by Willa Blair
“We’re to be left standin’ in the bailey, then?” Donal complained to no one in particular, his gaze moving from the people in the bailey, to the battlements, to the keep’s open gate, and back to Jamie.
“Let’s wait a bit for the steward.”
“If we’re left here much longer, we’ll take the horses to the stables, then look for the laird on our own,” Donal vowed. “We’ll no’ be treated like common tradesmen or worse.”
Before Donal could put words into action, an elderly man stepped out of the doorway into the keep and approached them. “Ye must be the men who rescued our folk.” He beckoned over several of the curious lads who had gathered nearby upon their arrival. “Take the horses to the stables, lads, and treat them well. We owe these men our thanks.”
“I’m Jamie Lathan, clan Lathan,” Jamie introduced himself. “Donal McNabb, clan Lathan, Bram, Forbes, Alpin, and Innis, clan Lathan all.”
“’Tis a great pleasure to make yer acquaintance,” the man said with a tip of his head. “I’m the steward, Sawney MacKyrie. Please follow me to yer quarters. Our laird wishes ye to be made comfortable.”
“As I told the lad,” Jamie said before the man could turn away, “we’d like to speak to the laird.”
“That won’t be possible today. The laird is quite busy, but will be available to ye in the mornin’.”
Jamie nodded, then raised an eyebrow as he looked to Donal, his meaning plain. What was going on here?
Donal shrugged and gestured for the others to follow the steward. As a group, they entered the great hall of the MacKyrie keep.
****
Ellie MacKyrie wiped her brow and pushed her hair out of her face for what seemed like the thousandth time. It had come loose from its braid again. Gotten in her eyes again. Irritated her beyond belief. Again. And dammit, in the midst of trying to stitch poor Fergus’s wound. She didn’t need the extra aggravation right now. Too bad Nan was busy tending one of the lads who’d come in with Fergus. She was better at this kind of stitchery. As healer, Nan had years of experience. A swig from the bottle sitting by Fergus’s left hand might be tempting, but while the fiery spirit could improve Ellie’s mood, she doubted it would improve her stitchery one bit. Fergus might be getting on in years, but even he would want her to do a neat job so he would heal with as little scarring as possible and keep the use of his arm. Besides, the whisky was for him, to dull his senses while she worked, and from the sound of his soft snores, it had done its job.
There, last stitch. The poor man could rest now, unmolested by her needle or her temper.
Who had done this? Who was to blame for terrorizing and wounding old men and lads? Lads, for God’s sake. Who did that to beardless lads? Or elders like Fergus? Rievers? Lost men? Or, as she feared, a neighboring clan? Who would stoop so low?
She put aside her needle and thread, dabbed Fergus’s wound with a whisky-soaked rag to clean away the rest of the dried blood, then stood and looked around her.
Davy met her gaze, still wide-eyed and fighting sleep. He’d seen more today than any nine-year-old should. Damn the auld king, the lairds, the warriors all, leaving them in this mess.
“Ye should sleep, Davy,” she told him as she bent to pull the covers higher on his thin chest.
“I canna, Ellie. No’ yet. I havena told ye about the brave warriors who saved us. And their leader, aye, his is the like we need.”
“Do we now?” Even the youngest lads knew they were in trouble and sought to help. If she didn’t need to reassure these lads, she’d be swamped with dismay by the burdens they bore. “Then tell me, laddie, so ye can rest.” She glanced around the room, noting several of her other patients awake and listening. “So all of ye can get to sleep.”
“There we were, surrounded,” Davy began.
“When horsemen broke out o’ the trees,” another voice piped in.
“They slew our attackers...whack!...just like that.”
“Aye,” Davy agreed solemnly. “But no’ before several of us were cut and bleedin’, tryin’ to defend ourselves and the MacKyrie whisky.”
“Like Fergus,” another added.
“Ye were all very brave,” she told them, fighting back tears of grief and anger. Those wagons should never have gone out without an escort, but where were they to find one of those? Instead, these lads, these bairns, had been forced to fight for their very lives.
“Their leader was a master of the blade,” Davy continued, oblivious to the turmoil nearly swamping her. “They were all braw warriors, but oh, if only ye could ha’ seen him! He killed five or six all on his own.” She couldn’t deny his enthusiasm for their rescuer. But this must be childish exaggeration. Or was it possible that he relating exactly what had happened?
“Did he?” Ellie’s heart picked up its pace. A warrior so grand as to best six attackers by himself? Could he be the one she’d Seen? The warrior who’d slain or chased off the wolves in her dream. Were those meant to be the raiders who attacked the wagons? It made a certain sense. Her dream had shown her the attack and its resolution, but she had not known how to interpret it. Could there be more to the dreams she’d been having? Did the warrior from her dream have a larger purpose than the rescue of the wagons? What if he’d come to train up their lads into men? To save the Clan MacKyrie?
“What’s all this racket?” Fergus’s gruff voice interrupted her thoughts. “A man canna sleep with all this blather.”
Ellie returned to his side to check his wound and placed a hand on his forehead. Good, no fever—at least, not yet.
“The lads tell ye true, lass,” the old man whispered. “One of them could be the one ye Saw in yer dreams. They all had strong sword arms and no fear o’ the battle. Ye must meet wi’ them and see for yerself.”
Ellie closed her eyes, picturing the man who’d appeared to her three times. If only she had seen his face clearly. Then, if she met him, she would have no doubts. She would know if one of these braw warriors who’d done her clan such a great service was the one in her dreams. She opened her eyes, pushed her hair back, and once again took Fergus’s hand. “If no’ the leader, then perhaps one of his men?”
“Aye, lass. Worthy lads, all. But ye must see for yerself.”
“I will, Fergus. But now, ’tis time for all of ye”—she paused and gave the laddies a stern look—“to sleep. The clan needs ye. Ye must heal and get strong.” She turned back to Fergus with a fond smile and squeezed his hand, then removed the whisky bottle to a pocket in her apron. “Ye, too, auld man. I need ye most of all. Sleep well.”
She waited while her charges settled down and closed their eyes. Fergus gave her a conspiratorial wink before he, too, dozed off again.
Her lads. No matter their age, they were her lads and she worried over each and every one of them. If only her Sight proved to mean what she hoped it did. What she longed for. The clan needed strong men to protect it, no’ these lads and elders. Damn the king. Damn the auld laird. They needed help.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Ellie entered the great hall dressed in a simple blue kirtle. She’d been told the Lathans were on their way down from their chambers, but saw no sense ruining a fancy dress when she had work to do in the sickroom.
Others were in the hall breaking their fast, passing through on the way to their chores, or, judging by the slight hum of tension in the air, waiting to see what would happen when the strangers arrived. Some of the neighbors had caused trouble lately. Would these men add to MacKyrie’s problems? Ellie hoped not. So far, they’d done the clan a service in saving Fergus and the others, not to mention the whisky. If she’d truly seen one of them in her dream, they were destined to do so much more.
She spotted Micheil and joined him. They rarely sat at the high table. Both preferred to sit with everyone else, moving to a different table for each meal as whim took them. “Mornin’,” she said, greeting him simply as was their custom. Dark haired, dark-eyed, and heart-stoppingly handsome, Micheil was her closest i
n age of the surviving MacKyrie men. They’d grown up together, mourned their losses together. Some thought they would make a good match. Even Micheil. But he had always been her friend, never her lover. She couldn’t think of him in that way.
And after the dream she’d had, the one she fervently hoped for the sake of the clan was a true Seeing, she believed her destiny led her to another man, one with lighter hair, sharper eyes, and a Roman nose broken more than once. “Our guests havena arrived, then?”
“Nay,” he replied, signaling to a serving girl for Ellie’s breakfast. “But when they do, they’ll be properly thanked, rewarded, and sent on their way, aye?”
Ellie glanced around the room, avoiding his question. Micheil thought the clan should solve its own problems. Ellie didn’t think it could.
She wished Fergus could be here to greet the Lathans, too. Fergus had a calming presence, despite his reputation as a ferocious fighter in his youth. Micheil sometimes let his temper get the best of him. She needed this meeting to go well. The future of the clan might depend on it.
She glanced at her companion and pursed her lips. But before she could frame an answer, the Lathans appeared on the stairs leading down from their quarters in this tower. Ellie stood. Micheil rose to his feet beside her as a serving girl pointed in their direction. As the rest of the clan stood, giving honor to their heroic guests, the Lathans moved together toward them. A tingle of anticipation curled around Ellie’s ribs. Was he truly here? Which one?
“We thank ye for yer hospitality, Laird MacKyrie.” A man with hair the brownish color of old copper addressed his comment to Micheil. “We have a proposal we’ve been sent to discuss with ye by Laird Lathan, to the benefit of both our clans and others in this region.”
Ellie and Micheil exchanged a glance. They did not know? How could they not? Fergus hadn’t mentioned discussing the clan with the Lathans, but surely...or one of the lads?
“Indeed?” Micheil prompted.
“Perhaps ye’d like to be seated,” Ellie interrupted, giving Micheil a pertly arched eyebrow before she continued, “and break yer fast before beginnin’ such a serious conversation. I’m Ellie MacKyrie and this is Micheil, whose manners have apparently deserted him this fine mornin’. We owe ye a great deal more than a part of our simple repast.”
Ellie let her gaze travel over two other men who resembled the one she’d seen in her dream. The blond? Or the one with light-brown hair, streaked with gold? Either of them might be the one. The man in her dream had golden hair.
The man who’d spoken moved into a shaft of sunlight. His hair suddenly blazed with copper highlights. Ah, definitely not him, then.
He broke into a grin. “Jamie Lathan, at yer service, lass.” He indicated each of his companions. “Bram, Forbes, Alpin, and Innis Lathan. That brooding presence to my right is Donal MacNabb, arms master to Clan Lathan. We’d be pleased to break bread with ye before we begin.”
They all greeted her, some with a smile or a nod. But the one named Donal MacNabb merely studied her, acknowledging her with a lift of one eyebrow, then letting his gaze skim down her body and back up to meet her eyes. Suddenly Ellie’s palms dampened. Why? His glance hadn’t seemed sensual so much as analytical. Judging her? Did he suspect?
Micheil gestured to the empty table next to theirs and signaled for the serving girl’s attention. The Lathans sat and accepted food and drink—politely, Ellie thought, for such fierce-looking men. Especially that last one, Donal. Fierce-looking, indeed. Arms master! He had the look of the man in her dream, big and strongly muscled. But so did the one sitting next to him, called Bram. Donal had dark blond hair, or light brown, streaked by the sun, cut shaggy and loose to his jawline. Light eyes. Blue? No, green. Bram’s hair had more blond in it, and he stood a bit taller. Ach, she couldn’t be sure. Both would bear watching.
Smiling, Micheil sat and whispered to her as she also seated herself, “What do ye think, Ellie?”
“They seem civilized enough.” She kept her voice low, too, and a smile on her face as she nibbled at her breakfast. “Let’s see how they react when they learn the truth.” Ellie lingered over her food, allowing the Lathans time to finish theirs. Micheil fidgeted at her side, but followed her lead for once. Finally, they finished eating. The time had come to talk.
Micheil rose beside her as Ellie stood. “I’m afraid we havena been entirely truthful with ye,” he began.
Ellie saw their visitors tense. To their credit, not one laid a hand to a dirk.
Micheil held out a palm in a gesture Ellie recognized as his attempt to placate and calm the reaction they’d both observed. “Ye’ve come to meet with Laird MacKyrie. I’m no’ the one ye seek.”
Jamie Lathan canted his head and widened his eyes. Donal MacNabb’s expression provided contrast. Ellie saw suspicion and calculation on his face as he shifted his weight forward to the edge of his seat.
A shiver ran down her spine as it occurred to her the game she and Micheil had been playing might be a dangerous one.
With courtly flourish, Micheil made a half bow and continued, unabashed. “May I present to ye the Laird and Seer of Clan MacKyrie, Elspeth MacKyrie.”
If possible, Donal’s expression became even more fierce. Ellie tensed as Jamie’s and the others’ eyebrows arced toward their hairlines, but then Jamie grinned. Ah, he liked surprises. But Donal looked like he wanted to take the table apart with his bare hands. His fists clenched at his sides, standing veins and white knuckles giving away his irritation. Did their deception anger him? Or the fact of a woman at the head of a clan? A Seer?
Ellie took a breath, waiting to see what consensus they would reach amongst them.
“Laird MacKyrie.” Jamie stood and bowed to the precise degree Micheil had demonstrated. “I am most honored to meet ye.” He glanced around as his companions gained their feet. Taking note of the thunderous expression on Donal’s face, smiled even more broadly. “As are we all.”
So, Jamie was in charge, at least of the business that had brought them here, though the lads had reported that Donal led them in battle. Ellie released a pent up breath and returned his grin. “I’m glad,” she answered, then indicated the stairs with a tilt of her head. Down to business. “Let’s move to the solar to begin our serious conversation. I gather ye have much to say.”
“Indeed.” Jamie sketched another half bow, then turned to the glowering Donal and the rest of his men. “Donal, with me, if ye please. The rest of ye, see to the horses. We’ll meet later.”
Ellie led them up the stairs and settled them in the upholstered chairs normally occupied by women doing needlework. She took her accustomed place in the center seat, framed by its high back and the MacKyrie tartan covering it. The laird’s seat. It had been her father’s favorite. After four years of bearing his title, this was her first encounter with men from a strange clan. Could she truly act in his stead? It didn’t take her second sight to know she would soon find out. She smoothed her skirt and clasped her hands in her lap.
Micheil stood behind her. Jamie sat opposite. Donal stood at his back, a scowl drawing down his brow as he glanced around. His gaze met hers and his expression lightened, but only for a moment until he looked away again. Perhaps his frown was not for her? Did this fierce-looking man have a softer side, after all? Though she wouldn’t mind spending some time getting to know some of Donal’s other moods, that would have to wait.
“Please, begin,” Ellie offered with a nod. Jamie had not stopped smiling. He seemed quite taken with the idea of a woman as laird.
“Laird MacKyrie, I bring ye greetings from Toran Lathan, laird of Clan Lathan. Since the losses at Flodden, Scotland has been weakened. Sassenach incursions across the border have become more frequent. Worse, lost men from broken clans wander both the Lowlands and the Highlands, causing trouble.”
Ellie nodded for him to continue, thinking they might have seen some of the same trouble here very recently. Or perhaps not.
Jamie took a breath and continued. “
Toran began overtures to nearby clans more than a year ago. He thought it wise to join together for the common defense. At the same time, a Lowlander army made its way into the Highlands—by a route that left yer lands untrammeled, I presume?”
“Aye.” Micheil answered, shifting his weight behind her.
“The leader of that group wanted to subjugate the Highland clans. He laid siege to our seat, the Aerie. He was unsuccessful. But his attempt cemented in Toran’s mind the need for the Highland clans to quit feuding and band together lest we lose our lands and kinfolk to another would-be conqueror.”
“Where was the Regent while all of this was going on?” Ellie placed her elbows on her chair’s arms and wrapped her fingers over the curved front. She’d seen her father sit this way. Somehow, it made her feel more commanding.
“Nowhere to be found,” Jamie answered, the smile finally absent from his face. “The King is a bairn, ye ken, barely out of swaddlin’ and the Regent lingers in France. We had the help of a neighbor, who needed our assistance more than we needed theirs after the invaders destroyed their village, but no other.”
So the clans were truly on their own. Ellie’s stomach sank. She wished she could see Micheil’s face. It was unsettling to hear of such troubles even further into the Highlands. She wondered what Micheil made of their tale.
Donal appeared to be watching both of them carefully. But for the most part, he directed his impassive gaze over her shoulder. It never wavered. Was that some form of silent male communication? I’m here and I’m watching ye? Dinna do anythin’ stupid?
Let the two of them eye each other, she thought, so long as they kept each other occupied and silent. The rough nap of the woolen tartan beneath her fingers recalled her to the present. She leaned forward, returning her attention to Jamie.
“Yer assumption is correct,” she told him. “The army ye speak of must have used another route into the midst of the Highlands. We neither saw nor heard of them. Our valley is protected by mountains on all sides, with limited access by high passes that are often blocked by snow in winter. We’ve no’ been disturbed here in my lifetime.”