by Cathy MacRae
Brian came running up. “Can I feed them?”
“Leave the dogs with the lad. We need to speak with Manus.”
“But . . .” Brian turned to Ranald, his mouth open in protest.
A shout interrupted them. “Milord!” A soldier ran up, breathless, his reddened face bespeaking his agitation. “Milord. Fergus bid me find ye.”
“And ye have,” Ranald returned mildly, remembering the laird’s man.
The soldier nodded, gulping to catch his breath. “Milord. Ye must return to the laird’s room at once.”
Ranald narrowed his eyes. “Has something happened?”
The man nodded again, his gaze ranging from Lord Scott to his captain, and the lad at their side.
“The laird is dead, milord.”
Chapter 3
A crowd gathered in the great hall. From the doorway behind the laird’s chair, Ranald observed the men, grouped according to allegiance, their plaids a muted muddle beneath the flickering torchlight.
Beside him, Finlay nodded his head. “‘Twas a good turn out for the laird’s funeral,” he remarked. “A proper sendoff.”
“Let’s hope they remain cordial,” Ranald replied in an undertone. “We dinnae need this to get out of hand.”
“I’ve turned the dogs loose in the room. Between them, our own soldiers, and the Macrory clan, we should maintain order.” Finlay turned a thoughtful look on Ranald. “Think the Macrorys will support ye?”
“We will hope so.”
The murmur of the crowd faded as Ranald stepped into the room. Across the hall, Riona descended the stairway. All talk ceased, heads bowing in respect as the laird’s daughter paced regally to the head of the room.
What the hell is she doing here? Ranald watched as Riona took her place at the main table. He stepped forward quickly to help with her chair. It was actually hard for him to fault her. He was torn; part of him wished she would leave so he could concentrate on what needed saying without worrying about her reaction. But another part sympathized with the sorrow and grief she’d endured. Surely she only wished to hear with her own ears the king’s decree for her clan’s fate.
Beneath soot-dark lashes her face turned questioningly to his, gray eyes glittering with the inflexibility of steel. With a slight quirk of his lips, Ranald gave her a nod, then dismissed her presence as he turned to the chieftains and clansmen gathered.
He stared over the crowd. The hush was profound, every man in the room straining to hear what the king’s spokesman would say. He let his gaze linger on each group, clustered around their chieftain, the minor lords, and each rascally leader. They leaned in, like tartaned wolves sizing him up and determining the effort required to reduce him to their prey.
Reaching for his jewel-studded goblet, Ranald lifted it high. All around the room, men responded, mugs raised in salute. “Slainte mhath.”
“Slainte mhor!” came the roared response.
He tossed back the whisky, feeling the fire burn a path to his stomach. Riona matched him with a slight grimace. He hid his grin. The tips of her ears blazed red.
“I am Ranald, Lord Scott,” he said into the silence, though all present knew him by now. “All of Scaurness wishes to show gratitude for yer sympathies during our time of grief.”
He paused, casting a quick glance at Riona. Did she sob? Her head turned slightly, and he saw her eyes glint, not with tears, but perhaps a touch of scorn to match the downward quirk to her thinned lips. A derisive breath, then? He narrowed his eyes, a silent reproach for her to behave. She tilted her chin away, refusing to bend to his unspoken command. He caught Finlay’s attention from across the room. The big man quirked an eyebrow in a tiny shrug.
Ranald quickly gathered his thoughts, angry with Riona for interrupting this very important session with the neighboring lords.
“I am here at King Robert’s behest to assure Scaurness successes from the rule of the late laird to that of the new.”
Whispers broke from the crowd.
“Where is his heir?”
“The laird left no heir.”
“Kinnon . . .”
“The MacEwens . . .”
“Nay, the Macraigs . . .”
Ranald raised a hand, demanding their silence. Eyes cut to him, angry faces no doubt resenting his power, and the quarrel ebbed away.
“King Robert wishes to convey his condolences to Laird Macrory’s family.” He inclined his head in Riona’s direction. “The king considered the challenges to the lairdship, and has chosen a new laird with the clan’s best interest in mind.”
Another strange, strangled gasp erupted beside him. A muffled thud cut the sound short. Ranald snapped his gaze to Finlay; he shrugged and shuffled his feet. Riona glared at the captain who met her look evenly as she scooted her chair back to its proper place.
Had Finlay kicked her chair?
Ranald couldn’t afford the time or interruption. He stood in grave danger of losing his credibility with the gathered clansmen.
“All of ye have claims on the lairdship of Scaurness. His majesty acknowledges this. It is his command ye put aside yer differences and join him in the protection of all against the pirates who roam the coastline.”
“When will we elect a new laird?” A voice called out.
“There will be no election. The king has sent his own man.”
Ranald felt rather than saw Finlay’s presence at his side as his captain took a step forward. Around the room, Scott and Macrory soldiers moved into place, separating the lords and chieftains from their men. Within seconds, those who thought to lay claim to the lairdship of Scaurness were virtual prisoners. Ranald gave a short nod. Finlay strode one pace further, seeking their stunned attention.
His voice rang over the room. “Ye will give yer allegiance to the new laird this night.” He met their animosity with no sign of agitation. “Or ye will find yerself in contempt of the Crown and face the night as a guest of the lower levels of Scaurness Castle.”
Ranald took a deep breath. “Upon the death of Laird Macrory of Scaurness, I, Lord Scott, by virtue of kinship and the order of King Robert of Scotland, accept the lairdship of Scaurness.”
Men turned to each other, questions and answers an untranslatable, low rumble of sound as they digested the information. Arms waved, hands pointed in his direction, eyes glared at him with barely restrained anger. Macrory and Scott soldiers milled about the room, keeping what order they could.
Ranald’s hand drifted to his empty scabbard and from the corner of his eye he glimpsed a flash of metal. “May God have mercy on me,” he murmured under his breath.
Finlay opened the door to the laird’s privy chamber and stood aside as Ranald entered the room. “That went better than I thought. With the king’s stamp and the nudge of a few armed soldiers, they took it well enough.”
Ranald snorted his response to Finlay’s blithe comment. “Had I not been kin to the old laird, they’d have ripped us apart. This is a highly contested piece of land, and the man who rules it has much power. Guard yer back tonight.”
With a shrug of agreement, Finlay pulled the latch closed behind him. Instantly, the door was torn from his hands as Riona stormed into the room, color high on her cheeks.
“Ye couldnae wait for him to be a full day in his grave before taking the laird’s seat?”
Ranald afforded her a barely tolerant look. “We gave him a proper send off. Ye’d prefer to wait to announce the new laird after the first blood was on the floor?”
Riona’s voice was full of scorn. “Ye had them leave their weapons at the door.”
“She doesnae know a thing about men, does she, laird?”
She whirled on Finlay, hands clenched at her sides. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Lass, every man in t
he room had at least one dirk or knife hidden on him. Ye cannae expect they’d walk into a room completely unarmed.” Finlay shook his head.
“Where did ye hide yers?”
“I’ll no’ show ye.”
“Why not?”
Finlay bared his teeth in a feral grin. “My ma taught me better manners than that around sweet lasses like yerself.”
Riona’s temper flared. She opened her mouth, fury in every tense line of her body. Ranald would have liked nothing better than to admire her slender form, but he had more yet to explain, and dragging out the inevitable was not smart. She was obviously not in the mood to hear the rest of the king’s decree.
He lifted a hand between the pair. “Pax, Riona. Finlay.” He waited as she bit back her next words. She blinked dark lashes furiously over smoky gray eyes, and Ranald remembered the freckle-faced lass who had followed her brother and his on their escapades, tough enough to try to keep up with them, stubborn enough to not cry when she couldn’t.
“Wheesht, ye look like ye did when we were young and ye kicked our shins for teasing ye.”
She flashed a haughty glare. “I am older now.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know to aim higher.” With a toss of her head, she strode from the room, the swing of her hips emphasizing the anger in her step.
Finlay’s grudging laughter rang out in the room. “The lass has courage, I’ll give her that.”
Ye dinnae have to wed her, Ranald thought darkly.
Ranald slung his claymore across his back, securing it with a jerk of its strap. “I cannae do it.”
Finlay settled his own long sword with a twist of his heavy shoulders. “Do ye really think she’ll no’ have ye?”
“I willnae be my brother and force a lass into marriage.” Ranald tightened his belt with a grim frown.
“Ach. Ye are no’ so stubborn as yer brother.” Finlay quirked the side of his mouth in a grin. “At least ye have time to woo this one.” He jammed a dirk into his belt.
“There isnae enough time to change her mind.” Ranald tested the tip of his knife on his thumb.
“Didn’t the king give ye a few days after the auld laird died to wed the lass?”
Ranald shot the man a hunted look. “A week.” He slid the knife into his boot.
“A week? Plenty of time to get her to forget ye terrorized her as a wean, showed up right before her da died, and took the lairdship from her hands.”
“I dinnae terrorize her. She was, er, difficult.”
“No’ as difficult as when she finds out she has to marry ye. She still doesnae like ye.”
Ranald paused, tightened his grip on his dirk, then slammed it home. “I need to talk to Manus. I’ll deal with Riona when I get back.”
Finlay shrugged. “Aye, sure. She’ll be ready to listen to yer marriage proposal just before her da’s funeral banquet.”
Ignoring Finlay’s droll sarcasm, Ranald opened the door and marched from the room.
They left the castle and proceeded across the bailey, their attention captured by the clash of swords and shouting male voices. As they approached the group of soldiers gathered around two well-matched swordsmen, Manus appeared at Ranald’s side.
“Ye wished to speak to me?”
Ranald faced the Macrory captain. “Aye. I havenae had a chance to ask ye about the attack the other night. I am sure ye have spoken to yer soldiers, but ye have no’ brought the results to me.”
“I dinnae know I was to report to ye until today.”
“Now ye know. Have ye discovered who opened the postern gate and let the attackers in?”
Manus’s eyes roamed over the sparring soldiers in the field. “Mayhap. But I wish to speak to the man before I accuse him.”
Ranald nodded. “Let me know what ye find. This should be yer top priority. I want this castle secured.”
A shout of approval rang out, and Ranald’s attention returned to the field. A Scott soldier offered his hand to the downed Macrory. The men parted on good terms, Ranald pleased to note no discord from the group.
“‘Tis good to see the men practicing together. It isnae my wish to have a divided force.”
Manus gave a curt nod of his head. “I have yer approval to continue as captain?”
“Ye will report directly to Finlay. But yer duties will otherwise remain the same as before.”
“As ye wish, Laird.” Manus bowed tersely and walked away.
Finlay touched his chin in a thoughtful manner. “I dinnae think he likes ye, either.”
Riona stared out her bedroom window. Below, she could see Ranald and his man, Finlay, talking to Manus and a few other soldiers. Why did he always manage to rankle her so? ‘Twas true she would resent any man who took over the clan simply because she was a woman and therefore—supposedly—unfit for the job. What did he know of her or her capabilities?
She saw Ranald’s dark head, late afternoon sunlight glinting off the claymore slung across his back. What was he about? Riona frowned. There would be a great banquet later this evening. Surely he would not miss it?
As if on cue, the aroma of roasting meats drifted up from the kitchen. Her stomach clenched at the smell, a reminder of the funeral feast to come. Her da would be much toasted and stories told of him late into the night. Lairds did not leave this world quietly. How would she bear it?
“Milady.”
The soft voice of her maid penetrated her thoughts. “I’ve a warm bath ready for ye, milady. Ye should rest before supper.”
Riona nodded. “Thank ye, Kyla. That sounds verra nice.” She smiled at her maid, noting the sad look to her eyes. “We’ll get through this.”
“Aye. He’d expect ye to hold the clan together.”
Riona moved to the tub, lifting her arms as Kyla began to undress her. It was true her father had taken her into his confidence and tutored her on the ways of the clan. But if he had wanted her to hold the clan together, why had he sent for help from the king?
Ranald whistled up the hounds and Pol and Senga bounded from the practice field, tails swinging happily, ears tight against their heads. They fell in at his heels as he and Finlay entered the stable. Saddling their horses, they led them out into the fading sunlight.
“I hope we’re no’ going far.” Finlay grunted as he swung into his saddle.
“Afraid of the dark?” Ranald mocked.
“Nae. Hungry.”
Ranald snorted and turned Hearn toward the castle gate. “I’m going to revisit my youth.”
“Shall I summon a guard?”
“Nae. Ye and the dogs will be enough. We’re just going below the cliffs. We’ll no’ be gone long.” Ranald kicked Hearn into a brisk canter. “I wouldnae want ye to starve.”
Grass gave way to dirt and rock, and the horses slid the last few feet down the trail to the beach. Tossing his head, Hearn placed his feet carefully on the rocky ground. The dogs bounded across the shore, barking as they romped through the foaming water.
“Looks like the tide is coming in,” Ranald commented.
“Aye. And the waves are a wee bit rough. I wonder if we’ll have a storm this night?”
The water surged inland and Ranald felt his stomach clench. “Mayhap. The clouds are thick.”
He averted his eyes, hoping sight of the sturdy trees and rocks would settle the churning feeling within. “There were plenty of places for us to hide as children. The rifts sometimes run back quite a ways into the cliffs.”
Finlay dismounted and walked out onto the beach, turning his head to look up and down the shoreline. “What is yon hut over there?”
Ranald held a hand to his brow, a shield against the glare of the setting sun. “That ramshackle cottage near the cliff?”
“Aye. Does anyone live there?”
“It us
ed to be the seer’s cottage.”
“The seer?”
“Seer, healer, wise woman. Her name was Tavia. She always scolded us lads for teasing Riona.”
Finlay laughed. “‘Twould be best ye stay clear of her, then. Ye dinnae need more trouble.”
Ranald frowned and started to reply, but the dogs’ barking interrupted him. “What are Senga and Pol about?”
“The waves, daft dogs.”
“Nae. This is different. Something bothers them.” Ranald dismounted and tossed his reins to Finlay. “I’ll take a look.”
His boots pounded the rocky sand. The evening breeze lifted his hair and brought the tang of salt to his nostrils. Memories of his youth flickered through his mind. He heard the shouts of his brother and Kinnon, and Riona’s shrill cry as they outran her on the beach.
Rocks as black and slick as dragons’ teeth pointed up through the foaming waves. The dogs ran back and forth at the edge of the water, barking as though they’d cornered a dangerous faerie cat.
“Leave off, ye big weans,” Ranald shouted. “‘Tis no cait sith out there.” His hands fisted on his hips in disgust as the dogs refused to listen to reason.
“Ye wouldnae know what to do if ye did catch a faerie cat, ye muckle heads! ‘Twould like as no’ tear yer tender hides right off ye.”
He approached Senga, intending to grab her collar and haul her back to the horses where their leads were attached to his saddle. With an anxious whine, Senga eluded him, and sprang into the water. Ranald stumbled to a halt, the treacherous rocks giving beneath his booted feet. Eyeing the dog with disgust, his gaze drifted to a large, flat rock several feet beyond the hound.
Hunkered on the surface sat a wee bairn, her hair in salty, wind-blown disarray, her arms clasped tightly around her knees. She stared at him, her eyes wide with fright.