his head back up so Patrick wouldn’t see him grin and moved his arse to the edge, then lowered himself to the next step, making his cane clack as he descended. Thank galaxy, he’d never taken to wearing kilts. The stone was cold enough through his trousers.
The laughter increased. As penance, Marcus was going to make him walk around the cottage in nothing but a kilt for a sennight—that ought to do it. A short one that came to about midthigh. Oh, but that was a lovely thought.
And speaking of kilts… Patrick’s wasn’t nearly short enough. Patrick still cut a fine figure. He’d been lovely at eighteen, but at forty he was devastating. It was odd to think back on their younger years. They were such different people now. Patrick was no longer the lean, graceful beauty. Oh, he was still beautiful and graceful, but he was no longer lean. He’d become a solid wall of muscle, with broad shoulders and biceps nearly as big around as Marcus’s thighs had been back in the day. Then again at eighteen, Patrick hadn’t been wielding a sword nearly as tall as he was all day long. The effect on his muscles was mouthwatering, and now Patrick was the bigger of the two of them.
“Would you like some help?” The laughter had finally subsided into chuckles.
“I would not.” Marcus went down another step, putting him eye level with the trapdoor.
“Do you intend to go all the way to the bottom on your… er, bottom?” That set off a whole other round of laughter.
Perhaps a fortnight in nothing but a kilt.
A hand landed on each of his thighs, and the laughter ceased. “Marcus, don’t be a stubborn arse. Let me help you.”
“I’ve got it.” He descended another step, and Patrick’s face was only a foot from his. He stared at Marcus with a look so serious and… pitying. Though Patrick would protest that. Still, it made Marcus’s stomach clench. Dust, he hated not being able to do the things he used to take for granted. That damned fire had robbed him of so much. “Now that I’ve a wall to help steady me, I’ll be fine.”
Patrick stared at him for a moment, then instead of moving back, he leaned forward. His lips touched Marcus’s in a soft caress. The warmth of lips was directly contrasted with the cool air surrounding them as his long blond hair formed a curtain around them. Moving back only a fraction, Patrick stared into his eyes.
“What?”
Patrick shook his head. “I love you, you stubborn dust for brains.”
“Ah, such a romantic.” Bless Patrick, he always knew what to do to make things better, more tolerable if not easier.
After pressing a grinning kiss to his lips, Patrick started to move back, but Marcus didn’t let him. His legs might not work, but there was nothing wrong with his hands. He let go of his cane, vaguely aware of it clanking its way down a stair or two, and caught Patrick behind the neck to keep him from retreating. He sealed his lips to his consort’s, saying everything he didn’t dare say aloud for fear it would be snatched from him like everything else in his life. He licked the seam of Patrick’s lips, asking for entrance. He got it and then some.
Patrick leaned forward, resting his hands on the steps and surged into Marcus’s mouth like a conqueror. The aggression was unusual for him, but Marcus didn’t mind. He was still just so happy Patrick was alive and unhurt. Threading his fingers through the overlong mane, Marcus met Patrick stroke for stroke, caress for caress. The vapor of hot breath spread around them. Their tongues dueled, and despite the chill in the air and pain in his leg, Marcus’s cock began to stir. His arousal became a slow burn in his groin and lower abdomen with no hurry to gain completion. He wanted to ride the wave and savor his consort. Or at least he thought he did, until Patrick had him almost flat on his back and his back began to protest.
My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5 Page 8