“He’s a good man.” Grim’s gray eyes met his, and there was a hint of pleading in them again. “Broken, sorrowful, and regretting his past. He is alone. No man should be denied forgiveness—”
“If his Duncreag is as remote and wild as you say, what was he doing at court?” Sorley needed to know, though he could imagine. “Few Highlanders are greeted in Stirling’s vaunted hall.”
“The King invited him.”
“To steal his mistresses?”
Grim cleared his throat. “The King and a party of nobles were journeying through the Highlands, making sure of the clan chieftains’ loyalties. The party called at Duncreag for a night’s lodging.
“Archie was a bonnie lad and a fine storyteller. His father had him entertain the royal party at the feasting that e’en and the King was greatly taken with Archie’s talent. He urged Archie’s father to allow him to return to Stirling with him, to be employed as royal bard. And so—”
“He did more than sing and spin tales before the royal hearthside!” Sorley disliked the man more and more. “That is the way of it, aye?”
Grim looked pained. “He suffers much regret.”
“He should!” Sorley slapped his hand on the table. “I have ne’er heard of a greater craven.” It was all Sorley could do not to roar.
But the long room was still in a tumult, the laughter and shouts louder than ever. The last thing he wanted was to draw a throng of swivel-necked, long-nosed onlookers into the small room, their stares and—he winced—pity making him feel worse than he already did.
Taking a deep breath, he flattened both hands on the table, making ready to stand, to turn his back on Grim Mackintosh, late of Nought in the Glen of Many Legends. To walk out of the Red Lion, never to think of the man again. Most especially, not to dwell on the callous, black-hearted rogue who’d sired him.
There was just one other thing he wanted to know.
Leaning forward, he spoke coldly. “I’d hear how you learned all this. Tell me so I can then put you, your friend, MacNab, and the rest of this misery from my mind. I’ve spent years trying to puzzle together who my father and mother were. I cannae believe men would speak to you, a stranger here, while refusing me the truth.” That suchlike had happened galled him.
“Aye, well…” Grim pushed back his chair and stood. “Perhaps you will now think just as poorly of me as you do of Archie, for I used a method that some might well call a bit unfair.”
To Sorley’s astonishment, Grim took his great wolf pelt off a nearby chair. Lifting it high, he shook out the folds to reveal a worn-looking leather pouch tied by a strap to the cloak’s lining. Unfastening it, he brought the pouch back to the table and gave it to Sorley.
“Open it and you’ll see how I oiled tongues.” Grim stepped back and folded his arms.
“Humph.” Sorley looked down at the lumpy pouch in his hands. Curiosity alone made him untie the leather strings and pull apart the top. A tinge of cold stone and the sea rose from the bag’s depths. The scent, heady and very different from anything he knew at Stirling, let his pulse quicken despite his annoyance.
He shot a glance at Grim, who simply nodded. Sorley thrust his hand into the pouch, withdrawing what appeared to be a twist of fossilized root, age-smoothed and blackened.
The bag was full of them.
“What’s this?” Sorley carried the thing to one of the wall sconces, turning it this way and that in the candlelight. “A stone root?”
“Indeed.” Grim’s lips twitched as if he was amused by Sorley’s astonishment.
There was also a hint of pride on him.
That only stirred Sorley’s interest. He also forgot his anger, much to his surprise. Rolling the stone root between his fingers, he glanced at Grim, sure he was pulling some kind of trick.
“I cannae believe such a thing loosens tongues.” He placed it on the table. The stone root gleamed, its satiny surface catching the light. “Is it spelled, then? I ken you have powerful wise women in your hills.”
“No’ charmed by a cailleach, nae.” Grim’s pride was swelling. “The stone roots are blessed. But it’s the glory of Nought that gives them their strength, the power that makes them so valuable.”
“How so?”
“They come from a jutting promontory at Nought called the Dreagan’s Claw.” Grim returned to the table and reached into the pouch, taking out another of the stone roots. He twirled it between his fingers. “The Dreagan’s Claw is a high, windblown place that ends in a tangle of rock neither man nor beast should dare tread upon. All sides of the promontory fall straight to the sea, and there are great, gaping crevices that could send false-stepping souls hurtling to the rocks beneath the cliffs. Where the Dreagan’s Claw isn’t clogged with huge, broken boulders, stumps of smooth, age-darkened wood litter the ground.”
“Wood in such a stone-choked place?”
“Aye.” Grim nodded. “They are twisted tree roots, ancient and fossilized, and they prove that long ago, a thick forest covered the mighty cliffs we of Nought call the Dreagan’s Claw.” He leaned toward Sorley. “It is from those hoary, once tall and proud tree stumps that I gather the stone roots, carrying them with me always.”
“Aye, well.” Sorley was unimpressed.
Grim smiled and tucked both stone roots back into his pouch. “They are good for making men speak.”
“I cannae guess why.” Sorley watched him tie the leather string and fasten the pouch inside his wolf-pelt cloak.
“If you understood the Highlands”—Grim straightened—“you’d ken we dinnae just love our land fiercely. It is our greatest strength, nourishing us and making us who we are: hale, hardy, invincible men, all our living days. And beyond, or so we believe.” He took both tankards off the table, handing one to Sorley. “A stone root from a place as powerful as Nought can work wonders for a man. Think hard, my friend…”
He smiled as he knocked his tankard against Sorley’s. “The ancient fossil-trees at the Dreagan’s Claw once stood tall and proud, but no longer do. Some men have the same problem.”
Sorley almost choked on his ale. “Nae! I willnae believe it.”
To his astonishment, he started to laugh. “Dinnae tell me you carry around stone roots, letting men believe they cure such an affliction?”
Grim slung an arm around Sorley’s shoulder. “A man quickly spills secrets if he thinks possessing a wee bit of Nought’s strength will let him once again stand proud.”
Sorley shook his head. “I have ne’er heard the like.”
“You could learn many more such wonders if you’ll ride with me to Duncreag.” Grim stepped back, serious again. “You should ken the Highlands, even if you have no wish to forgive Archie.”
Sorley set his jaw, the man’s name sparking his ire.
“Nae, I cannae go with you.” He shook his head, furious that somewhere, deep inside, he was considering just that. “I dinnae have a horse.”
The excuse slipped off his tongue before he could stop it.
Grim pounced. “The innkeeper has a good stable. I have seen his beasts. I will buy you one for the journey.”
“I have my own coin.” Sorley wouldn’t accept charity, nor did he need it.
“Then you’ll join me?” Grim made it sound as if he’d already agreed.
“I didnae say that.” He was tempted.
And not just because he’d always yearned to see the Highlands. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for all his days.
His chance to avenge himself on the father who’d spurned him.
Now, knowing of the fiend’s treatment of his mother, he was even more eager to repay the man in kind.
Unfortunately, he was beginning to like Grim.
He didn’t want the Highlander to think poorly of him.
His need to confront Archibald MacNab was greater.
So he took a long breath, hoping he wouldn’t regret his decision. “When are you heading north?”
“This is joy!” Grim beamed, his be
ard rings clinking as he clasped Sorley’s shoulder, gripping tight. “We can ride at first light on the morrow, if it suits you?”
“It doesn’t.” Sorley wasn’t leaving Stirling until he’d dealt with Mirabelle. He’d sworn to help her, however much doing so would brand him forever. He’d feel worse if he rode away and she fell into Sinclair’s clutches. “I’ve an important matter looming and cannae leave until it’s settled. Can you wait a few days yet? If so—”
“As long as you need.” Grim stepped back, grinning. “Though my lady wife will no’ be pleased!”
“Aye, well.” Sorley glanced at William’s fine feast, much of it untouched. “Shall we celebrate our agreement by finishing William’s meal?”
“Indeed.” Grim followed him back to the table, his pleasure making Sorley feel guilty.
But only until he remembered everything he’d discovered about his father.
The man might be auld and done, broken and alone. But he was also a greater bastard than Sorley ever would be. As such, he deserved what was coming to him.
And it wouldn’t be the loving, long-lost son Grim meant to deliver.
It’d be vengeance, and served as cold as Sorley could make it.
Never would Sorley have thought he possessed even a drop of Highland superstition. He scoffed at bogles, banshees, loch beasties, and any other heather-spun foolishness. Yet now that he’d left the Red Lion to walk along the empty, mist-drenched road back to Stirling, he was tempted to accept such possibilities.
For sure, never did the damp, dark mist seem so malevolent. Though to be fair, the foulness of his mood could be a reason. It shouldn’t have, but it had irritated him that Roag, Andrew, and Caelan hadn’t acknowledged him when he’d left the inn’s small room.
Deep in their cups, they’d not even glanced his way.
Sorley frowned, knowing he shouldn’t care.
Yet…
He knew they’d heard at least some of what Grim had told him. He’d thought their hoots and whooping had been in comradely jubilation. Even if there was little to be pleased about, all things considered.
So he marched on, secretly wishing the outskirts of the town would soon appear. He’d welcome a glimmer of light in the distance, something other than the dense, impenetrable mist blowing everywhere.
He couldn’t see a single star through the thick pall of clouds. Even the moon was nowhere to be glimpsed. What was about was a strange rustle of movement that seemed to keep pace with him. He couldn’t make out anything lurking in the darkness on either side of the road, but he had the uncomfortable sense of being observed.
The fine hairs on his nape were lifting and that was always a bad sign.
“Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” he snarled Duncan MacKenzie’s favorite curse beneath his breath and quickened his pace.
For good measure, he also set his hand on his sword hilt.
Though, in truth, he doubted Dragon-Breath would frighten a ghost.
If something worse than a spirit was in the wood along the roadside, he didn’t care to know.
He wished he’d left the inn sooner.
He had certain matters to attend at the castle. An important errand that would mean slipping unseen into Lady Mirabelle’s quarters.
And he could only do that when the night was yet young enough for her to still be in the great hall, dining on the dais with her father.
If he entered her room when she was present…
A fierce scowl drew his brows together. Such was a hazard he didn’t want to risk. She plagued him enough already. Indeed, getting away from her and putting her from his mind, once and for all, was one of his reasons for agreeing to journey with Grim to Duncreag.
It scarce mattered that if he had his way, he’d stay with her for as long as she remained in Stirling, even longer, if the gods were kind.
They weren’t, as he well knew.
And he wasn’t quite so depraved as to snatch her out from under her father’s nose, stealing her away into the night as in times of old.
He was tempted.
And something big was shifting in the mist ahead of him.
He also caught a distinct skitter of pebbles, then the odd rustling from earlier.
Halting, he tilted his head to listen. But he heard only the whisper of the trees and the gurgle of a burn deeper in the wood. The road curved here, following the shoulder of hill. A low stone wall ran along the wood’s edge.
He could just make out the wall through the mist.
Low as it was, it wouldn’t offer a hiding place to anyone wishing to ambush him. But in the fog, someone crouching beside the stones did have an advantage. And that he couldn’t allow.
For sure not when he heard the rustling again, this time bringing the unmistakable chink of steel, then the soft creak of leather that could only be a sword’s scabbard slapping against a man’s thigh.
Sorley’s entire body prickled with a warrior’s instinct.
He eased Dragon-Breath half out of her sheath and rounded the bend in the road as three trolls loomed up before him. Their short, squat bodies were dark smudges against the mist.
“Sakes!” Sorley stared at the beasties. He’d known evil was about this night.
He pulled his sword free, swinging the blade around to point at the trolls. “Stay there, and I’ll leave you be. I’ve no’ quarrel with your like, though I will—”
“Do what?” came Roag’s deep voice as he sprang off the low stone wall, straightening to his full height. “Cut us down for coming to congratulate you?”
Andrew and Caelan likewise leapt to their feet, no longer trolls, but the tall, strapping men they were. They strolled up to Sorley, clearly amused.
“Seeing ghosties in the mist, eh?” Andrew stopped before him and hooked his thumbs in his sword belt. “Can it be your newfound Highland blood has turned your wits already, letting you see haints and bog-beasts in the dark?”
“Fooled you good, we did, didn’t we?” Caelan slung an arm around Sorley’s shoulders, squeezing tight.
“Aye, you should’ve kent us better.” Roag shook his head in mock reproach. “As if we’d drink ourselves blind when there’s such grand news to celebrate. No’ even William’s finest lassies could’ve kept us from following you.”
“You shouldn’t have.” Sorley resheathed his sword, wished the mist was just a bit thicker so he wouldn’t see how broadly Roag, Andrew, and Caelan were grinning. “There was more to make merry about back at the Red Lion, lusty wenches and good ale. My news, as you surely heard, wasn’t much to be joyful about. Save that I’ll be riding north with Grim in a few days, to meet my father.”
For some reason he couldn’t name, he didn’t mention Archie’s failings.
That was personal, and he’d handle the matter in his own way.
“So your mother was a MacKenzie.” Andrew sounded awed. “To think you’ve aye been drawn to that clan, as if you somehow knew.”
“What I know is that my mother is dead.” Sorley was glad for the dark, hoping none of his friends could see the muscle jerking in his jaw.
“We didn’t just come after you because of Grim’s news.” Roag’s tone revealed he had seen the leaping muscle. “We wanted you to know we’re glad about you and Lady Mirabelle. We were there when you first saw her, the Highland reel—”
“There’s nothing between us,” Sorley denied, his jaw muscle working even faster. “She doesn’t remember that night. It was long ago and—”
“We’re three trolls a-sitting on a wall!” Caelan laughed and punched Roag’s arm.
“Aye, well.” Roag drew himself up, clearly preparing to speak for them all. “We kent this is the patch of road with the old pagan well off in the trees, at the burn.” He glanced that way, then winked. “Have you forgotten the Beltane morn you swore there’d be naked lasses there, bathing their breasts and thighs to keep their beauty forever?”
“Aye.” Sorley chuckled; he couldn’t help it. “I’d climbed down in the well shaft an
d wailed like a ghoul when you loons arrived, looking for the lassies.”
“It did seem a good place to waylay you.” Andrew also threw a look at the low stone wall, barely visible through the mist.
Many memories lived in the shadows beyond, especially around the old sacred well.
They’d all made their own Beltanelike merry there over the years. Leastways when they’d been lads and not minding a tumble on cold, damp ground.
“That doesnae change that there’s naught between me and Mirabelle MacLaren.” Sorley felt a need to set that straight. However much he appreciated her lush curves and other charms, no matter that he admired her boldness and her courage, or that her concern for a wee kitten touched something deep inside him. She remained the last female he ought to allow close to his heart. No highborn lady would ever tread there, not so long as he had a jot of wits.
He rolled his shoulders, not liking the tension building there. He also didn’t care for the white-hot jolt of jealousy that pierced him on knowing that, someday, somewhere down the road, another man would claim her, making her his bride. That truth put a fierce scowl on his face.
“She means nothing to me.” He turned his frown on the others, not missing how their fool eyes glinted in the darkness. He laid on his hardest tone, “I’ll take the head off the first one of you who says so. She’s a virgin.” Sorley hoped that declaration would wipe the knowing looks off their faces.
It didn’t.
Indeed, the loons exchanged glances as if deciding who should share a secret.
Sorley crossed his arms. “Speak true. What is this about?”
“We ken what you did for her.” Roag answered first.
“Och, aye?” Sorley cocked a brow.
“Chasing all o’er the rocks beneath the curtain wall, looking like a buffoon racing after his shadow. And all for a wee kitten.” Caelan caught Sorley’s hand, lifting it up to expose the red scratches everywhere. “No man would do the like lest he’d fallen hard.”
Releasing Sorley’s hand, he glanced round at the others. “Agreed?”
They all grinned.
“Naught ails me except a wish to see the last of you.” Sorley glanced pointedly in the direction he’d been heading, toward the town. With luck, the three of them would melt back into the mist.
To Love a Highlander Page 23