Smiling, Ciaran walked to him and put two fingers under Bannon’s chin, raising it. He leaned down and brushed a sweet kiss against his lips, his hand lingering on Bannon’s chin. “And thank ye fer that.” He tilted his head toward the bath.
Bannon swallowed the lump in his throat. Embarrassment tried to take over, but he forced it out. He was not ashamed of what had happened. In fact, he wanted to repeat the experience. “You are welcome. Thank you. Think we can do it again?”
“Ye bet.” With another kiss, Ciaran dropped his hand. “Go get ready tae leave. Meet us at the stables.”
Bannon nodded, feeling humbled and pleased that Ciaran trusted him so much. He turned and headed toward the door, but just as he opened it, Ciaran spoke again.
“Watch out fer the bogle in the great hall, lad.”
§ § § §
The building was only one story, but it looked rather menacing. Concentrating on the wall next to the wood door, Marcus adjusted his spyglass. It was hard to tell in the moonlight and the fire torches surrounding the building, but the exterior looked to be native limestone. The roof was not thatched, like most one-story buildings, but tiled shingles. All the materials made it seem as though it belonged, but the design just did not look right. There were no windows or chimneys. Both were necessities here on Skye with the absence of technology. How would they get light? Warmth in the winter?
“Where are the generators, do you think?” Marcus held out his spyglass to Bannon, who lay on his stomach on the ground next to him. After a few seconds, when Bannon didn’t take it, Marcus glanced over at him.
Bannon squinted up at the cliff, the spot of Patrick’s and Ciaran’s original observation, and the place from where their men had presumably disappeared. Patrick had thought it best if they used a new location and stayed farther back, so Marcus and Bannon were on the ground in a copse of trees on the west side of the building. So far it was a pretty solid plan, since they had not been attacked yet. However, Patrick and Ciaran had gone to have a look at the old site and see if there were any clues as to what happened to their men.
“Bannon?”
Startled, Bannon jerked his gaze to Marcus, then the spyglass extended toward him. “Sorry.” He took the spyglass, but instead of studying the building with it, he aimed it toward the cliff.
“It’s okay. Do you see them?”
“No.” Bannon’s lips pinched together, but he kept looking.
“They’re probably on their way back here.”
With a sigh, Bannon nodded, giving Marcus his attention. “I should have gone with Patrick instead of Ciaran. I’m much better with a fragger.”
“Yes, you are, but Patrick is even better. He can make do with Ciaran.”
“Right.” Bannon grinned and trained the glass on the building. “This is a base. It doesn’t look like any of the bases on Regelence, but it’s a base. Why else would they be building more buildings so close and the stone wall?”
There were several more foundations around the area, and the start of a stone wall. The wall looked very much like the wall of Lochwood Castle and Ellenwine Castle, which was the Campbells’ stronghold, for that matter. The wall would be about twelve feet high once completed.
“I agree. Which means there are bound to be generators. But where?”
“Underground?” Bannon frowned and pulled the spyglass down to look at Marcus.
Marcus nodded. “Possible. Do you think—”
Rustling came from behind them, and they both turned to their sides to have a look. Marcus touched the fragger beside him and noticed Bannon doing the same.
Breathing hard, Patrick and Ciaran rode into the trees and slid off their horses, leaving them well under the canopy of leaves, next to the other two horses. Both men were looking up as they made their way to Marcus’s and Bannon’s sides.
Releasing his death grip on his fragger, Marcus peered through the trees, and that was when he heard the low hum of engines.
A ship was approaching the base. It took several moments before he could make out the outline of the craft against the clouds above. Though the ship was bigger than most transport shuttles, it was not fit for long space travel, so it must have come off of a much bigger ship.
“Everyone be still,” Patrick said as he lay next to Marcus. “I highly doubt they have motion detectors or heat sensors on board. That is a cargo shuttle from a carrier, but be still and quiet anyway.”
Marcus started to tell him he was the one talking, but refrained. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure whether he could talk at the moment anyway. This was the most excitement he’d had in ages. His heart raced and his palms were sweaty. He even got a tingly sensation on the backs of his arms. Galaxy, he hoped like the very devil that Patrick was right in his assumption about the lack of extra sensors. His leg was better after Agatha gave him some herbs, but he was not fit to run, or even get up all that fast, for that matter. Cursed leg.
The shuttle got closer, and the lights went on, but it wasn’t the normal bright lights that nearly blinded those on the ground. It was dim and focused solely on the ground in front of the craft, and it had not turned on as soon as most. They were obviously using the ship’s navigation and autopilot. At least he hoped that was the case, because if not, they were using the gauges and sensors, like infrared, motion detection, and sound.
When the ship set down a few yards away from the building, Marcus held his breath. There were no markings on the ship. He wasn’t even sure it was an IN vessel. They still had no proof it was IN, even though they knew it was.
He waited for the doors to open and for soldiers to rush out, or for them to come flooding out of the building, but that didn’t happen. Thank the stars!
A couple of men in black shirts and pants stepped out of the building, but their focus was entirely on the ship, not their surroundings.
The door of the ship opened with a hydraulic hiss, and the lights on the front of the ship went dark. It took several moments for Marcus’s eyes to adjust, but he made out two men walking down the gangway.
A gasp sounded beside Marcus, and he felt Patrick stiffen next to him. Anger practically radiated off him. He vibrated with it.
“What is it?”
Instead of answering him, Patrick reached past him and snapped his fingers at Bannon, who was peering through the spyglass, but Bannon didn’t hand it over. He was totally focused on the men, and his body had stiffened as well.
Bloody hell, what did they both see that Marcus didn’t? “What?” he whispered.
Finally after a few seconds, as well as several more snaps and hand gestures to turn the glass over, Patrick said, “I think I know that man.”
“Well, I do know him,” Bannon answered without removing the spyglass.
“I’m going to throttle both of you if you don’t tell us who you think they are,” Marcus gritted out.
“I second that,” Ciaran whispered. “What is going on?”
“That man on the left is an IN intelligence operative. His name is…. Well, he’s gone by the name Caldwell and something else. I don’t actually know what his real name is, but he posed as Tarren’s valet.”
“Who is Tarren?” Ciaran wanted to know.
Marcus glanced at Ciaran, who lay on the other side of Bannon.
“He’s a Regelence prince,” Marcus answered, remembering the vivacious toddler he’d last seen over fifteen years ago. He’d been a happy boy. What was he like now? He must be nearly eighteen now. And why was this the first time they were hearing about this? “The man posed as Tarren’s valet?”
Bannon nodded, making the telescope bob up and down. “That is how we found out about the IN’s plot. I thought I told you about it. With the weapons going missing, and then Aiden and, er, Trouble getting kidnapped?”
“Oh, right.” Aiden and his stepson. He hadn’t mentioned that he had been Tarren’s valet, though.
Marcus turned back to the scene, and a hand darted past his head and snatched the glass from Bannon.
<
br /> “Bloody hell,” Patrick hissed. “I don’t know his real name either, but his code name is Gabriel, and the man beside him is Admiral William Roth, admiral of intelligence, code name Michael.”
A shiver raced up Marcus’s spine, and he glanced over at his consort just as Patrick lowered the glass. Roth’s men had been the ones sent to kill them. It was only a miracle that they’d ended up here on Skye instead of in a grave. They owed that thanks to Admiral Jenkins. “I guess there is our proof that it has been the IN attacking Skye.”
“Yeah,” Patrick mumbled.
After that everyone got really quiet. So much for their proof. It seemed hopeless, because the IN was so big, and there just wasn’t much they could do, stuck on Skye….
A group of men dressed in plaid hurried out of the building and into the ship.
“Let me see the glass.” Marcus grabbed the spyglass from Patrick.
More men came out of the base when the first group emerged from the shuttle a few moments later, carrying a crate. Then, like clockwork, more men came and retrieved more crates. A few of the men were dressed in black, but most wore plaid. MacLean plaid.
Patrick sucked in a breath.
Ciaran whispered, “Bugger.”
The inevitable finally hit Marcus. “We may have to break in there before they get the gate up.”
Everyone stared at him, but no one said anything.
Bannon’s eyes widened, Ciaran just stared at him, and Patrick….
Well, Patrick seemed to be thinking it over and forming a plan. He had his deep-thought face on. His brow furrowed and his lips pursed. Galaxy bless him. It was no wonder Marcus loved him so much. Finally he nodded.
“Why risk it?” Bannon asked. “Why not just wait till we are rescued and let King Steven and King-Consort Raleigh deal with it?”
Marcus’s heart thudded harder, and a sinking feeling settled in his gut. He’d been avoiding the truth, lying to himself, but now…. He couldn’t keep pretending. “Because I can’t make a satellite to contact Regelence. There just aren’t enough of the right materials. It was a miracle I was able to make chargers for the fraggers.”
No one said anything for several moments, and then Patrick rested his hand in the middle of Marcus’s back. A show of comfort and support. “We need to do more surveillance before we plan an infiltration.”
“We can use MacLean plaid,” Ciaran offered.
Again things fell silent as they all watched the men move crates, but Marcus was aware of Bannon wilting beside him. His heart ached for him. Marcus knew all too well what it was like to be away from his home with very little chance of getting back. At least he’d had Patrick with him. Reaching over, he covered Bannon’s hand with his.
Bannon squeezed his fingers. “I still think Captain Kindros will show up looking for me….” He winced, then amended, “For survivors.”
Marcus smiled. At least he was trying to look on the bright side, but Marcus didn’t have much faith in any IN, even the supposed good guys.
After that, everyone seemed to get lost in their own head as they watched the goings-on in front of them. At least thirty crates were offloaded before the shuttle left. There was no sign of their men, but they’d ascertained that the IN was responsible and that the MacLeans were involved. The question was, now what? Could Marcus get inside and send a message to Steven?
Marcus was still pondering it as they rode toward Lochwood Castle.
They crossed through the village and slowed their pace, not wanting to draw attention to themselves.
Lochwood Village was a typical Skye village. There were businesses on the one main road leading to the castle, with residences scattered around farther from the castle gates. Everything was spaced several yards apart, for privacy or perhaps safety. The roofs were thatched, and if one caught fire… well, it wouldn’t take long for them to all go up. The more space between would likely slow the inevitable disaster down.
The small village was dark this time of night. Even the tavern was quiet, if not for a few chickens and sheep inside small paddocks beside some of the homes. A soft breeze rattled some leaves blown in from the wood nearby. It was oddly comforting, but it reminded Marcus a bit of a ghost town or what he assumed a ghost town would look like from his reading. They passed the local furrier, with the skins flying nearly off the racks and back down like a flag flapping. The blacksmith’s forge was still surrounded by warmth, though the fire had long since gone out. The crudely drawn sign, with a needle and thread over the seamstress’s shoppe, swung on its chains, and somewhere close by a dog barked. After all these years, Marcus was still not used to the absence of an electrical hum or the soft swish of a lift going by on a cobblestone street. The soft thud of horse hooves was familiar, but….
There was another, quieter, clip-clop of hooves along with theirs. And what was that creaking?
The familiar groan of leather filled the air around them as they all turned to locate the other horse.
Ciaran hissed out, “Shite.”
Then Marcus spotted the old man.
He was in a one-horse wagon just turning onto the main road leading toward the castle. He’d come from between the blacksmith’s forge and seamstress’s cottage that they’d just passed. The man caught sight of them too and pulled up short. “Whoa.”
They stared at him, and he stared at them for several moments before the man resumed his pace. He pulled up to them and stopped again.
It was one of the council members. Marcus couldn’t remember his name, but he’d seen the old man before. His trim gray beard and shoulder-length silver hair with a braid started at his right temple. He’d once been a large man, but age had given him stooped shoulders that sort of rounded in, making him appear much smaller. He glanced at all of them, and then his gaze settled on Ciaran. “Ye werenae spying on the MacLeans, were ye?”
Ciaran shook his head.
The old man studied him for a moment, then looked around at the rest of them. Finally he said, “Guid. Then I dinna have tae mention it tae the rest of the council, and ye will nae mention me visiting the Widow Goodwin.” He nodded and clicked his tongue and shook his reins.
Marcus had to move his horse before getting run over by the clattering wagon. He stared at the old man’s retreating back with a smirk on his face, then turned back to Ciaran, who was clearly dumbfounded.
Ciaran shook his head. “What was that?”
Patrick started chuckling and clicked his tongue and heeled his horse, riding past all of them.
Bannon shrugged.
Grinning, Marcus wheeled his horse around to follow his consort but not before he said, “I think you have an ally in the council now.” Which would make their new plan to infiltrate the base so much easier.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Stepping on a ripe tomato is like stepping on a giant bug napping on top of a banana peel. Yuck! Sitting on a squished tomato? I don’t want to talk about it!”
—Timothy on gardening.
May 29, 4831: Lochwood Castle
Bannon looked up from loosening the dirt around a broken bean plant, rested his hands on the handle of the hoe, and marveled at the sun filtering through the gray clouds. The rays stretched through the treetops and reached for the ground. It made the morning appear mystical and fresh, but it was awfully warm out.
A gentle breeze did nothing but rattle the leaves in the trees. The woods seemed to soak up the sounds of clan life, like the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer and the thwack of the maids beating out the rushes, that Bannon had begun to associate with life here on Skye. It was peaceful. Too peaceful, and it made his mind whirl. Mindless work always did. At home he used to think of far-off places and adventures or iron out compositions, but here and now, he was worried about raiding the base.
Talk about irony. Timothy snorted. Shouldn’t we be worried about getting home?
Raiding the base might get us home.
Instead he wondered where Captain Kindros was. She would come back, h
e knew she would. He just needed a way to let her know where he was. Like a signal, because if they broke into the base, people were going to die. Ciaran could die. A pang of grief hit Bannon in the chest. He couldn’t let that happen.
Glancing up at the clouds, hoping to spot the Lady Anna, he wiped some sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and… ewww! He’d forgotten that he’d rolled up his sleeves. Leaning the hoe against his chest, he proceeded to wipe the back of his forearm on his shirt. Only there wasn’t any easy way to do that—a contortionist he wasn’t—so he ended up wiping it off under his armpit, which was also wet. Ugh!
Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Bannon flapped his arms to get them dry, which did not work that well. The only thing it accomplished was to make the hoe fall forward right toward the delicate bean plants he was trying to repair. He made a grab for the handle and missed. Big mistake! He’d committed to the reach and lost his balance. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Tuck and roll! Timothy shouted at him. No, wait, throw yourself backwards! Or sideways? Go sideways!
Before he could decide which direction to respond to, a smooth, deep chuckle sounded behind him, and Ciaran grabbed him around the waist.
Somehow one foot went forward and the other went back. He stepped on the hoe with his right foot and something squishy with his left. His back landed with a thud against Ciaran’s hard chest and the hoe handle flew toward him.
Panic seized him, and he threw out both arms to catch it, but his momentum carried him back farther, and he ended up sliding down Ciaran’s body till he hit the dirt and the squishy thing with his bottom.
The handle stopped a foot from his head, and Ciaran’s chuckle turned into outright laughter.
Groaning, Bannon let himself lean against Ciaran’s legs. Now his arse was wet too. How did he get himself into these situations? Honestly, he had more talent in clumsiness than he had in painting. And that was saying a lot, because he was the best painter he knew. Actually, Aiden was just as good, and Louie was close, but that was beside the point. “What am I sitting on?” He raised his head and peered up at Ciaran, who was still cackling like a loon.
My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5 Page 19