My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5

by J. L. Langley

  Walking side by side they made their way past the stables. An awkward silence settled between them, and Ciaran was very aware of Red’s presence beside him. The top of Red’s head might only come to Ciaran’s shoulder, but he walked proud and tall, like a man much bigger than his diminutive size. It was still hard to believe Red was actually older than him. “Do ye often shoot things off of people’s heids?”

  That grin made another appearance. “That was Timothy’s idea.”

  “I’m beginning tae see why Timothy gets ye intae so much trouble.”

  Red chuckled and stopped in front of the targets. He turned toward Ciaran, and a whole new awkwardness took hold. They stared at each other, much as they had last night, and Ciaran found himself gravitating closer. What if Red did stay? Would he even want to?

  “Let’s shoot. Get on your knee like this.” Red gave him a crooked grin that looked as mischievous as Red’s alter ego. Taking the sling off his shoulder, Red knelt.

  “Did ye father teach ye this?”

  “No, my sire did. The only sport my father likes is fishing.”

  Ciaran knelt down next to Red, taking the same pose as him. “Let me guess, Timothy doesnae like tae fish?”

  Red shrugged, stood, and handed him the rifle. “Timothy can’t be still and quiet for that long. He scares off the fish, so we got banned from that too.” He stepped up behind Ciaran and positioned the rifle at Ciaran’s shoulder.

  Ciaran could actually feel the heat from Red and wondered what it would be like to have Red pressed up against him. “Should it worry me that Timothy is making more and more sense tae me?” When Ciaran put his finger near the trigger, Red slapped his hand.

  Red chuckled. “Not yet. Never put your finger there until you are ready to shoot.” He placed Ciaran’s finger straight beside the trigger. “And never ever point it at another person unless you intend to kill them.”

  Ciaran looked up at him, giving his best are you kidding me look. “Isna that the whole point?”

  Red stuck his tongue out at him. “Not always, no. I’ve never….” His words trailed off.

  Turning, Ciaran looked at him. He hated that shocked look. It was better than fear or anguish, sure, but…. He reached out, but Red shook his head.

  “I’m fine. I don’t regret it. It’s just….” He shrugged. “I don’t know, but we don’t have time to dissect it now. Patrick says we are going to the building site tonight. We need to get you up to speed with the fragger. Look down the sights. Line the one on the end up between the two closest to you, and fire.”

  Letting him have his way for now, Ciaran did as Red instructed and put the thing at the end between the two things near him. Lining them up with the center of the target. But later, they were going to talk about this. Ciaran remembered the first time he killed a man. It was not something one ever forgot. And good grief, what was wrong with him? He’d never been one to talk about feelings…. It was definitely time to get to work.

  “When you are ready, fire.”

  Ciaran fired and… missed the target completely. He frowned and looked at the small scorch mark on the outer bailey wall. This was not promising. He was an excellent shot with a bow and arrow.

  “Try closing one eye for right now.”

  “Ye dinna.”

  “Because I don’t need to, but we’ll let you get a feel for it first, then learn to shoot with both eyes open.”

  Ciaran tried closing his right eye. “I dinna see the sights.”

  Red took the rifle away from him and settled it against his left shoulder. “Now try it.”

  This time Ciaran could see the sights. He took a shot and… dead center. “Yeah!” He did it again and hit just to the left and lower but still in the center. The next shot was nearly the same. No wonder Red enjoyed this. It was challenging yet rewarding when you hit where you wanted.

  “Now try it again with both eyes open.”

  He did, and his shot strayed to the left and farther down, into the second circle, so he tried again and closed his eye. Again he hit to the left of center. He tried again and got nearly in the same spot.

  “You need to do it with both eyes open now.”

  “I cannae. I’m nae as guid that way.”

  “That is why you practice.”

  “I dinna see why I cannae do this with one eye sh—oof!”

  Red shoved him.

  Ciaran never saw it coming. He went down on his left side, and a shot went off, hitting the wall again.

  Red stood over him with his hands on his hips and a smug smile on his face. “That is why you need to learn to shoot with both eyes open. So you don’t lose peripheral vision on one side. And you had your finger on the trigger. What did I tell you about trigger control?”

  Och, but he was a wee tyrant. He’d make a great fosterer. Kicking out a leg, Ciaran tried to trip him, but Red surprised him by jumping. He chuckled, pointed, and yelled, “Ha! You missed me.”

  Ciaran kicked out again to no avail. When that didn’t work, he sat up and grabbed for Red’s legs. Before long they were both laughing like loons. He gained his feet and despite his sore arm, tried to tackle Red and missed.

  Red danced about, taunting him. Then he too got in on the action and tried to tackle Ciaran. They ended up locked together, both trying to kick the other’s legs out from under him. It was the most fun Ciaran had had in… well, he couldn’t remember when.

  “Ciaran, come quick!”

  So much for fun.

  They froze, arms locked gripping each other’s forearms, and out of breath from laughing.

  Still grinning, Ciaran turned toward their intruder.

  Ian bounced on his toes impatiently with a look on his face that said he was mentally questioning Ciaran’s sanity. Then he shook his head and blurted out, “The whole clan is trying tae kill Hamish!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Running is barbaric and should be outlawed throughout the universe. Matter of fact, so should jumping, walking long distances, or any other kind of physical activity.”

  —Timothy on exercise.

  “Bluidy hell!”

  Ian took off through the lists, leading the way.

  Ciaran followed, wondering when the heck his little brother had gotten so fast. It seemed only a sennight ago, Ian was a toddler who leaned forward and put his arms behind himself, convinced that new boots made him faster. The burst of speed he displayed at present did nothing for Ciaran’s peace of mind. Whatever was going on must be bad. Then again this was Ian, and he did tend to exaggerate.

  “Ugh! Do we have to run? If they kill him before we get there, he’s still going to be dead, and if they don’t, why the devil are we running?” Red whined behind him.

  Ciaran grinned but kept up with his brother. “Exercise is good fer ye, Red.”

  “I’m allergic to exercise! I’m an artist. Exercise is against my religion.” This time he sounded seriously out of breath.

  Ciaran laughed outright, but he glanced back to check on him.

  His face nearly matched his hair, but he kept pace only a couple of yards behind.

  Rounding the corner, Ciaran’s heart sank. The targets were still in the same places, but there was no one around. The place looked deserted. This did not bode well, and for the first time, Ciaran thought Ian might not be exaggerating. The entire clan might be trying to kill Hamish. Hamish was a good warrior and a big man, but he didn’t stand a chance against everyone.

  They passed the stables and turned left out of the front gate under the portcullis. The shouting reached him before he saw the crowd. There were people standing all around in a circle, and the shouting grew into a discordant mix of high and low voices.

  Ian stopped and pointed at the mob as if it were necessary. A blind man could see this crowd. They stood four or five deep just past the gate, between the village and the castle.

  Rolling his eyes at his brother, Ciaran shoved his way through the mass of bodies. There were men and women alike. Arms waved and voice
s rose higher. It was a seething mob. He became cognizant of Red following him, pushing through the crowd behind him, apologizing and saying, “Excuse me.”

  Even before Ciaran got to the middle, he heard Hamish’s raised voice telling someone to “Ye haud ye wheesht, ye bawbag.”

  “What does that mean?” Red asked beside him.

  How had he caught up so fast? Ciaran ducked a waving fist, seconds before it caught him in the nose. “He told him tae quit talking.” After shoving his way into the fray, he stopped short.

  The whole council stood in the middle, facing off with Hamish.

  Hamish held a sack over his shoulder with one hand and his sword with the other. At the moment, the big claymore pointed right at Frasier.

  Frasier, the bampot, was unarmed and still shouting. He was well within striking range and yelling something about being a thief. The man had obviously forgotten he was no longer a warrior, or perhaps he still fancied himself one. Someone should point out to him that he was weaponless and Hamish was a lot more agile than his towering bulk suggested.

  Off to the left, Angus tried to calm Maggie, who was ranting and taking swings at him.

  Ram held off Stuart. Not that it took much effort.

  This was going nowhere fast. It was hard to tell what was going on, but the majority of the crowd seemed to be with the council and against Hamish. Ram and Angus were trying to keep the peace, but it was doubtful anyone would interpret it that way. They might as well have thrown their lot in with Hamish. Not good.

  Stepping forward, Ciaran pushed Hamish’s sword aside. “Put that away.”

  “I will nae.” Hamish puffed his chest out farther and lifted his chin, making his scraggly beard fling upward. “They mean tae kill me.”

  “I doubt that.” Actually he didn’t, but it was best to be certain. It might be smart to draw his own sword.

  Red must have thought the same thing, because he followed Ciaran inside the circle and pulled the fragger off his shoulder.

  Ciaran started to tell him to leave it, but before he could, Red put it to his shoulder and aimed it at the ground.

  The crowd stepped back and let up a collective gasp.

  Bloody hell, this was just what he needed. Still, a wave of satisfaction came over Ciaran. Red once again was coming to his rescue, even if he didn’t need the rescue this time. Ciaran touched Red on the shoulder. “Put it back on ye back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aye.”

  The silence didn’t last long. Everyone started talking at once and pointing at Hamish.

  “Quiet!” Ciaran shouted.

  Once again they quieted.

  Maggie glared at him. Frasier seemed to stand up even taller, and the set of his chin declared he was ready for a fight. Owen, Gavin, and Stuart looked none too happy either, though not nearly as hostile. The rest of the crowd mumbled for a few seconds, then stepped back to watch.

  Damn, but he did not need this. Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, “What is going on?”

  “He”—Frasier jabbed a finger in Hamish’s direction—“is stealing rations.”

  Rations? Och! Since when did they have rations? They’d lost some cattle and some chickens, but…. “I dinna ration food.”

  “Nae, ye dinna. Ye are nae doin’ ye job as chief, so we had tae do it fer ye,” Maggie said.

  Ciaran looked around at the council in disbelief at the accusation. He fully expected one or two of them to disagree with Maggie, but none of them did. Owen actually looked down when Ciaran met his gaze.

  “And what is this about missing men?” Gavin asked.

  A woman in the crowd shouted out, “Aye.”

  “What have ye tae say fer yeself?” another added.

  Uncertainty and anger took hold inside of Ciaran. He clenched his jaw so tight, his teeth felt as though they’d crack into a million pieces. He was trying to save them from attacks; couldn’t they see that? He searched the crowd, but all he found there was accusing glares and a few looks of pity.

  “Want me to start shooting?” Red asked as he reached toward the gun slung over his back.

  “Nae!” Ciaran and Angus yelled at the same time. Ciaran stilled Red’s hand.

  Ram chuckled. “Well….”

  Ciaran glared at him.

  Moving his hands back to his sides, Red sighed. “I have it on stun.”

  Och, but doesnae he realize that he is making things worse?

  “Ye have four days left, then he”—Maggie pointed at Red—“better be gone. And ye still have tae fix my garden that ye both destroyed.”

  Red blanched beside him.

  He kens now. Ciaran sighed and said to Red, “Why dinna ye go with Angus back tae the keep?”

  Angus immediately started protesting, but Ciaran cut him off with a slash of his hand. Then to the rest of the crowd he said, “Everyone clear out and get back tae work.”

  There was a lot of grumbling, but the crowd slowly started to disperse, all but a few. He started to repeat his demand, then noticed that the men staying were his warriors. They moved, making a circle around Ciaran, the council, and Hamish.

  Ram moved to the outside circle as well, removed his sword, and placed it in front, the tip on the ground, his hands resting on the pommel, and his legs spread.

  Almost as one, the rest of Ciaran’s warriors did the same.

  Angus nodded, then grabbed Red’s arm and escorted him through the circle.

  Worrying his bottom lip, Red looked back at Ciaran and arched his brows.

  Ciaran meant to give him a nod of reassurance, but he couldn’t move. All he could do was stare in awe. He’d never felt so humbled in all his life.

  The council did not move, but they looked less blustery than before.

  Greer stepped forward. “We are with ye, my laird.”

  Patrick, who stood in solidarity with the warriors, winked at him.

  Ciaran gave him a nod and turned back to the council with his heart in his throat and his back straight with pride. “Hamish, give them the food back.”

  “But….”

  “Now.”

  Hamish stepped forward and dropped the bag at Maggie’s feet.

  She picked it up and met Ciaran’s gaze. “Ye will answer fer this. I suggest ye straighten ye warrior”—her chin lifted toward Hamish—“regarding his place. Next time he will be hanged as a traitor.” With that she walked off.

  The rest of the council followed her.

  The men parted to let them out, then closed back in around Ciaran and Hamish. Once they were out of sight, the men put their swords up.

  Hamish turned to him, looking like a whipped dog. His shoulders hunched in. “I’m sorry, Ciaran, but me sister…. Her husband, Grant, is one of the men missing. She’s expecting a wee one and—”

  Ciaran held up a hand. “We’ll see tae her.”

  Hamish nodded.

  “My laird?” Greer asked.

  “Aye?”

  “The men and I are with ye. Unlike the council, we ken we need tae fight this enemy before they come fer us all, but the food….”

  “Aye, the food…,” several other people echoed.

  “I’ll see tae it.”

  “Guid,” Greer said, and he and the warriors turned to leave.

  Ram came forward, as did Patrick.

  Ram slapped him on the back. “Ye have just made an enemy of the council. They are going tae be after ye now, cousin.”

  Nodding, Patrick stopped in front of him. “Your men are with you for now, but it only takes a populace missing three meals before they revolt.”

  Ciaran’s gut clenched at the warning, knowing what Patrick said was true.

  § § § §

  Bannon opened the door to the solar. “Ciaran, I need to talk…. Oh!” He could only blink and gawk. For several seconds he stared at the wide expanse of Ciaran’s bare shoulders peeking over the edge of a tub, and then sense returned, and he immediately shut the door. Or rather he tried, but he was
so discombobulated, he caught his foot in the door, and it vibrated only millimeters in front of his nose. Ouch! The soles of his brown-topped boots saved his foot from intense pain, but it still hurt. To make matters worse, his face was so hot, and no doubt red, that he felt as though he were having one of those hot flashes Louie’s mother always talked about. Blushes on redheads were not, in his opinion, very flattering.

  Taking a deep breath, he slid his foot backward, wrinkled his nose to lose the tickle the graze from the door caused, and tried again.

  “Red? Is that ye?”

  Bannon stopped, and the heat traveled from his face to his neck.

  Go in, you ninny!

  Do shut up, Timothy. Have you forgotten all about propriety? Never mind. What am I saying? You’ve never cared for it anyway. Bannon peeked in the door again, being careful not to open it farther, and spotted Ciaran’s wide shoulders—wide, muscular, and wet shoulders. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Er, yes?” Dust! Squeaky voices were just as unflattering.

  “Come in and close the door. Unless, of course, ye have Louisa with ye,” Ciaran said without turning.

  “Um, no, it’s just me, but really, it can wait. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Ye arenae disturbing me.”

  Torn between curiosity and propriety, Bannon bit his bottom lip. What now? Perhaps he could just stay where he was and talk.

  “But do come in—ye are causing a draft.”

  So much for staying at the door. Oh well, he’d never really paid attention to propriety anyway. And he had something on his mind he needed to get off his chest. After closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and took another deep breath. He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it closed.

  Egads. Never had a bath looked so… enticing. The sight was so intimate, it made Bannon’s heart race.

  Ciaran sat in a large hip tub—like Bannon had read about in history books—but rather than metal, it was made of wooden slats, like a bucket, only it was oblong rather than round. It must have held at least a hundred gallons, but even as big as it was, Ciaran was bigger. His wide shoulders barely fit in the confined space, and his knees stuck up out of the water like mountain peaks rising over the clouds. Both had a sheen of dampness covering them. Tanned skin hinted that he worked outside without a shirt at times, and galaxy, how Bannon wanted to see that. The ends of his black hair were damp, hanging down his back, and one rounded deltoid had a ragged angry red slash across the side of it.