My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5

by J. L. Langley

  Breaking the kiss, Marcus let his hand slide forward to touch Patrick’s cheek. The stubble tickled his fingers and snagged the few strands of platinum that had come forward with Marcus’s movement. “Get me my cane, and let’s go home.”

  Standing upright, Patrick beamed at him. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, but I have a problem.”

  “What?”

  Patrick looked down.

  Marcus did too, and his brain started to protest and overrule his body. Patrick had a very impressive erection tenting his kilt. Marcus looked to the heavens. God bless whomever invented kilts. Just knowing there was nothing beneath and he could just reach up and grab a handful…. Ah.

  “I have an idea.” Patrick turned to get Marcus’s cane. He gave it to him and extended his hand. “How about I give you a piggyback ride. Your legs will hide my problem.”

  Damn him. Marcus knew exactly what he was doing, but he was too ready to be home and out of the cold to care. “Fine.” He took Patrick’s hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

  Once Marcus was settled on Patrick’s back—which was not an easy feat, since his leg still did not want to cooperate—and his right calf was safely nestled against Patrick’s cock, Marcus kissed his ear, then nipped it for good measure. “How is Ciaran?” Damn, but he missed the boy. It had been nice having him and Ramsey around when they were Patrick’s squires. Marcus missed them.

  “Ciaran is fine, but….” Patrick’s voice tightened up and trailed off.

  “But what? Tell me. What about this building Ramsey was talking about? It’s IN, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, but I fear so. It looks like they are building a base of some sort.” Shrugging, Patrick went down the rest of the steps.

  Damnation. “But you think it’s the IN?”

  Patrick shook his head. “I can’t prove it, but that’s what my gut says. We are going to keep watch. Angus is convinced that the MacLeans are in league with whomever it is, and I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Me too. It’s their land, and why else wouldn’t they join the rest of us and fight the intruders?”

  “No reason I can think of. I’m going to meet Ciaran again at the site tomorrow. Do you want to go with me?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “I have to train in the morning, but we will go after.” He sighed, then after a few seconds said, “I’m tired. You should be carrying me.”

  Marcus snorted. “Even if my leg worked correctly, you are twice the size you were when we first married.”

  “Are you calling me fat?” A smile lit up his voice.

  “Yes, you are so fat.” Marcus grinned and reached down and pinched his side, getting only skin and muscle.

  Patrick giggled. An honest-to-goodness giggle that was so Patrick. “Stop pinching my fat and tell me about your day.”

  Marcus rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Okay, lard arse, if you insist.”

  The giggle sounded again as they stepped out of the tower into the outer bailey.

  A group of warriors standing next to the stables stopped and stared. Marcus recognized two of them as Ross and Fin Campbell, the laird’s sons.

  “I dinna think I’ve ever heard our esteemed captain make that sound,” Fin said.

  “Aye, he sounds like a wee lass just out of braids,” Ross added.

  “A lass who is going to whip your arses in the lists tomorrow morning. Be there at sunrise,” Patrick retorted without missing a beat.

  As they walked past, groans and more good-natured ribbing followed them, then faded into the more mundane sounds of the castle getting ready to bed down.

  Marcus wondered if he’d ever get used to the crude surroundings. It was a harsh beauty so unlike the stark, pristine manor house he’d grown up in. He liked the simplicity and lack of rigid time constraints, but he missed the cleanliness. That was why he preferred his quaint cottage. It was clean and neat. He’d even gotten a tub big enough for him to soak in. Which he was going to do directly. “Go by Glenna’s cottage on the way.”

  Patrick hmmmed and turned down the lane that led to their cottage and several others. Glenna’s home was only twenty yards from theirs. It was smaller, with a pretty red door and flower boxes under the windows. Not only did smoke billow from Glenna’s chimney, but from theirs too. A warm glow filtered out of the windows.

  Patrick stopped and turned his head, looking back at Marcus. “I sent Robbie to Glenna’s and to prepare you a bath. I knew you’d be out there waiting for me, even though I told you not to, because you never listen to me.”

  Marcus didn’t know what to say, so he leaned forward and kissed him. “I always listen to you. I just don’t obey.”

  “Wasn’t that in our wedding vows?”

  Marcus chuckled and kissed him again. “I seriously doubt it.”

  Someone cleared their throat behind them.

  Reluctantly, Marcus broke off the kiss.

  Greer, one of the MacKay warriors, stood behind them, panting and holding his horse by the reins. “Ciaran sent me with news.” He paused and swallowed, looking at Marcus, then back to Patrick. “About the black smoke.”

  Something in the way he paused made the hair on Marcus’s arms stand up. “What black smoke?”

  “What is it?” Patrick asked.

  Greer took a deep breath. He’d obviously ridden hard to get here. “An outsider ship crashed just west of Blae Mountain. The MacLeans captured two survivors from the ship. Ciaran, Angus, and Ram are going tae attempt a rescue.”

  A ship? What was this about a ship? Then the rest of what he said dawned on Marcus. “Bloody hell. Is that a good idea?” Marcus looked at Patrick. “Ciaran rescuing the survivors, I mean.”

  Patrick nodded. “He’ll be fine. The boy has a good head on his shoulders.”

  Marcus knew that was true, but still he worried about the kid. Ciaran and Ramsey were the closest thing he and Patrick had to children. He became aware of Greer still standing there and looked up at him.

  “What is it?” Patrick asked.

  “Umm, Ciaran said tae tell ye that one of the survivors was dressed like him.” He nodded at Marcus.

  Bloody hell. Could it be? Marcus glanced down at his waistcoat, where it peeked out of his cloak, and then at his trousers and boots. All things he’d had made with the hard-earned coin he’d made as the laird’s steward, to remind him of his home… of Regelence.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Medieval castles are as odorous as they are beautiful. Plant a rose garden because…. Damn. On second thought, make that two dozen rose gardens.”

  —Timothy on historical architecture.

  May 26, 4831: Lochwood Castle

  Ciaran finally leaned back in his chair and threw his hands in the air, metaphorically speaking, at—he glanced at the mantel clock to his right—twenty-two after six. Truth be told, he felt like spearing the slate with a white flag. Running his hands down his face, he yawned, then glared at the offending object sitting so innocently on his desk.

  It was time to face facts. He was not going to get the alien device to reveal its secrets. All he’d managed was to make it light up and display the words Hello, Percy. He assumed Percy was the owner. Then the smooth surface lit up with words urging him to give a voice command or type in the passcode. And no matter how many times he demanded that the thing show him information, or touched the letters and numbers, it did nothing but go blank again. He’d been able to get it to light up every time by pushing the button on the side, but it was always the same. Ciaran was really starting to hate this Percy fellow.

  As he reached for the tablet to put it away in his drawer, the solar’s doorknob turned.

  Shite. Ciaran grabbed some papers on his desk and dragged them over the slate.

  The door opened, and the noise from the great hall assaulted his ears. Voices, laughter, clanks and clatters of the clan breaking their fast—which had only been a low droning hum behind the solid oak—were now quite loud. As if just clueing in to the tim
e, his stomach growled.

  “Ciaran?” Aunt Agatha appeared in the open doorway.

  Ciaran couldn’t help but grin at the shining purple head of hair piled into an upswept braided coiffure. She was dressed in a less vibrant frock, several shades lighter than her hair, but she was the picture of elegance. A lilac color, he thought it was called. She looked rested and cheerful, but then she was a spry forty-three-year-old and quite beautiful.

  It always surprised him that she’d never married. He still got offers for her hand, which he always sent to her to decide for herself. He wondered if her hair would put suitors off. Perhaps that was her intent all along? “Have I told ye I like ye hair?”

  Agatha grinned and shut the door behind her. “Ian told me my hair looked like a jester hat.” She did not seem upset by the remark, but still, he would have a word with the lad. Hurting Agatha’s feelings was unacceptable.

  “What does he ken? He’s a thirteen-year-old lad.”

  “Now, Ciaran, he was teasing. Nae lecturing the lad.” Agatha came forward to stand next to his desk.

  Ciaran raised a brow.

  Agatha chuckled. “It was written all over ye face.”

  This time he frowned, and his aunt chuckled harder.

  “And now ye are thinking ye dinna like being predictable.”

  He growled at her but couldn’t help grinning. Still, he was going to have to work at concealing his expressions better. “How did our guests sleep?”

  Now Agatha frowned and seemed to study him a moment before she spoke. “Are they our guests?”

  “Aye. Why do ye ask?”

  “I noticed ye had guards stationed outside their rooms.”

  “It was just a precaution. I dinna ken them. It was fer their protection as well as ours. Ye ken how the clan feels about outsiders, given what we have been through with the attacks.”

  Her face relaxed. “Guid. I like them. They are kind and decent people.”

  That was a relief to hear. Agatha was a good judge of character.

  “A little frightened, I suspect, though ye’d never ken by talking tae them. They worry about returning home, but I wonder if it would be so bad if they dinna return home?”

  Ciaran leveled a stare at her. “Stop playing matchmaker. Ye ken I need tae marry eventually fer an heir.”

  She stared right back at him. “Do ye?”

  “’Tis what Father always said.” His father had been very supportive of Ciaran’s preference for men, but his father had drilled it into his head that while he could have a male lover, he needed a female wife to produce heirs.

  “Fiddlesticks!” Agatha waved a dismissive hand. “Ye have an heir. Ye have Ian. Let him produce more heirs.”

  Ciaran shrugged. He needed someone to help him with Ian and Fiona, and even if Red stayed, he wasn’t the man for the job. He was nearly as big a handful as Fiona and Ian. Not to mention he was way too prickly and stuffy. “Ye got them patched up?”

  She gave him a look that said their discussion was not over, but she nodded and propped her hip on the desk, folding her still-green hands in her lap. “There was nothing tae serious, just bumps and bruises, a few cuts, but nothing tae deep. I gave them both yarrow and chamomile tea tae help ward off fever, should infection set in.”

  “Guid.” He liked knowing Red was taken care of and settled. Perhaps a little too much. Ciaran had found himself about to go into the west wing several times this morning while stretching his legs. He’d tried to reason with himself that he needed to help Red get home and get him to talk. They could help each other, after all, but first he had to gain Red’s trust. Only the idea that he might wake Red had stopped him. “Is Red up?” Ciaran yawned.

  Agatha raised a brow, which was still pale blond, and a smile quirked the corners of her lips. “Ye mean Bannon?”

  “Aye. Red fits him better than Bannon.”

  Chuckling, Agatha shook her head and pushed the papers aside on his desk, revealing the tablet. “Ye want tae ask him about that?”

  “Are ye a mind reader now? How did ye ken about this?” He dipped his head toward the object on his desk.

  After picking it up, Agatha turned it over and gasped at the back. “It’s beautiful.”

  Ciaran nodded. It was pretty impressive. The entire back side was a sea of jewels. In the middle was a large letter E in pale blue crystals. The stones surrounding the E went from dark blue to white as they reached the edges, but as far as Ciaran could tell, they were only decorative. He’d mashed on every single one of them and they’d done nothing.

  Agatha handed him the device and glanced at the door. “I ken about it from Fiona, of course. And dinna worry, I dinna say anything tae Bannon or Louie. I actually came tae tell ye that the council is headed this way. I saw them in the outer bailey from the west tower and came here tae tell ye. They are probably in the great hall by now.”

  With a sigh, Ciaran took the slate and put it away in the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk and threw some papers on top of it for good measure. “I was wondering how long I could avoid them.”

  “I can always go tell them ye have gone out.”

  “No, I might as well get it over with.” They weren’t going to leave him alone until they had answers to their questions, and no doubt the majority of them involved Red and Louisa.

  “Well, then….” Agatha bent and kissed his cheek. “I will go. Come find me when ye are done here. I have an idea how tae get more food fer the clan.”

  Ciaran started to tell her he’d handle the food situation, but she turned to go and a soft knock landed on the door only a split second before it opened.

  “Ciaran?” Maggie MacKay, the spokesperson for the council came in. She was his third cousin and had inherited the MacKay chin, complete with dimple and the tendency to look haughty when it was lifted, and it was definitely elevated at the moment. She was a stark woman. Her salt-and-pepper hair was in a no-nonsense bun at the back of her neck, and her dress was dark, with the MacKay plaid draped across her shoulder offering the only real color—and the clan tartan wasn’t very colorful with its muted browns and greens. Maggie searched the room, her gaze landing on Agatha first. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened. “Agatha, ye hair….”

  “It’s smashing, isna it?”

  Smashing? Ciaran raised a brow and grinned at the horrified expressions from the other four council members as they filed in behind Maggie. They looked as though Agatha had slapped them.

  Agatha winked. “A phrase I got from Bannon.” She mouthed the words “Guid luck” and left him alone with the clan elders.

  As the door snapped shut behind her, the council members crowded in front of his desk.

  Well, here goes nothing. Ciaran stood, putting himself in a superior position, like his father had taught him. The geriatric busybodies would catch him eventually. They made everything more complicated and wanted him to answer for every one of his actions. The council system was outdated, set up before his ancestor was rewarded the earldom and chieftains were still voted upon. But until the clan bylaws were changed, he had to deal with them. So he extended an arm, motioning to the room. “Please, have a seat.” He walked around the desk and went to stand in front of the fireplace.

  The solar was one of the rooms he’d always felt comfortable in. He’d sat here many a night with his family, reading and talking, even singing. His big oak desk took up one end of the room and the window seat the other. The large stone fireplace resided along the wall opposite the door, making a perfect stage of sorts for Ciaran. The room was elegant, luxurious, and comfortable. It had been decorated to be as much of a showplace to impress visitors as it was to be a comfortable area for the family to relax. All the furniture was situated around the fireplace, with a large red-patterned rug—which his great-grandfather had gotten from the capital—in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t as grand as the great hall, but it worked for a private meeting.

  It didn’t take long for them to find their seats and look up at him.
Maggie and Frasier commandeered the love seat facing the fireplace, Owen and Stuart shared the window seat, and Gavin took his place in one of the two chairs perpendicular to the love seat.

  Determined to retain the upper hand, Ciaran spoke first. “As ye have probably heard, I have brought guests tae Lochwood.”

  “That is why we are here. Who are these guests? We’ve heard they are outsiders.” Owen’s big, bushy gray eyebrows lowered, and his brow furrowed, though he did not sound hostile or confrontational, merely confused.

  “Aye, they are, but they arenae the same outsiders who’ve been attacking us.”

  “How can ye be so sure?” Maggie barked at him, and her chin rose another notch, signaling that she was only warming up. Unlike Owen, she had already decided Ciaran was in the wrong, which was typical. She and Frasier were his biggest critics.

  “They are unarmed and dressed differently. Their ship was also different. They are the only survivors of a shipwreck. I am hoping they can tell us about the men who have attacked us.”

  Frasier shook his head, making his long gray braid slap across his chest. “I dinna like it! They must go. Have ye forgotten all we’ve lost at the hands of outsiders? It could be a trap, intended fer them tae gain entrance tae Lochwood.”

  The other council members began to nod in agreement.

  Ciaran stifled a groan. He too had initially considered the possibility. He’d have been stupid not to, but he’d long since dismissed the notion. “I assigned guards tae watch them.”

  The group began talking at once. All but Stuart.

  Stuart, the oldest of the council, sat in the chair, looking bored, his hand on his chin. He was so still that if not for his eyes being open, Ciaran would have thought him asleep.

  Holding up a hand, Ciaran said, “I am hoping our guests can give us some answers and help us figure out what the outsiders want and how tae defeat them.”