“What is…?” The hand and Red’s warmth disappeared. “Is that Marc…. Hey wait, are Marcus and Patrick back yet?”
Marcus and Patrick? What? Ciaran blinked his eyes open, and he heard what had garnered Red’s attention.
The loud crank and rattle of chains echoed on the breeze as the portcullis was raised.
Red passed to the front of the battlements facing south. Ciaran joined him.
From this tower, the portcullis could not be seen, but they did have an unimpeded view of the courtyard.
A lone man with a horse and a wagon headed toward the front gate. It was late. Most of the castle was asleep, and the village was dark. Only two torches lit the courtyard at this time of night. The only real activity was on the south tower, where the men were watching the cattle. Ciaran glanced across to the other tower, but it too was quiet. He could just make out the top of one of his warrior’s head.
“Probably Stuart visiting his lady love again.”
The horse disappeared under the bridge leading across the gatehouse, and Ciaran frowned down at the wagon. The wagon was covered with a brown hide tarp. As Stuart passed into the shadows under the brick bridge, the tarp moved.
“Did you see that?”
“Aye.” And he did not have a good feeling about it. His first thought was Ian and Fiona…. This was exactly something they’d do. Steal away so they could blab to everyone where Stuart was going.
Red glanced back at him. “What do you think is in the wagon?”
They were close, so close Ciaran could kiss him, but the mood was ruined. In the place of anticipation and excitement resided leeriness. The hair on Ciaran’s arms stood on end. “I dinna ken, but something tells me we better find out.”
§ § § §
“That old man has a hell of a libido,” Bannon said as he sat on his horse, waiting for the portcullis to be raised to allow him and Ciaran to pass. He’d had a bad feeling when he’d seen that tarp move. Ciaran thought it was Fiona and Ian, but Bannon wasn’t so sure. The two were wild and daring, but what would they gain from spying on Stuart? Unless they thought to blackmail him into getting the council off Ciaran’s back. Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea. Bannon wished he’d thought of it.
Ciaran gave a half chuckle, half snort. “Or he’s up tae something.”
Ah-ha! I’m not the only one who thinks there is something fishy going on.
The steel bars rose enough for them to pass, and they rode out under it side by side. Ciaran raised his hand, thanking the warrior up in the gatehouse.
The man waved back, and the rattle of chains started up again as the gate was lowered.
Stuart was a good twenty minutes ahead of them by the time they’d climbed down from the tower, gotten their horses saddled, and waited for the gate to be opened again. But they knew where he was going, so it shouldn’t be too hard to follow.
The hooves of their horses clicking on the wooden drawbridge sparked Bannon’s imagination just as it did every time he heard it. He could almost pretend he was a knight of old, except without the shiny metal armor. And really that was the best part. Well, and the handsome lords vying for the knight’s favor.
“I thought you said you feared Fiona and Ian were in the cart?”
“Aye, that tae, but why does he take a cart tae visit his lover? Wouldnae it be easier tae hide a horse?”
“Why not walk? It’s not that far to the seamstress’s house. He doesn’t seem that frail.”
“Nae, he isna.”
They rode out toward the village in companionable silence, both searching their surroundings but not encountering anyone. The village was quiet, much as it had been last night when they’d come back from the base. It was quaint, like a picturesque fairy-tale village, with thatched roofs on the cottages and small fenced-in yards. A few even had flower boxes on the windows. It reminded Bannon of the village around Eversleigh Manor, only there the roads were cobblestone instead of dirt. One could almost forget the harshness of Skye looking at this place—if they had indoor plumbing. The stench of excrement was… well, not at all pleasant. The sweet floral scent just couldn’t compete. Bannon made a mental note to underline instruction manuals on indoor plumbing on his bring-back list… twice. He could live without electricity and even computers, but he had to do something about the garderobe. One should not feel air on one’s arse while using the necessary.
Going down the main thoroughfare, they made a right at a cross street and another left at the next intersection, until they reached a barnlike structure. This was not the way Bannon remembered to the seamstress’s shoppe.
Ciaran stopped in front of the barn and got off Horace.
Bannon followed and caught up to him as he reached a small door on the side of the building. “Where are we?”
“The public stables.”
Oh. Well, that made sense. Stuart would need to leave his horse and wagon somewhere. “It seems like an awful lot of trouble for a piece of arse.” Oops! Timothy’s words flew right out his mouth.
Ciaran’s lip twitched at the statement, but he did not smile. In fact, he looked more tense. “Aye, it certainly does.”
They walked into a dimly lit stable. This was nothing like the stables at Lochwood Castle. It was small with only six stalls. There was a space for a wagon or a carriage, but there was nothing in that space. All six stalls were filled, though.
Ciaran walked down the aisle of stalls, looking into each one. When he got to the last, he turned back toward Bannon. “His horse is nae here.”
“Well, neither is his wagon.”
Ciaran raised a brow.
“Just saying….” Bannon shrugged. “Is there another stable house?”
“Nae, nae in the village.” They left the stables and got back on their horses. Reversing their route, they got back to the main road and turned right. They passed the furrier and the tavern and stopped in front of the seamstress’s shoppe. They rode all around the shoppe, but there was no sign of a horse or a wagon. All the windows were dark.
“Perhaps it isn’t the seamstress he’s seeing?” Bannon asked as he stopped Flùr next to Ciaran and Horace.
Ciaran shook his head, staring at the shoppe as though he could see through the walls. “The Widow Goodwin is the only single woman in the middle of the village.”
“Maybe he’s not seeing a woman? Maybe he’s seeing a man.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Why do people do anything?” Bannon shrugged. “Maybe they went somewhere together?” There was only one way to find out. The sooner they solved this mystery, the sooner they could go back to Lochwood Castle and…. Heat raced up Bannon’s neck into his face. He definitely wanted to go back to Lochwood Castle.
If you hadn’t been so focused on talking to Marcus and Patrick about the plan to get into the base, you’d still be at the castle and likely naked, Timothy pointed out.
Bannon got off Flùr and walked right up to the door.
“What are ye doing?” Ciaran asked.
Bannon handed his reins to Ciaran and grinned. “I’m going to find out if he’s here.”
“But….”
Bannon strode up to the cottage door and knocked on it.
Some rustling sounded from inside. A light flared to life in the window as though someone lit a match. Did they have matches? Bannon didn’t think so. Perhaps flint. He added matches or a lighter to his mental list of things he needed to get from Regelence. After a few more thumps and some creaking, the door opened.
An older woman stood there with a candle in an old-fashioned brass holder. She held a plaid over her shoulders and her hair was all pulled up into a white cap. One of those that looked like a muffin top. Louie’s mom wore one like it to bed, but her cap was a lot lumpier because she wore curlers under it. This woman did not appear to be wearing curlers. “Can I help ye?” she asked in a soft, much too pleasant voice for someone who’d been awakened from sleep.
“Is Stuart….” Bannon glanced back at C
iaran, who was staring at him incredulously. “What’s Stuart’s surname?”
Ciaran’s mouth dropped open, then snapped back shut. “MacKay.”
“MacKay? Is everyone in the clan named MacKay?” He’d never thought about it, but they were the clan MacKay, so maybe all of them did have the same surname. Probably something he should find out if he was going to live here.
Ciaran shook his head. “Nae, but Stuart is my great uncle or fourth cousin or something.”
“Oh.” Bannon nodded. “Okay, that makes sense.”
Ciaran’s incredulousness turned to amusement. His lips turned up at the corners, and wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes.
Bannon turned back to the woman. “Is Stuart MacKay here?”
The seamstress looked almost as humored as Ciaran. “Nae, lad, why would Stuart MacKay be here?”
“Aren’t you… I mean isn’t he…? Aren’t the two of you courting?”
The widow’s eyes widened, and then she smiled. “Och, lad, he must be eighty.”
So was she…. “So that’s a no?”
“Nae, lad, I have nae seen Stuart MacKay in probably a fortnight.”
A fortnight? But…. Bannon turned back to Ciaran.
Ciaran’s scowl grew. He raised a hand, looking right past Bannon. “Thank ye, Mrs. Goodwin. Sorry tae have disturbed ye.”
The door shut behind Bannon, and that horrible sick feeling swamped him again. He went back to Flùr and slung up into the saddle. “The last time we ran into Stuart, he said he was coming from the Widow Goodwin’s, right?”
“Aye.” Ciaran wheeled Horace around back down the main street.
They rode side by side down the middle of the dirt road.
Bannon tried to remember the circumstances of the meeting. He’d come up behind them as they’d come from the base, heading to the castle. He’d had a wagon that night too, but the wagon had not been covered. “Didn’t livestock go missing the next morning?”
Ciaran pulled up short. He looked at Bannon and frowned. “Chickens.” He shook his head, dropping it down to stare at his hands wrapped around the reins, then groaned. “Come on.” He heeled Horace and took off at a run.
“Wait!” Bannon squeezed his knees together, and Flùr took off after them. “Wait, I think we are thinking the same thing, but where are we going?”
“Tae the MacLeans’ stronghold,” Ciaran called over his shoulder.
Damn, maybe he should have brought a fragger. Bannon leaned down over Flùr’s neck. He caught up to Ciaran, and together they rode side by side. It was exhilarating, with the wind whipping through his hair and on his face. It reminded him of running through the moors at home, but here it was so much more exciting. Probably because the land was more rugged and dangerous. Dust, but he really should have brought a fragger.
They rode full-out for several moments, and then Ciaran came to an abrupt halt. He held his hand up, asking for silence.
And how odd was it that Bannon was starting to respond to hand signals. He’d seen the Royal Guards use them, but he’d never thought he’d one day use them as well.
They stopped right before the pass that would take them to the base and to the MacLeans, and Ciaran pulled his sword from his back.
Bannon held his breath and listened. The sound of voices broke through the quiet night, making Bannon’s heart skip a beat. That strange tingling he’d felt earlier tonight when he’d spotted the man on horseback and then the man on the tower started up again. Everything in his being said they should flee.
Ciaran’s shoulders stiffened in front of him, then slowly relaxed. He clucked his tongue and started moving again.
For several moments, Bannon debated following him or going back for reinforcements, but then he, too, got moving again.
They rounded a huge rock formation in the middle of the pass, and there sat the wagon and horse. Along with two other horses. Off to the side stood three men illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the clouds.
Ciaran put his sword away and recognition dawned. It was Stuart, Marcus, and Patrick. They were staring at something on the ground, and… Bannon sniffed. What was that horrible smell? It was faint, but… ewww.
Had Marcus and Patrick stopped Stuart? They rode up close, and Ciaran swung down from Horace and went to where the others were standing.
That uneasy feeling creeping up Bannon’s spine increased, and he looked around, studying their surroundings.
Something in the wagon moved. There were thuds like… hooves? Bannon ignored the four men and rode up to the wagon. He got off Flùr and went right up to it. He lifted the heavy leather and came face-to-face with a pair of dark brown eyes. The white face peeked out at him, pushing through the leather until a nose was uncovered. Another white face joined the first, then another nose poked out between the leather and the wood sideboard of the wagon on the other side of the first head. Sheep.
Bannon closed the leather flap and fastened it back to the wagon, then went to tell Ciaran the bad news. “Ciaran?”
Ciaran didn’t even respond. He stood there with his head down.
Bannon glanced around at the other men, noting their similar postures. They stared at a large black spot on the ground, where someone had obviously made a fire. There was still wisps of smoke, the fire had obviously been recent, and that awful smell was stronger. It smelled like….
Bannon shook his head and pinched his nose. “Ciaran?”
This time Ciaran turned to look at him. His face was pale even in the moonlight, and his eyes looked haunted. In his hands he held a piece of cloth—a burned piece of cloth.
“This wasn’t the IN. It doesn’t fit their MO,” Patrick said.
Looking closer at the fire on the ground, Bannon spotted branches or….
His knees buckled, and his stomach swooped. He swallowed hard, staring at the long cylindrical things in the middle of the burned ground. He stopped next to Ciaran and glanced at Marcus, Patrick, and Stuart. They all wore identical expressions of grief. He met Ciaran’s gaze and watched the sadness turn to anger.
Still holding his nose, Bannon pointed with his free hand at the charred mess on the ground. “Are those bones?” His voice came out as little more than a whisper.
Ciaran nodded. “Our missing men.” He held up the fabric.
It was a piece of MacKay plaid.
Bannon turned away from the circle and promptly cast up his accounts.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Artists and authors are liars! Or perhaps they are just propagandists, because honorable war scenes just do not capture the true nature of death. They should all be forced to witness the real thing before subjecting their audience to a rendition of the horrible event.”
—Timothy on the public image of death.
Ciaran fought his way through the grief and the guilt. He’d put the men in danger, and he’d do it again because it had been necessary, but it still gnawed at him. Even knowing they’d been killed shortly after they disappeared, he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been something he could have done to prevent this. Just like the night his father was killed. If he’d only sent better instructions, better intel.
Patrick squeezed his shoulder. “It could have been any of us. It could have been me, you, Marcus, and Bannon when we went to surveil the base. It could have been Marcus and I just tonight.”
“Nae.” Ciaran shook his head. “I dinna believe that. My men made a mistake. Which means, as their leader, I made a mistake. I dinna prepare them properly.” He’d failed as a chieftain… again. He glanced down at the piece of tartan in his hand, and something inside him ignited. His resolve cleared. This was the last time he’d fail to protect his people.
“My men too.” Patrick squeezed his shoulder again. “There are ten bodies here. This is both of our men, and I didn’t fail them. You didn’t fail them. We have no idea of knowing what they faced.”
“How do we know they just weren’t overwhelmed? The IN has better weapons. And more men
,” Marcus said.
Red walked up beside him, looking pale and fragile.
Ciaran had wanted to go to him when he’d been sick. He’d wanted to hug him and swear it’d be all right, but he knew Red would not want his sympathy. He’d see it as pity and an affront to his manhood. Even still, he could not help but ask, “Are ye a’right?” He couldn’t quite banish the urge to reach out and take Red’s hand, so he did. He told himself it was because Red needed the comfort, but he knew better. He knew damned well which of them needed that reassuring contact.
Red must have sensed it too, because when Ciaran’s hand touched his, Red gripped it, holding on for dear life. The tension around Ciaran’s neck intent on paralyzing him released just a bit. Air flowed into his lungs, releasing the stranglehold on his throat.
With an aggravated growl, Stuart ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. The old man looked at least ten years older than he had this afternoon. His hands shook, and his voice was strangled and hoarse. “Patrick has it aright, lad. This wasnae ye fault. If it was anyone’s fault, it was the council’s.” He raised his head finally, meeting Ciaran’s gaze. He grimaced, then quickly averted his gaze and stared down at his feet. When he spoke again, his voice wavered. “We undermined ye authority every chance we got. Had we just listened, ye wouldnae had tae send such a small band of men.”
“I agree with Patrick,” Red whispered.
Ciaran glanced down at him, only seeing the top of his tousled head, but his hand still held tight to Ciaran’s.
Red looked so small at the moment, staring at the burned remains of their men. He stared as if unseeing, as if he wanted to crawl away and lick his wounds, but then his back stiffened. That steel composure seemed to slide up his backbone, inch by inch, until his stubborn chin rose. “I think Patrick was right in what he said before.”
Respect and something else simmered inside Ciaran. Och, but he loved Red’s strength. “What do ye mean?”
“I don’t think this was the IN.” He pointed at the cloth in Ciaran’s hand. “Where did you get that? Why didn’t it burn?”
My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5 Page 25