Chapter Eleven
Ready to skewer the whoreson who'd shot at him, Cyrus glowered back in the direction from which the arrow had flown. Someone moved at the top of the ten-foot wall but 'twas too dim to see who it was.
"What happened, Chief?" Norval yelled down at him from the open gatehouse window.
"Some bastard shot an arrow from the wall." He pointed, not seeing the would-be assassin now.
"Are you hit?"
"A graze."
Who was trying to kill him? One of his enemies? Dalacroy? A man's face popped into his mind. "Paul MacTarril." He tore out from behind the steps and sprinted toward the front gate. He snatched out the key to unlock it.
"Chief!" Norval clambered down the steps and chased after him. "The magistrate? You think he's shooting at you?"
"Could be." Cyrus knew it sounded insane, but that was the only man he'd had conflict with in this area. 'Twas either him, the new Earl of Dalacroy, or whoever was targeting Elspeth. Surely the MacLeods of Lewis hadn't followed him to Aberdeen for revenge. Nay, it had to be the person who had stolen Elspeth's jewels and injured her guard. And 'haps the whoreson had paid off MacTarril and gained his assistance.
After unlocking the gate, Cyrus glared out into the gloaming. 'Twas late but not yet full dark. No one skulked about and silence reigned.
"'Tis not wise to go out there with no one but me to guard you." Norval drew his sword.
"Stop your fashing." Once he and Norval had exited, Cyrus locked the gate back, then sprinted along the wall, sword in hand, and turned the corner. The place was empty. No assassins lurked here. Farther along, bushes and trees grew thickly. He could not tell who might lie in wait there.
"Chief, with all due respect, I must insist you return behind the walls now. The archer could be hiding in the wood, drawing on you as we speak."
Cyrus moved to the spot where he guessed the archer had been. He could just make out two blunt impressions in the mud and grass. "He used a ladder. Probably more than one man. The grass is trampled."
"Aye. You ken I'd give my life for you, but I'd rather not have to this night." Norval was like a mother hen, despite his bushy black beard.
"Have no worries of it." Cyrus strode back toward the entrance.
Once they were inside with the gate locked, Cyrus spoke low. "Sean and James should've arrived at Rebbinglen by now and will hopefully return with a few more men by tomorrow evening. I'll have to garrison this place and hunt down these bastards."
"Aye, Chief."
'Twas true Cyrus was used to having a couple of dozen men with him at all times. Anticipating no trouble on this journey to find a bride, or even on this side trip to escort Elspeth home, he hadn't even brought his targe or armor... much less enough men to fight a battle.
Seeing torchlight glinting off a bit of steel on the ground beyond the gatehouse steps, Cyrus strode forward and picked up the damnable arrow that had struck him. It had a wicked, long bodkin point stained with his own blood, a dull wooden shaft, and black fletching. He might use any identifying marks or design quirks to find the person who'd had it made.
"Cyrus?" Fraser stood in the doorway. "Were you outside the gates?"
"Aye." He glanced again in the direction where the archer must have been before.
"I thought I heard the gate close. What happened?"
"An arrow grazed the chief's shoulder!" Norval announced in typical dramatic fashion.
Fraser descended the steps. "Here, inside the walls?"
"Indeed." Striding forward, Cyrus held the arrow aloft. "We saw the imprint where the bastard used a ladder, there." Cyrus pointed. "The grass was well-trodden. Then he—or they—must have disappeared into the bushes farther along."
"Saints," Fraser hissed, then trotted up the steps and held open the door. "Come inside, brother. These walls are too low to be of any use."
Cyrus scowled, not accustomed to his younger brother ordering him about. It seemed their roles had suddenly been reversed.
Fraser waited expectantly. "I want you to be safe. We'll search for the culprit in the morn. 'Tis too dark now. An army could be hiding in the undergrowth."
"Aye." Conceding the point, Cyrus climbed the steps and went inside, while Norval returned to the gatehouse.
Cyrus's forces hadn't been reduced to so few soldiers in many years. He realized the seriousness of the predicament, especially when he didn't ken how large his enemy was. Everyone here could well be easy pickings in this unfortified manor house.
His blue eyes dark with concern, Fraser stared at his shoulder. "How bad is your wound?"
Cyrus glanced down again at his bloody sleeve. His shoulder did smart, but 'twas not severe. "Naught but a scratch."
"'Tis bleeding badly. We must have a healer see to it."
Cyrus nodded. "There's more going on here than we first realized. Someone is trying to eliminate all of Lady Grey's protection."
"Who would do such a thing? And why? She's a kind and charming lady."
Before Cyrus could answer, Elspeth strode toward him, her wide-eyed gaze upon his bloody sleeve. "Good heavens! What happened?"
He explained the situation, hoping not to frighten her too badly. But she had to realize the danger she was in.
Her face paled and her mouth dropped open. "You could've been killed."
'Twas true, but he never worried about what could have happened. If he did, he would never leave the walls of his own castle. "I'm well, m'lady. No need to fash yourself over it."
"I'll retrieve the healer from Stillman's chamber. You may need stitches."
Elspeth rushed up the stairs, trying to get her bearings after seeing Cyrus's bloody sleeve. The flash of extreme fear for his life had shocked her. She had not lied—he could've easily died if the arrow had struck him a few inches closer to his neck or heart.
Before she could debate who might have shot the arrow, she met Mistress Almsly in the corridor. "Come quickly. Laird Stornmor has been struck by an arrow."
"Saints! Where is the injury?"
"His shoulder. 'Tis bleeding badly. You may have to stitch it up."
"I'll fetch my kit." She scurried to her chamber.
Elspeth returned to the hall, finding Cyrus still talking with his brother.
"Would you like to go into the study?" She thought 'haps he'd appreciate a bit of privacy since he would have to strip to the waist.
"Aye, he wouldn't wish to make the maids swoon with his chiseled physique." Fraser chuckled.
Cyrus rolled his eyes.
To disguise her heated blush, Elspeth headed toward the study. Going inside, she was glad to find the room warm from the low-burning fire.
She lit four candles on the small oak table, then glanced to Cyrus. "Thank heavens the arrow didn't embed. Are you in pain?"
"Nay."
"You will never get him to admit feeling pain unless he is in severe agony." Fraser grinned.
"We didn't ask for your opinion." Cyrus's dry tone caused his brother to snort with amusement.
She was glad Fraser could laugh off such a dangerous situation. She certainly couldn't, but mayhap he was merely trying to lighten his brother's somber mood.
Unsure whether she should offer to assist Cyrus in removing his doublet and shirt, she hesitated. Without doubt, Fraser would have some wry comment to make about it.
Cyrus unfastened the brooch which held the plaid sash over his shoulder, then unbuttoned his doublet.
"If you could help him, Fraser, I'll see if Mistress Almsly has come down." Elspeth darted from the room. Why was she so nervous about helping Cyrus undress or seeing him half-naked? Mayhap because she knew his muscular build would be stunning.
Mistress Almsly descended the stairs and Elspeth motioned her toward the study. "He's in here."
"I'm sorry it took me so long to find my needle, m'lady."
"'Tis all right." She followed the healer into the room, finding Cyrus wearing only his belted plaid. Suddenly, the air became sweltering. She aver
ted her gaze, ashamed to stare openly at his shockingly bare chest. Saints! She'd severely underestimated the appeal of his partially-nude form.
Mistress Almsly curtsied, then, being so much shorter than Cyrus, stared upward at his shoulder. "Oh, good heavens, m'laird. 'Tis a frightful gash."
He grunted. "'Tis not so bad, I'm thinking."
"Would you mind sitting, so I can reach it?"
Cyrus pulled out one of the chairs and dropped into it.
While the healer spread out her supplies on the table, Elspeth took another wee peek at him. The prominent muscles of his broad chest were furred with a wedge of dark hair. It tapered down his abdomen to disappear beneath his plaid, reminding her of a dark arrow tip.
She noticed some startling battle scars on his ribs and arms, the older scars white puckered strips, while the more recent ones were still pinkish. She wanted to ask about them but forced herself to focus on his present injury as she strode toward him. Though the laceration was bloody, it appeared to be a shallow flesh wound, thank the saints.
"What do you think? Will I live?" His deep voice rumbled the words while he observed her, his midnight eyes intense.
Being so close to him, breathing in his scent—a heady combination of leather, male musk and a hint of lingering lavender soap—she found that her throat became as dry as oat flour and her tongue refused to cooperate for a long moment. "I believe you will." She forced the words out. "But I'm not a healer."
"Pour a wee bit of whisky on it." Cyrus lifted the bottle from the table and handed it to Fraser, then held his shirt in a bundle beneath his elbow to catch the stray drops.
"Ah, you give me leave to hurt you. I'll savor this."
"Don't be silly. 'Twill not hurt," Cyrus muttered.
When Fraser held the bottle over Cyrus's brawny shoulder and allowed a trickle of whisky to drench it, Elspeth could not stop herself from staring. Surely, 'twould burn like fire. But Cyrus didn't flinch. His jaw was set hard and his face remained impassive as he watched his brother's actions.
Finding her eyes fixed upon him, he lifted a brow. She quickly turned away and brought another pewter candlestick from the mantel, placed it on the table and lit it.
"'Tis as bright as midday in here already." Cyrus's dry words surprised her.
She detected a hint of amusement in his eyes. Was he teasing her?
Heated awareness suffused her. "I want Mistress Almsly to be able to see well."
After examining the wound, the healer decided it should be stitched. It was not as shallow as it first appeared. During the process, Cyrus only flinched one time... that Elspeth noticed. Indeed, he was an expert at showing a strong façade and hiding his feelings. What else did he pretend? He seemed a very complex man, and she hated to admit that he intrigued her far more than she wished. What would it be like to share a bed with such a man?
Saints, what madness possessed her? She did not even want to contemplate that scandalous thought. Relations with both the baron and the earl had been loathsome to her. Each association had been a business arrangement, and she'd held no attraction to either man. She had performed her duties and that was all.
Naturally, she had assumed she would always feel disinterested in any man, but that was not the case when she beheld Cyrus's naked upper body... or when his potent gaze ensnared hers. The simmering heat she caught a glimpse of in his eyes was mirrored in her chest. It made no sense, but some instinct within her proclaimed any involvement with him would be dangerous, for he could rip her life to shreds if he chose. She could never give up control to a man again, especially one so powerful.
"I appreciate the use of your healer." Cyrus's voice came from behind her.
She started and turned, not realizing she'd been staring into the fire. He had put on his shirt again, and she was uncertain whether she was relieved or disappointed in that development. "I'm glad she was able to stitch you up. One of the maids might find a clean shirt for you to wear."
"I have an extra one in my pack. The men and I always carry a spare set of clothing because we usually run into rain as we're traveling."
"I'll ask the maids to wash and repair that one, then."
"A good night to you both." Mistress Almsly bobbed a stiff curtsy. "Let me know if you need anything further this night."
"Much obliged." Cyrus gave a nod of gratitude.
The healer quit the room.
Finding his midnight eyes fixed upon her, Elspeth did not want to take her leave as of yet. "How is your pain?"
"A slight stinging, but naught a dram of whisky won't cure."
She was surprised he admitted to any pain. "I have more whisky in the cellar if you should need it."
"This will suffice for tonight." Cyrus held up the bottle. "Unless Fraser decides to become sotted."
"Nay." Fraser waited just inside the doorway. "I'm going to turn in early, then get up in the wee hours and help the guards keep watch."
Cyrus nodded. "I appreciate it. Have a care and keep an eye on the walls. The archer could return."
"Aye." Fraser headed out the door. "Goodnight."
When Cyrus frowned after his brother, she could see the worry written on his face. Clearly, he cared deeply for Fraser and, she was certain, all his other siblings as well. Just as she had found she would do anything to help her own younger brother and sister.
"Well, I think I'll retire for the night." Elspeth blew out all of the candles on the table except for the two they could use to light the way to their chambers. "If you should need anything, do not hesitate to let me or one of the servants know."
"Could we talk first... in private?"
"Of course." Finding—strangely—that she looked forward to talking to him this time, she closed the door. Too late, she realized the room was far too cozy with the warm fire in the hearth. And with the memories of his sculpted nude torso lingering in her mind's eye... 'haps she shouldn't be completely alone with him. Saints! She had to shift her focus to the topic at hand. "If the guilty party is Henry, why would he shoot at you?"
"'Tis what I would like to know." Cyrus poured two wee drams of whisky and surprised her by handing her one. "Have you talked to him or received any missives from him?"
"Nay." Though she didn't normally imbibe whisky, she accepted the drink, then added some water to it from a pitcher on the side table.
"'Tis likely he wants this manor house and estate. 'Haps to sell it. Who owned it before you?"
She hesitated, realizing she hadn't given him that tidbit of information earlier because she hadn't wanted him to know about her scandalous arrangement. Would he be angry about the omission? "'Twas Alexander's mother's dower estate."
"Aha. You didn't mention that before. It makes perfect sense now. Young Dalacroy wants Darby Hall back in the family."
"Well, fortunately for me, I own it free and clear. All the deeds were signed years ago." Elspeth sipped the watered-down whisky, finding it tolerable, though not her favorite. However, she didn't want to insult him by not joining him for a drink.
"I'm assuming he knows that, which is why he's using nefarious means to try to regain it. Plus, he is likely low on funds, as we talked about earlier."
She nodded, wishing she knew more about Henry. Was he a philanderer as his father had been? "If Henry wants something from me, why doesn't he simply show up at the gate and ask for it?"
Cyrus pitched two sticks of wood onto the low-burning fire. "He knows you won't give him your property. So, he wants to frighten you and leave you unprotected so you'll be forced to do whatever he says."
"Bastard." She pressed her lips together as her face heated. The whisky had loosed her tongue. She eyed Cyrus to see if he was shocked at her unladylike words.
Appearing not to notice, he stared into the fire. "I'm certain he stole your jewels."
She nodded. "He would assume his father gifted them to me."
"He may be slipping around to all the former mistresses stealing back his father's expensive gifts, or anything h
e can find, in order to refill his coffers."
Anger twisted in her chest. "We're not to blame."
"Of course not." Cyrus surprised her by giving her a sympathetic glance.
"We're just trying to survive as best we can."
She acknowledged that Alexander should've been faithful to his wife. But if he had been, Elspeth would've needed to find another husband or protector to help regain her and her son's properties or provide food and shelter. 'Twould have been impossible for a woman alone to earn enough to maintain adequate housing, food, and clothing for four people regardless of how hard she worked.
Feeling as though she'd had too much to drink, she set her glass on the small table by her chair. "I feel terrible for putting you to so much trouble."
He quirked a dark brow. "Think naught of it. I enjoy a challenge."
"I doubt you enjoyed getting shot with an arrow."
"Grazed." He shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "And 'twas not so terrible. I've sustained far worse injuries."
Based on the scars she'd seen on his chest earlier, she was sure he was telling the truth. She wished to ask him about them but felt it was far too intimate a topic. She should remind him, and herself, about his ultimate goal.
"I'm certain you would rather be spending this time with Lady Lily, getting to know her before you marry."
"'Tis not necessary."
She scrutinized his impassive face. "What do you mean?"
"I would've married her sight unseen."
His words astounded her, but she didn't ken why. 'Twas the way of the elite aristocracy, those far above her station. 'Haps it was his blunt honesty she had been unprepared for. "Because she's the daughter of a marquess?"
"Aye."
"Daughters of the upper nobility are premier prizes to be won." She tried to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "'Tis the reason I've always wondered why Baron Grey wished to marry the daughter of a merchant."
"The reason is obvious—your remarkable beauty."
Cyrus's words stunned her speechless. Sipping the whisky, he stared casually into the fire as if he'd commented on the weather. She was unsure whether to be flattered or annoyed. She supposed a person's appearance was as good a reason to marry as wealth. She was starting to think the whisky had loosed both their tongues and 'haps they wouldn't have had this conversation if neither of them had imbibed.
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