It’d fallen once, taken by a now-dead dastard, Ralla the Victorious, and his war-band.
Rough, clanless men, they’d slaughtered nearly all of Archie’s kin and left the proud stronghold a shambles. Even Archie’s beloved wife, Rosalie, had perished. Mackintosh warriors from Nought, led by their chief, Kendrew, and his captain, Grim, had used stealth to gain the stronghold walls, reclaiming Duncreag for Archie.
Unfortunately, no one could repair his broken heart.
So Archie took a long, deep breath—he wasn’t as strong as he’d once been—and pushed carefully to his feet. Slowly, so as not to trip over the dogs clamoring after him, he crossed the hall to the lovely harp that had once belonged to his late wife, Rosalie.
Archie set his hand on the harp, stubbornly pretending he didn’t need its support.
He also knew it was the smoky haze from the hall torches that stung his eyes, making them water. His fool throat wasn’t thickening simply because he’d dared to pluck a harp string.
“You’re all I have left of her, eh?” He touched another string, then blinked hard when his vision blurred, making it difficult to see.
Not that he needed his eyes to appreciate the harp’s grace and beauty.
A wedding gift he’d ordered specially made for his bride, the harp was carved of beautifully polished wood and stood at a respectable height. Its tallness had delighted Rosalie, as her first harp had been a small, hand-held instrument. This one had twenty-four gut strings, enabling her to play the most enchanting music of an evening.
Blissful nights that were no more and never would be again, as the sorrow in Archie’s chest dutifully reminded him.
Truth be told, everything brought back his memories.
He couldn’t even sit at his high table, in his own laird’s chair, without remembering how, at night’s end, he and Rosalie would walk arm in arm from the hall. How they’d climb the turnpike stair, often pausing at the alcove on the third landing for a long, deep kiss, a joy they’d allowed themselves even when his hair had started to turn gray and the first fine lines began appearing around her eyes.
Theirs had been a love like no other.
Didn’t he know, having loved so very many women?
Leastways in the carnal fashion!
That wildness, his youthful follies and sins, along with the terrible consequences, was the reason he was cursed. That he knew, and he would never believe otherwise. Not in a thousand lifetimes.
Just now, though, he was an auld done man.
And hadn’t he been foolish to cross the hall without his walking stick?
But pride didn’t diminish with age and hardship, not even with heartache.
So there was nothing for it but to return to his chair the same way he’d reached the harp, one slow and tedious step at a time.
He was halfway to the dais when his world’s only ray of sunshine burst into the hall. Breena, she was, a young Irish lass taken during Ralla’s raid on her village. She’d stayed on at Duncreag after the Mackintoshes reclaimed the stronghold for Archie. She’d married Grim, the Mackintosh chief’s captain of the guard, now in charge of rebuilding Archie’s fallen garrison.
The union between Grim and Breena pleased Archie greatly.
He didn’t wish to pester them, but was eagerly awaiting bairns.
Duncreag had been empty and silent too long. The laughter of children would do the old, cold-steeped stones much good. And Archie as well, though he was reluctant to admit any such hankering for wee ones.
He was cursed that way, after all.
His own sons, all six of them, were dead, cut down by Ralla’s sword.
His one daughter…
His heart clenched, warning him not to think of what Ralla and his men did to her.
Breena was like a daughter now. So he stood as straight as his aching bones would allow and gave her the best smile he could muster.
“I didn’t think to see you this e’en,” he greeted her as she neared. “Wasn’t Grim due back from Nought this day? I’d have thought you’d be up at the highest tower window, watching for his return.”
“Oh, he’ll be away a while yet, he will.” She stopped before him, her lilting voice as always a comfort. “His chief, Kendrew, is keeping him busy, last I heard. I don’t truly mind.”
“Tired of him already, eh?” Archie knew that wasn’t so.
“Not at all.” She winked. “The longer he’s away, the happier he’ll be to see me.”
“That he will.” Excepting his sweet Rosalie, Archie could think of no finer lass a man could come home to.
Lithe and lovely, Breena had a cascade of burnished red hair that shone like autumn leaves in the sun and the creamiest skin Archie had ever seen. Her eyes were deep green and, in certain lighting, gleamed with golden flecks. She moved with grace, loved to dance, and Archie was hard put to say which was more beautiful, her singing voice or the music she made when she put her talented fingers to Rosalie’s harp.
Old and feeble as he was, Archie would break Grim’s bones if ever he hurt the lass.
“He’d best be hieing himself back here soon.” Archie swelled his chest a bit, trying to appear lairdly. “I’ve seen some of the other braw Mackintosh warriors eyeing you when Grim wasn’t looking.”
“You haven’t!” Breena saw right through him. “Even if one of them did fancy me, they’d sooner cut themselves than cast a glance at Grim’s lady. Aren’t I blessed to be her?”
“Humph. I’m saying that’s him.”
“He’s fond of you, too.” She hooked her arm through his and began leading him gently across the hall, back to the empty high table. “It’s a fine night to be inside, enjoying a well-burning fire.”
“I haven’t noticed.” Archie would sooner crawl naked to Glasgow and back than admit he did appreciate the huge fire roaring in the hearth.
He also loved the howling wind and the rain battering Duncreag’s wall. An affection for wild weather came with being a MacNab.
What a pity there were so few left of them.
“One night is as much as the other,” he grumbled, pausing when his favorite dog, Rufus, trundled over to lean his bulk into him. He reached down to rub the old dog’s head. “I scarce note what day it is, much less if it’s a good one for hall-sitting.”
“I do not believe you.” Breena leaned round to kiss his cheek.
Archie kept on petting Rufus. “I cannae make you, can I?”
“Indeed, not.” She laughed then, the light, airy sound secretly delighting him.
His Rosalie had a similarly pleasing laugh.
He missed her cheeriness, he did.
He missed his sons and his daughter. And—he shut his mind to their loss—he wasn’t going to think about them anymore this night.
“You miss your family terribly, don’t you?” Breena’s soft voice made his fool throat ache again. When Rufus pushed away from him, letting out a long, mournful old dog’s groan, his eyes began to sting as well.
There were times he’d swear the beast could see into his soul.
Hadn’t he reared Rufus from a wee whelp? Rosalie had hand-fed him spoonfuls of mush when the poor mite’s mother died when Rufus and his littermates were just days old. Only Rufus survived. The two of them were nigh inseparable. The old dog knew him well, including his secrets.
Sometimes Archie needed to speak of them, and Rufus made a good, and safe, listener.
Rufus didn’t judge, either.
Dogs only loved a man. And wouldn’t the world be fine if folk were as accepting?
Archie scowled, knowing that wasn’t so.
If he was silent long enough, Breena wouldn’t mention his family again. It was a trick he’d perfected with her, learning quickly that she felt a need to comfort him. She just didn’t understand that his way of soothing his sorrows was to ignore them and keep to himself.
“I lost loved ones, too.” She paused before the dais, waiting for him to set his foot on the first low step. “Ralla and his
men killed nearly everyone in the village, burning everything. Yet through his bringing me here, I met and married Grim.”
“I know, I know.” Archie let her help him into his laird’s chair, not even grousing when she smoothed a plaid over his knees. “Fate is inexorable.”
“So it is.” She stepped back, dusting her hands. “My people believe that.”
“That’s because you Irish have so much Viking blood.” Archie bit back a smile, imagining her as a Valkyrie.
She had the heart of one, for sure.
But slight and graceful as she was, he could better see her as a Highland wood nymph. Or perhaps a water sprite, sitting high on the rocks beside a tumbling waterfall, the glistening mist haloing her as she played her harp and sang. Such an image fit her well.
“Scots have no less Norse in them.” She winked as she poured him a cup of ale. “Vikings raided near and far, eventually settling the lands they’d first plundered. They intermarried everywhere.”
“Humph.” Archie lifted his ale cup to his lips, took a long sip.
He wasn’t of a mind to think of marriage, Viking or otherwise.
Not with Rosalie so heavy on his mind.
She, too, had loved nights such as this. She’d stand at the window, stars in her eyes and awe on her face, claiming the wind and rain entertained better than any troop of dancers and tumblers at the royal court.
And wasn’t that a place that sent a dagger straight into his heart?
As if she knew, Breena’s smile faded. “The men should be in here with you, not casting dice in the solar.”
Archie thrust out his chin. “Who do you think sent them there?”
“They shouldn’t have gone.”
“They had no choice. I’m still laird. My word is law, however old and feeble I am.”
“You’re nothing the like.” She slipped her arm around his shoulders, gave him a squeeze.
“There are many who’d argue with you.”
“I’d welcome setting matters aright.” She straightened, smiling again.
“You see to keeping that man of yours happy.” Archie thumped his hand on the table. “About time he returned. It isn’t natural for a husband of less than a year to stay away from his lady wife so long.”
“Seeing this empty hall, I must agree it’ll be good to have him back. You know”—she set her hands on her hips, her green eyes flashing—“were he here, he’d not have stood for the men leaving you alone.”
“Aye, he can be as cantankerous as me, what?” Archie lifted his cup in mock salute. “Here’s to thrawn men, the more stubborn the better.”
“Grim means well, always.” Breena glanced about the hall, surely noting he’d put out some of the torches, allowing the shadows to deepen.
“And you, my lord”—she turned back to him—“will not spend the rest of the night alone. I’m away to the solar now and bringing the men back with me.”
“Och, nae, you willnae, lassie!” Archie leaned forward, gripping the table edge, moving with startling speed, considering his ancient, moldering bones. “I want my peace.”
“I do not believe you.” She raised a hand, silencing him when he tried again to protest. “I’ll sing and play the harp. You know you enjoy listening.”
“I like sleeping, too,” Archie huffed. “That’s what I’m a-wanting. Rufus is also ready for his bed. We’re both tired.”
The dog was at Archie’s chair, his rheumy eyes as bright as an old dog’s eyes could be, his scraggly tail wagging.
He didn’t look at all sleepy.
“Some help you are, laddie.” Archie scowled at him.
Breena laughed. “A bit of music and song will do you good. Didn’t you enjoy our Yuletide feast?” She lifted a brow, clearly aware he couldn’t argue. “There were lots of folk here then, plenty of cheer and revelry.”
“That was Yule, and an exception.” Archie busied himself scratching Rufus’s ears. “It was also long ago, nigh onto a year now.
“And”—he snapped up his head, fixed her with a narrow-eyed gaze—“the folk who came only did so because you and Grim rode about the hills for days, bribing them. Dinnae think I don’t know what you did. You paid them all to make merry to please an auld done man.”
“We reminded them what a good neighbor you are and that Christmastide should be celebrated with cheer.” She gave him the same nonsense she’d offered him since the day. “No other persuasion was necessary.”
“Pah!” Archie hooted. “Some of them were my most evil-tempered foes. They wouldn’t have come for naught. I’ll ne’er believe it.”
Breena leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Does it matter why they were here? They remained friends, and that’s a blessing.”
“No’ the kind I need.”
“Friends are aye treasures.” Straightening, she reached to smooth back his hair. “One never knows when we’ll need them. Or when they might need us.” She angled her head, giving him a look that would’ve scared him if he wasn’t so fond of her. “Love and forgiveness have more power than the sword. Even Grim believes so.”
“Humph!” Archie jutted his chin. “Sounds like wedded life has addled his wits.”
“Could be.” She shrugged, looking so pleased he was suspicious.
But before he could question her, she winked and dashed from the hall.
She’d be on her way to fetch the men as she’d vowed to do. The few kin he had left and the Mackintosh fighting men from Nought, who he was sure would rather keep playing dice in the solar.
He’d rather trudge up the stairs with Rufus, seeking his bed and pulling the covers up to his chin.
Scowling, he took a bit of cheese off a tray and gave it to Rufus.
He leaned down as Rufus ate it, whispering in the beast’s ear. “It’s a sad thing when a man realizes he’s no’ just old and feeble, but a liar as well, eh?”
Rufus licked his face in answer.
And Archie leaned back in his chair, secretly eager to hear footsteps nearing the hall.
Chapter Twelve
Sorley stood at the edge of the road, looking at the candlelit windows of the Red Lion Inn. It was later than he’d hoped to arrive, the afternoon damp and fog-shrouded. The woods were already dark, the chill air scented with wet pine needles, wild thyme, and the peat smoke rising from the sprawling inn’s chimneys. Indeed, gloaming was nigh. But certain matters had kept him overlong at the castle.
A greater folly than he’d e’er engaged in, for sure.
Yet…
Wouldn’t a man do anything to please a lady?
Knowing it was so, he blew out an annoyed breath. Praise be, the MacKenzie plaid he’d flung across his shoulder, and the sleeves of his shirt, hid the scratches on his arms. Regrettably, there wasn’t much he could do about the ones criss-crossing his hands.
He was fairly sure his beard concealed the wee, but oh-so-irritating slash on his jaw.
If anyone was bold enough to comment on his appearance, he’d give him a slow, commiserating smile and hope he’d assume he’d enjoyed a particularly vigorous round of bed-sport.
Sadly, no such lusty female had given him these scratches.
Not a female indeed, if he was a judge of such things.
“Ungrateful wee bugger!” Feeling a fool, he rolled his shoulders and then straightened his plaid, well aware he was stalling.
Now that he was here, the Red Lion only a few paces away, his feet didn’t seem to want to leave the road.
He knew in his gut that the Highland warrior waiting inside was trouble.
Anyone named Grim had to be.
If he was still at the inn, late as it was. He’d sent word to William that he’d arrive before midday, and that was long past. If he were waiting on someone he didn’t even know and the wretch didn’t show for hours, like as not he’d have left before now.
Or he’d assume the day’s wet gloom kept the man away.
Not many ventured out in such miserable weather.
&
nbsp; A glance up and down the road proved it. Nary a soul moved anywhere, only the thick, drifting mist. He could scarce see the deep piney woods behind the inn. Across the road, low, heavy clouds crouched over the rolling hills and pasturelands, hiding them as well.
And didn’t the day’s dreariness pose another problem?
Such weather was good for William’s trade, always drawing a crowd to the inn.
The place was surely packed.
Wyldes kept a huge fire blazing on days when the mist rolled in, and everyone within a hundred miles knew it.
Wayfarers turned up in droves, wishing a rest from their travels, good ale, a filling meal, and a clean bed for the night. Locals also looked in. Farmers mostly, strapping, rough-hewn men who worked hard and enjoyed gathering at the tables to drink ale, laugh, curse, and warm themselves before they trudged home to their wives.
Now and then the guests were strangers, men from afar, unknown hereabouts, their reasons for calling at the Red Lion a mystery.
Others, like Munro MacLaren, came to clamber about on the inn’s roof, poking at slate moss and pondering its healing properties while their she-vixen daughters set about to bewitch any man who happened across their path. Sorley scowled, annoyed that it took but the space of a heartbeat for Mirabelle to claim his thoughts. Worse, he could still see the tempting fullness of her breasts, pressing against the linen of her nightshift, feel the silky-hot thrill of her peaked nipples between his fingers. Forcing her from his mind, he adjusted his plaid, then blinked to find that somehow his feet had carried him away from the road and up the well-trodden path to the inn’s door.
He didn’t want to go in.
His gut warned him, tightening to a cold, hard ball as he reached for the latch.
As he’d expected, he opened the door to a swell of voices and the clatter of cutlery and tankards. Too late for retreat; he stepped into the Red Lion’s low-beamed and crowded long room.
Trade was better than he’d guessed, the inn noisy, smoke-hazed, and with every available table occupied. Sorley stood where he was, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness as the familiar blend of smells assailed him: peat and wood smoke, roasted meats and savory stew, fresh-baked bread, and the richness of ale.
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