Bannon started to nod at Timothy’s suggestion, but quickly caught himself and stepped out of reach.
Ciaran, too, seemed to snap out of whatever daze he was in. He cleared his throat and gestured toward the boar. “How do ye think we should do this?”
“I think we should get to the sides of the gate and swing it open.”
“Then what?”
That was a good question, because it wasn’t like he could fix broken plants. “I suppose we replant everything uprooted, throw away the ruined stuff, and hope she has bad eyesight.”
Ciaran was still shaking his head. “Nae, I mean how do ye think we should kill the boar.”
“What? Why?” Bannon winced at the shrillness of his voice, but he couldn’t help it.
Apparently the pig shared his horror, because it chose that moment to let out another one of its banshee squeals.
“Because we need the meat.” There was a sort of desperation in Ciaran’s voice.
Bannon glanced down at the pig, and his chest tightened.
If they needed the meat—
Nope, he cut Timothy off. “I can’t kill it. I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“I’m nae asking ye tae kill it. I’ll do that. I just need ye tae scare it toward me.”
Sucking in a breath, Bannon blew it out in a sigh that made his overlong bangs flutter against his forehead. “I just… I hate hunting. It’s… messy.”
“Ye are the one who volunteered us tae do this.” Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose, then pulled his sword from the scabbard on his back and rested it by his side.
Bannon frowned at him. “Would you rather I let your aunt continue to cry?”
Ciaran shuddered. “Nae. Ye are right. Sorry.”
“And technically I volunteered us to get the boar out of the garden and to fix the damage it did.” He glanced back at the disaster that was the garden and sighed. As much as he hated hunting, it was probably going to be easier than fixing the damage.
“We have tae kill it first.”
“Do we really have to?” Yes, he was whining, but he couldn’t help it. The darn thing was ugly, but it was still a living creature. He was going to have nightmares about the time his sire took him hunting.
Both of Ciaran’s brows shot upward.
“Okay, okay. I just have to work up the nerve. People on my planet only hunt for sport.” Bannon shrugged. “At least everyone I know only hunts for sport. I don’t hunt at all.”
Those brows hiked up higher.
With a long-suffering sigh, Bannon gave in to the inevitable. “Okay, fine, let’s do this.”
Ciaran smirked at him, shook his head, and opened the gate.
Fortunately the boar seemed more interested in the turnips than them.
Bannon followed him inside and closed the gate behind him. Here goes nothing. “Now what?” he whispered.
“Honestly, I have nae idea. I’ve never killed a boar with my sword before.”
“I still think we should go get a bow and arrow.” Or someone else to come and help Ciaran kill the thing.
Ciaran shook his head and started around the side of the fence, trying to get in the boar’s blind side. “Nae time,” Ciaran whispered back and pointed toward the other side.
Taking the hint, Bannon sidled over, trying to flank the beast. Damn, those tusks looked sharp. That tightness in his chest slithered down to his stomach and turned into a riotous mass of butterflies. “Why does it matter so much that Maggie doesn’t know it was in her garden? In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s kind of hard to miss.”
Ciaran shrugged and continued to ease around to the side. He got all the way to the row of lettuce, when the hog finally stopped chewing and turned toward him.
They all froze.
The hog snorted and lowered its head. He eyed Ciaran and turned his body, squaring off.
Uh-oh! Bannon didn’t think, he just started waving his arms and yelling. “Here, piggy piggy piggy!”
The boar whirled around, kicking up dirt. Its tail twitched back and forth, and it let out a loud squeal.
“Shit.” The butterflies in his stomach suddenly felt as though they weighed ten pounds each. He should get out of here. Like… now. He took a step back and stepped into a hole. His sore leg twinged, and pain shot up his thigh.
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Ciaran said.
“Didn’t I already say that?”
“Nae, ye said ye dinna like hunting.” Ciaran hurried his steps, easing closer to the boar. He gripped his sword with both hands, putting it in front of him, then looked up at Bannon and frowned. “Ye dinna have a weapon.”
Bannon gawked at him. He was about to die, and now Ciaran realized he didn’t have a weapon?
The boar let out a squeal and charged.
Forgetting all about his leg, Bannon turned and ran toward the fence with his life flashing before his eyes. The crash and Ochre Nose MacLean hadn’t killed him, but the boar might.
Behind him Ciaran let out a loud roar.
Turning his head to look behind him, Bannon watched as the boar came to an abrupt halt and switched directions, then lowered its head and charged Ciaran.
Swinging his sword, Ciaran missed.
Great! “Here, piggy piggy piggy!” Bannon waved his arms again. He didn’t want the pig to come after him again, but he had to do something or Ciaran was going to get gored to death.
The pig stopped and looked back and forth between them. “What the devil was that?” Bannon asked. “It doesn’t have a sword. It’s not going to parry. Stab the deuced thing!”
Ciaran glared at him. “I was trying tae cut its heid off!”
Finally making up its mind, the pig kicked back dirt with its hind legs and charged Bannon.
It was a contest as to who squealed louder, the boar or him. Bannon ran as fast as he could, but he was too close and too slow. He could feel the boar closing in, and his vision narrowed on the fence. If he could just get to the fence….
Ciaran let out a battle roar behind him, but Bannon didn’t stop to see if it worked. The fence was so close. He gripped the top of it and pulled himself up and out of the way.
The world started moving beneath his feet, swinging. No, not the world, the gate. He’d jumped on the gate, and he’d forgotten to latch it. It swung open, propelling him around toward the fence. He caught sight of the pig headed in his direction and Ciaran running after the pig with his sword over his head.
The gate hit the fence, smashing Bannon’s fingers. Pain slammed into his fingers and traveled up his wrists. He let go of the fence and landed flat on his back. All the air fled his lungs, and they felt as though they’d collapsed on themselves. The cloudy sky and tops of the trees filled his vision, then blurred. He couldn’t breathe.
“Red!”
The fear in Ciaran’s voice reached out and slapped him, gaining his attention over the need to breathe. Bannon gasped for air and struggled to turn over.
The boar had his head down, coming right for him.
Still running, Ciaran hefted his sword up, shoulder level. He ran at the boar, but there was no way he’d make it in time.
Bannon willed his body to move. Get up! Get up! But it was no use, his body refused to listen; it was too focused on getting oxygen.
“Uhhh!” Ciaran threw the claymore with all his might. With his gaze on the target, he completely missed the rosemary bush in front of him and went tumbling over it, toward Bannon.
Their gazes met for a split second, and then Ciaran ducked and rolled. Somehow he missed Bannon and ended up right next to him.
Bannon finally sucked in a strangled breath as his lungs burned with the intake of air. Then he was rolling again, this time with Ciaran tangled around him.
They stopped only a yard from Maggie’s front door, with Ciaran on top of him.
Ciaran glanced down.
Snared by that steady dark gaze, Bannon couldn’t speak. A strange sense of longing swept over him, and the widening of Ciaran’s eyes
said he felt it too.
“How does Timothy feel about kissing?”
“I… I… um—”
Ciaran slanted his mouth over Bannon’s lips.
“Mmumph….” Bannon stiffened in surprise only a split second before passion ignited inside him and he wrapped his arms around Ciaran’s neck.
So much for being good, Timothy whispered.
Sod off, Timothy.
He’d been kissed, but this…. He couldn’t remember the act ever being this pleasant. It fired a need inside him he’d never felt before. When Ciaran’s tongue swept into his mouth, Bannon didn’t think. He just reacted, parrying with his own tongue and tasting the sweet mint flavor of Ciaran’s mouth.
The heat between them was nearly combustible. Ciaran’s lips were soft but firm, like his body. Being trapped under Ciaran’s large frame was thrilling, and a little bit naughty. Bannon had never kissed anyone while on his back and certainly not lying beneath someone.
He moaned into Ciaran’s mouth, squirming and trying to feel more…. Ciaran raked his fingers up over Bannon’s scalp and into his hair, sending little tingles through him. His whole body came alive with sensation. It was like being aware of everything all at once. The cool grass, the soft breeze, the heat and weight of Ciaran on top of him.
When Ciaran pulled back and stared at him from inches away with languid brown eyes filled with lust, Bannon couldn’t speak.
The hunger in Ciaran’s gaze matched the yearning in Bannon’s body as they both panted, trying to catch their breath.
“Bluidy hell and Saint Margret! What have ye done tae my garden? And why is there a dead boar in the middle of my cabbage?”
§ § § §
“Marcus, is there a reason you’re trying to wear a trench in Ciaran’s nicely woven rushes? Other than driving me insane, that is?”
Stopping midstride and leaning on his cane, Marcus glared at his consort. How could he sound so nonchalant? This was the first time in seventeen years that they might have a chance of going home. If these survivors were Regelen, then someone would come looking for them.
Completely unfazed by Marcus’s glare, Patrick sat on the window seat with one leg tucked underneath him. Raising one blond brow, he stared back at Marcus with just a hint of a smile. He nearly looked the gentleman today. Instead of a kilt, he wore trousers and a shirt. He was minus a coat, waistcoat, and cravat, but his hair was brushed and pulled back in a tight queue. Stars, but he was handsome. Most of the time now, he barely resembled the son of a baron and grandson of an earl, who Marcus married so long ago, but he still had the power to make Marcus’s heart flutter.
“And don’t tell me I’m already insane.” Patrick’s lip quirked up a little higher as he tried to defuse the nervous energy.
Rolling his eyes, Marcus resumed pacing. If he didn’t do something, he’d be a candidate for Bedlam in a matter of minutes. His mind whirled with so many thoughts. What if he couldn’t fit back into Regelence society? What if the IN had completely taken over Regelence? The IN’s plan was supposed to be over a span of two decades, but what if they were ahead of schedule? “Do you think Steven and Raleigh are still alive? They would fight the IN.”
“If they’ve figured out what is going on.” Patrick’s voice sounded strained when he spoke again. “They would definitely fight. They’d fight to the death for Regelence and its people.”
Just as Patrick and I tried to do. Only they hadn’t died, even if it was what the IN had intended.
The butterflies in his stomach turned to lead weights. All these years, he had not let himself think about what had happened to his dearest friends. He’d been too focused on surviving, but now with the prospect of going home…. “Is it too late, do you think?”
“No.” Patrick dropped his leg to the floor and stood, then came forward. He gave Marcus a soft smile and gripped his upper arms, rubbing up and down. Soothing. “Stop borrowing trouble. Let us find out what is going on at home first.”
“What if these crash survivors are really IN, sent here to find us?” Though Marcus had to admit that crashing a ship was going a little far for forging an alibi.
Apparently, Patrick thought so too, because he chuckled. “If for some reason they are IN, I will torture them for information, then slaughter them where they stand.” He leaned forward and kissed Marcus on the nose, which helped relieve some of his worry. Patrick was right; he was borrowing trouble.
“All right, but I get to help. And we should take it outside as not to soil Ciaran’s rushes.” He grinned in earnest and bussed Patrick on the lips.
“Eee… I’d rather not be tortured and slaughtered, if it’s all the same to you.”
They both flinched at the intrusion and whirled toward the door.
Patrick even reached for his sword, then glanced to where he’d left it leaning against the window seat.
A young redheaded man stood at the door, with a dark-headed girl about the same age slightly behind him. He was dressed much the same as Patrick—in trousers and a shirt, sans cravat, but he wore a pale green brocade waistcoat. The waistcoat spoke of wealth, and the boots…. His boots were scuffed and had seen better days, but they were undoubtedly crafted by Francois Beauchamp, Regelence’s premier bootmaker. Marcus had never been much of a dandy, but galaxy, what he would do for a new pair of Beauchamps. Dust, but he missed home and the life he had there.
The redhead frowned at them and pushed the girl even farther behind him. “Who are you? And for the record, we’re not IN.” He certainly didn’t have the bearing of a military man, but he sure had the superior look of a Regelence lord down pat. This kid had no doubts about where he ranked and was used to giving orders, not taking them.
Before Marcus could respond, Ciaran stepped up behind the duo at the door, placing his hand on the young lord’s shoulder. He looked past them, and his gaze landed on Marcus and Patrick. His entire countenance changed. A big smile graced his lips, and his eyes widened in joy.
“Marcus!” Ciaran nudged the duo in the doorway aside and came in for a back-pounding hug.
Feeling lighter than he had since he’d gotten word about the crash, Marcus returned the gesture. He loved the boy like he was his own. Ciaran had come to him—well, him and Patrick—as a scrawny ten-year-old. Homesick and scared, he had not wanted to be Patrick’s foster. And who could blame him? It was a strange custom—something Marcus could never have gone along with, had it been his son. But it had turned out well in the end. Ciaran and Ramsey had filled an emptiness inside of him that he’d thought could never be filled. They were the closest Marcus would ever have to children, and he’d taken to teaching the boys how to survive just as Patrick had, only with brains instead of brawn. He missed them both dearly.
Ciaran leaned back and looked at him. “What are ye both doing here? Nae that I’m complaining, but I thought Patrick was going tae meet me at the building site.” He glanced at Patrick.
“I was, until Greer told us about your visitors. Then I decided to come here instead. I plan to send men to the site for surveillance.”
Ciaran nodded. “I’m sending men as well. Ram is out now, selecting a few discreet men.”
Marcus smiled. Hopefully Ramsey would return before he and Patrick headed back to the Campbell keep. “Why discreet?”
“It’s a long story.” Ciaran’s tone attested to the fact that it was also a story he did not like. Interesting.
The little lordling frowned. “Is someone going to tell the visitor what is going on?” He definitely had a Regelence accent, and he looked vaguely familiar.
Hope surged inside of Marcus, and he stepped past Ciaran to greet the redhead, or rather he started to. “I’m Mar—”
Patrick gripped his arm, bringing him to an abrupt halt.
“—cus.” Marcus frowned at his consort and shrugged out of his hold, but he didn’t go any closer. “And this is Patrick. You are?”
One red brow arched, and the little lord shared a look with his female companion.
>
She gave him a nod.
He turned back toward them and offered his hand. “Bannon.”
Marcus shook his hand.
“And this”—he gestured to the girl—“is Louie.”
“Ahem.” Louie cleared her throat and shot Bannon an irate look.
“Er, I mean, Louisa,” Bannon added.
“Nice to meet you both,” Marcus said. “Won’t you sit down and tell us of Regelence?”
“How do you know we’re Regelens?” Bannon narrowed his eyes. They were a beautiful shade of green. A unique shade, not unlike Marcus’s own aquamarine color.
“Och! Enough with the secrecy.” Ciaran sighed, cast his gaze upward, gripped Bannon’s hand, and dragged him to the love seat.
Bannon glanced down at their entwined hands and blushed nearly as brightly as his hair.
Ciaran looked at their hands too, with a startled expression, as though he hadn’t realized what he’d done until he’d done it. Then his cheeks also tinged pink, and he jerked his hand away.
Interesting. Thanks to Patrick’s training, the boy was usually unflappable. He must have feelings for Bannon. Odd, since they’d only just met, but then Marcus fell in love with Patrick at first sight, so anything was possible. It also made Marcus feel much better about this situation. Ciaran was a good judge of character, and he did not warm to people easily. That he had warmed to Bannon spoke volumes.
Marcus nudged Patrick discreetly, to see if he’d noticed.
His furrowed brow said he had. He was watching them both with interest. Finally he turned to Marcus and his brows shot upward.
Grinning, Marcus shrugged.
“Ahem.” Clearing his throat, Ciaran gestured to the room at large. “Have a seat.”
Staring at all of them with a scowl on his handsome face, Ciaran didn’t say anything for several seconds. It was something he’d always done when he was irritated and trying to think of a more diplomatic way to say what he wanted to say. As a native of Skye, he’d been brought up to be bold and brusque. It was second nature for Highlanders, but Marcus had tempered that somewhat and taught Ciaran to choose his words wisely to get the best response from others, instead of shouting out demands.
My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5 Page 12