My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5

by J. L. Langley

  “He found it.” Patrick flipped his chin toward Stuart.

  They all turned to Stuart, and the old man pointed to a shrub behind him. The thistle looked out of place in this harsh and craggy landscape where there was more rock than earth. Grass and weeds peeked up from between rocks and on ledges all around the cliffs that surrounded them, but the lone thistle looked as though it should have been trampled. “It was tied tae that thistle.”

  “So a sign. Someone wanted you to know this was your men. That isn’t how the IN operates. They would have killed the men and buried them, or burned them in the base. They would not have drawn attention to it.” Red sounded so sure of himself, but Ciaran shook his head.

  Clenching the fabric in his fist, Ciaran closed his eyes for a moment. This had been left here as a message, but he didn’t agree with Red. “It was a warning tae leave them be.”

  “No.” Red shook his head and looked at Patrick. “Everything they’ve done so far has been in secret. They don’t want to draw attention to themselves. They do not realize we are onto them.”

  “Of course they do.”

  Again Red shook his head. “No, they don’t. If they did, they’d declare an all-out war. They have superior fire power. They may know that the clans on Skye know, but they don’t know that Regelence and Englor realize their game. They don’t know that we have Patrick and Marcus.”

  Marcus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, leaning more on Patrick, as though his leg were bothering him. It probably was, since he’d been in the saddle. “Bannon’s logic is sound. That isn’t how they operate. They don’t do intimidation tactics—they destroy. I think this was the MacLeans.”

  “Doing so under the IN’s authority?” Ciaran asked.

  Red shrugged, his shoulder making Ciaran’s arm move. Then he dropped Ciaran’s hand and pointed at Stuart. “I don’t know. Why don’t we ask him.”

  Stuart looked away, his shoulders stooped, making him look frail. He stood perfectly still, then muttered something under his breath.

  “What?” Ciaran asked.

  But it wasn’t Stuart who answered; it was Red.

  “He has sheep in the wagon. He’s the one who has been stealing the livestock.”

  Och, but Ciaran had totally forgotten about the wagon and the moving tarp. He tried to make sense of it. He’d wanted so badly to think it was Ian and Fiona playing a trick.

  The tension in the air grew so thick, it was nearly suffocating. All of them stared at Stuart, waiting for an answer, but he didn’t deny it.

  After the cattle raid, Ciaran had known for sure those were their cattle, and after seeing the MacLeans helping the IN move things at the base, a blind rage overtook him. It empowered him with what felt like superhuman strength. Everything around him fell away until there was nothing but Stuart. He did not even stop to think. He couldn’t.

  In hindsight, he should have pulled his sword and been done with it, but his entire focus narrowed, and he could see nothing, feel nothing, but the need to strangle the life out of the man who’d betrayed him, betrayed their clan. Grabbing Stuart by the throat with both hands, Ciaran lifted him off the ground.

  He watched as the man’s face turned a mottled gray and his eyes seemed to bulge.

  “Ciaran! Stop!” The voice came from a distance, as if the sound was coming from a well and rose in volume as it got closer. Someone started pulling at his arm.

  “Ciaran, there’s been enough violence already. Let him go. Please.” Red’s plea cut through him. He tried to ignore it, but something in the soft cadence, the desperation, stopped him, cutting through him like nothing else could. He became aware of the hands pulling on him. They were quite strong and persistent.

  “He’s not even fighting you back. Let him go.”

  Ciaran looked up at Stuart’s pale face and realized Red was right. Stuart hung limply in his hands. Releasing the council member, Ciaran watched him crumble at his feet.

  Stuart grabbed his throat and coughed, never even looking up at Ciaran.

  Red released Ciaran’s arm like he’d been burned. His face was nearly as white as Stuart’s.

  Ciaran was aware of Marcus and Patrick standing huddled together, just watching, but he could not look away from Red. Red’s lips were pressed tight, and he blinked over and over as if he were in shock. The fear and disappointment were clear. He looked exhausted. Ciaran should try to talk to him, try to explain, but instead he turned toward Stuart, who now looked up at him, and said, “If ye try tae run, I will cut ye in half.”

  § § § §

  Ciaran stood in his solar, staring at the fire as the council argued behind him. They’d ridden back to Lochwood Castle in total silence. Now here he stood, with the council yelling at one another. Or maybe they were yelling at him. He didn’t care. He was not changing his mind about Stuart. The man deserved to be in the dungeon. He’d betrayed his clan. The question was, how many other council members were in on it? He turned around and met Patrick’s gaze.

  Patrick stood right behind the chair where Stuart sat with his head in his hands. Ciaran had asked Patrick to be here, to guard Stuart and for moral support. Patrick gave Ciaran a nod, letting him know he had his help.

  Ciaran wasn’t sure how much help that would be, but he appreciated it all the same. Nodding back, he stepped forward, away from the fire, directing his gaze around the room at the council.

  Maggie stood behind Ciaran’s desk like she had every right to be there, with her hands on the hardwood surface, yelling down Frasier, who stood across from her in almost the exact pose.

  Sitting on the love seat, Gavin had turned his body sideways to pay attention to the main match in the room—Maggie and Frasier. Owen sat in the chair next to Stuart. When he caught Ciaran looking at him, he too gave a nod, then went back to watching the other inhabitants in the room.

  Rubbing his temples, Ciaran said in a normal voice, “Silence.”

  Gavin and Owen turned toward him. Stuart looked up from his woe-is-me act, and Maggie gave the desk one last thump and called Frasier a numpty, and yelled, “I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug!”

  Despite his mood, Ciaran’s lips twitched. He’d love to see Maggie slap Frasier upside the head. He’d put his money on Maggie in that fight.

  Frasier saw his reaction and immediately turned on Ciaran, jabbed a beefy finger in his direction, and said, “This is ye fault! Ye got those men killed. We told ye tae leave the MacLeans be.”

  “Stop ye yelling. We can hear ye just fine, Frasier,” Owen said.

  Surprisingly, Frasier seemed to relax a little. He still looked like a puffed-up rooster, but when he spoke again, his voice was more at a normal level. “Ye job is tae provide fer this clan, nae start wars.”

  “My job is tae make sure the clan is safe, and that is exactly what I’ve been doing.”

  “By starting a war with the MacLeans?” Gavin asked with a snort.

  Ciaran ignored him. “I dinna start this with the MacLeans. They started it by killing our men. I will finish it.”

  Maggie sighed and walked around the desk. She rested her hip on the edge of it and crossed her arms over her chest. She looked as tired and bone-weary as Ciaran felt. “Are we sure the MacLeans are working with this IN? Could they have been acting on their own?”

  Ciaran shook his head, but before he could answer, Stuart interrupted. “Aye, they are workin’ together.” He sat up in his chair. He started to stand, but a hand on his shoulder from Patrick made him think better of it. He sat there and looked at each of them. When his gaze got to Ciaran, he lowered his eyes again. “I made a pact with the MacLeans tae keep the clan safe. If I gave them food tae help feed the men at the base, they would make sure that our clan was left alone.”

  Ciaran stared at him with incredulity. “And ye believed this? Ye thought the MacLeans could protect us from the IN? Ye’ve seen what their weapons can do. Ye ken how many men we’ve lost tae them. Fer godsakes, this isna even about the MacLeans.” Though he would get
revenge on the MacLeans as well.

  Stuart looked up and met his gaze finally. “They have nae reason tae hurt us now. They have their land and their base, as ye call it.” The fool actually believed what he was saying.

  Shaking his head, Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose and looked up at Patrick.

  Patrick didn’t react one way or another, but Ciaran knew him well enough to know he was marveling over the idiocy too.

  Och, but he felt as though he were talking to children. Ciaran shifted his weight and put one hand on his hip and dropped his hand from his face.

  “None of us started this war, but we must finish it. The IN will nae stop. They took part of the MacLeans’ land—

  “With the MacLeans’ permission,” Frasier cut in.

  “Be that as it may, they willnae stop there. They will then start encroaching on our land, then the Campbells’. This will nae stop until we stop it.”

  “Ciaran is right.” Patrick spoke for the first time. “They will not stop. This all started because they could not get your king to agree to an alliance. When he refused, they just took what they wanted by force.”

  “Who are ye tae speak tae us? Ye are nae even a MacKay,” Gavin groused.

  Raising a brow, Patrick released Stuart’s shoulder.

  Gavin seemed to shrink in on himself. It would have been funny at any other time. But this squabbling was getting them nowhere.

  With a sigh, Ciaran stepped closer. Not to intimidate, but his legs were getting tired. He needed to move. “Patrick is my guest and an honored friend. He kens this enemy better than we do, and his counsel is much appreciated. Ye will show him respect, because I am still ye laird and chieftain.”

  No one said anything for several moments. Frasier scratched his chin as if thinking, then said, “Ye just said they wanted land, they got it, so why should they continue tae make war with us?”

  Och, but Maggie had it aright. He was a numpty. “Because it isna right. We canna let people come in and take over land. Where does it stop? If they get away with it, then others will come. And are ye forgetting about all of our men that they have killed?”

  “Nae, I am nae, but tae what end? We canna stop them. We may have some of their weapons, but they still have more. I canna see this coming tae a guid end. We need tae make an alliance with them like the MacLeans did,” Frasier said.

  The whole room started talking at once again, and no surprise, they ended up shouting.

  Ciaran had had enough. He glanced at Patrick and saw the same disgust on his mentor’s face. “Shut it!”

  When everyone stopped and looked at him, he continued, “This isna up fer debate. I’m still laird, and I’m informing ye that the IN and the MacLeans are our enemies, and I’ll be dealing with them as such.” Walking toward the door, he looked at Patrick and jerked his head toward the door, indicating they should leave.

  Behind them Frasier said, “All those in favor of removing our chieftain of his duties say aye.”

  Three masculine “ayes” followed, but Ciaran didn’t turn around. He didn’t care. They could vote all they wanted, he wasn’t stepping down. He still had the support of his warriors. He got to the door, flung it open, and found at least half of those very warriors standing there waiting for him.

  Angus caught his arm as he tried to pass. “Are we still laying siege tae the base?”

  “Aye.” Ciaran started down the stairs, then stopped. “Someone take Stuart intae custody. He is a traitor tae the clan.” He didn’t wait to see if his orders were followed, but the outraged voices of the council told him they were.

  By the time he’d made it downstairs, he calmed a bit, but the anger still knotted his chest.

  Stopping in the middle of the great hall, he turned to look up at Dìonach Na Sìthe. It mocked him from its place above the laird’s table. Reminding him of his failures. Reminding him of the men’s deaths. Frasier was right about one thing—this was Ciaran’s fault because he never should have pretended to go along with the council. He should have told them from the beginning where to go with their threats. He was the chieftain, and it was time he started acting like it. “I will nae let ye down, Father.”

  § § § §

  Ciaran walked up the stairs to his room, feeling as if he were carrying the weight of the entire clan on his shoulders. The castle was quiet in this wing, and most of the torches along the wall had been extinguished, but he didn’t need the light to find his way. He’d been traveling this route nightly since he was a small child, but tonight he was so tired, more in spirits than body, that he wished he had someone to carry him like all those years ago. That was how strong the desire to forget—just for a little while—was, which was saying something for a man who prided himself on independence.

  Running his hand across the rough-hewn stone wall of the circular stairwell, he continued up the stairs. He made it to the first landing and paused beside Red’s door. The urge to knock was strong, but there were no lights bleeding out from under the door. Red had been badly shaken by the discovery of the bodies tonight, and Ciaran did not want to wake him if he’d managed to sleep. Hell, Ciaran was envious because he wasn’t so sure he would be able to sleep tonight. He continued up the next flight of stairs and trudged down to the end of the hall.

  Firelight seeped out from under his own door, and he made a mental note to thank the maids tomorrow morning. He opened the door and blinked against the light, though it only took seconds for his eyes to adjust to the fire, but when they did, all thoughts of exhaustion fled Ciaran’s mind.

  Red sat on the end of Ciaran’s big canopy bed, with his bare feet dangling over the footboard. He leaned back on his hands, staring at the fire, wearing only an untucked shirt and a pair of trousers. His hair was tousled, and the fire cast a glow on his pale skin. The brown-and-green-plaid bed curtains on the far side of the bed were already closed, leaving only the side closest to the door and the end open. It was intimate and romantic at the same time.

  Funny, he’d never imagined himself a romantic, but Red inspired him.

  Turning his head and dropping it backward, Red smiled softly at the sight of Ciaran. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but the relief in those eyes said he was happy to see Ciaran. “Hi. I hope you don’t mind me waiting for you.”

  “Nae at all.” Relieved at the intrusion and feeling oddly invigorated, Ciaran shut the door and divested himself of his sword. He couldn’t help but notice Red followed the claymore with his eyes, and his face shuttered for just a moment. Red didn’t care for all the violence it symbolized to him, but to Ciaran it symbolized life. Without the sword, he would not be alive, neither would his loved ones. Including Red.

  Whoa. Ciaran froze at the thought. There was so much to contend with at the moment, he had not planned on falling in love, but God help him, he’d done so. He could no longer imagine a life without Red. He did not want to; the thought was painful. It was all he could do not to tear his kilt and shirt off and dive at the bed, just to assure himself Red was really there. With a grin, he sat in the ladder-back chair next to the door and started working on the laces of his boots. “What brings ye here?”

  “I can leave if you like.” Red grinned again, and this time his eyes joined the party.

  “Nae. Ye are here now. I dinna think I will let ye leave till morning. Maybe nae even then.” Ciaran loosened one boot and set it aside.

  Lying back on the bed, Red rolled to his side, bent his legs behind him, and rested his head on his hand. His shirt rode up, exposing several inches of Red’s stomach. Och, but that midsection was bonnie. The firelight played lovingly over the peaks and valleys of lean muscles. A small expanse of red hair tantalized as it disappeared into his trousers. “Good, because I don’t want to leave.” His gaze trailed down Ciaran’s body. “I figured we could both use the distraction of each other’s company.”

  Ciaran chuckled as he worked on the laces of his other boot. Red was definitely a distraction… in a very good way.

&n
bsp; “What did the council say?”

  “I dinna want tae talk about the council. It is nae important.” Red was having a hard enough time dealing with the realities of death without Ciaran adding worries to that. It was quite a boon to realize Red would worry for him, even though he had no desire for Red to do so. He’d never been in a relationship before, but he knew it was his duty to keep Red happy. It was almost a yearning that burned within him to do so.

  The laces fell to the sides, and Ciaran took off the other boot. He stood and gripped the hem of his shirt.

  Red’s nose wrinkled. “I somehow doubt that. Did they—” Red sucked in a breath, and the bed creaked as Ciaran got the fabric over his face.

  Pride slithered through Ciaran, warming him. He smiled and pulled the shirt the rest of the way off until he stood in only his kilt.

  Red was kneeling closer to the edge of the bed. His intense study radiated lust and ramped up Ciaran’s own desire. Or perhaps it was the outline of Red’s erection through his trousers.

  Whatever the case, Ciaran’s stomach tensed, and his own tadger decided to show its appreciation by rising to the occasion. He’d never been a vain man, but at the moment, he fought the urge to preen a little. His erection strained against his plaid, making it stick out. He reached for his kilt, but Red shook his head and crooked his finger.

  Ciaran sauntered forward, but his thighs hadn’t touched the edge of the mattress before Red reached out and gripped his tadger through his kilt.

  Ciaran hissed out a breath and watched as Red lifted the plaid and licked his lips. He glanced up through a fall of red bangs in a way that was both innocent and seductive as hell. At the moment he could have put a practiced courtesan to shame. Those long lashes fluttered, and then grass-green eyes peered up at Ciaran again. “I want to use my mouth on you like you did me.”

  Groaning, Ciaran tried to say okay, but his voice just wouldn’t come, so instead he knocked Red’s hands away and lifted his kilt.