To Love a Highlander Page 21

  The Red Lion was a grand place to be on a chill and wet afternoon.

  It just seemed that a certain wild-haired, bushy-bearded Highland warrior said to wear a silver Thor’s hammer amulet didn’t agree.

  Such a man was nowhere to be seen.

  Sorley pulled a hand down over his own beard, torn between relief and annoyance.

  Moving deeper into the room, he looked about, trying to peer into the dark, murkier corners without noticeably doing so. He saw no one but the expected assortment of travelers and farm men, until he looked toward the table nearest the open archway to one of William’s smaller rooms.

  Three men sat there, each one doing his damnedest to appear invisible.

  They failed miserably.

  They also increased Sorley’s perturbation, for he knew them well. They were none other than his three archfiends and fellow Fenris, Roag the Bear, Andrew the Adder, and Caelan the Fox.

  Caelan sat beneath a wall sconce. The flickering light burnished his rich, dark auburn hair so that he stood out even though he busied himself tucking into a large bowl of William’s famed venison stew.

  Andrew appeared fascinated by the bannock he was smearing with way too much butter. Dark as Sorley and Roag, he held his head lowered, his gaze fixed on his task.

  Only Roag caught his eye and grinned. He lifted his pewter ale tankard in salute, confirming the first thought that popped into Sorley’s mind when he’d spotted the three of them: They knew why he was here.

  They’d come to spy on him.

  Sorley knew that Caelan and Andrew should’ve ridden north with Alex Stewart, the Wolf. Their presence here, instead, indicated they’d heard rumors about Grim Mackintosh and his quest. They deemed his business with Sorley important enough to postpone their journey to the earl’s distant Badenoch.

  Sorley headed their way, their chosen table telling him where Grim waited.

  The Highlander would be in William’s smaller room, the one that offered the most privacy.

  A pity he’d have to sit alone a few moments longer.

  Not feeling at all guilty, Sorley strolled up to his archrivals’ table and plucked Caelan’s spoon from his fingers. For good measure, he also nabbed his bowl of venison stew, holding it out of reach.

  “Dinnae tell me our good friend, Alex, doesn’t serve just as tasty victuals in Badenoch.” Sorley flicked a glance at the thickly buttered bannock in Andrew’s hand. “Or did the two of you have another reason for no’ riding north with the earl when he left Stirling? With so much clean, fresh air up his way, and bountiful grazing, I’d think a Highland venison stew would be even better, wouldn’t you say?” Sorley set down the bowl and spoon. He braced his hands on the table, leaning in to meet each man’s gaze. “The truth is, you’re no’ here because you prefer William’s stew.

  “And you”—he flashed a glare at Roag—“can wipe that smirk off your face.”

  Roag’s expression didn’t change. “I dinnae understand your upset.” He gestured to Andrew and Caelan. “We’re sitting here quietly, enjoying a meal, and minding our own business, behaving—”

  “You dinnae ken how to behave.” Sorley straightened, wishing, not for the first time that day, that he’d stayed in his bed.

  “Have you seen the sky?” Caelan pushed aside his buttery bannock, his tone reproachful. “Full of woolly clouds, it is. Today like sheep, tomorrow come the wolves. You ken what that means.”

  “Aye.” Sorley did.

  He didn’t like it all the same.

  While he might agree that the coded Fenris warning applied to his meeting with Grim Mackintosh, he didn’t see it as a reason for Roag, Andrew, and Caelan to sit guard outside the inn’s small room.

  Nor did he need their help.

  As if he read Sorley’s mind, Andrew leaned over and gripped Sorley’s arm. “No need to get riled. No’ when you’d be playing sentry, too, if one of us was about to walk into that room.” He glanced at the shadowed archway, lowering his voice. “Thon’s a mean-looking brute. Big enough to take on all four of us with one hand tied behind his back.”

  “The more pleasure to fight him.” Sorley broke free of his grasp and swatted at his sleeve. “I face my challengers alone.”

  The looks his rivals exchanged said they didn’t care how he saw it.

  They weren’t budging.

  “Stay if you will.” Sorley stepped back from the table. He looked round for William, not surprised to find the innkeeper hovering right behind him. “William, give these loons all they wish to eat and as much ale as they can drink. Even a lass or two if they desire such entertainment. I’ll pay, and gladly. Just keep them out of my way.” He shot a warning look at the table. “If I see them again before I leave, if I suspect their flapping ears are pressed to the wall, fists will fly. House rules or no’.”

  “Nae bother.” William’s light blue eyes twinkled as he made a slight bow. When he straightened, he gave Sorley a comradely nudge toward the archway. “Be glad you have friends. There’s lots who dinnae, the gods pity them.”

  “That I know.” Sorley turned to him, meaning to say more, for he liked the innkeeper, appreciating his good humor and honesty. But William was already moving through the closely set tables, heading for his kitchen.

  And somehow, with the surprising ease of many big, burly men, he’d done more than give Sorley a friendly push toward the small room.

  He’d maneuvered him right into it.

  Sorley blinked, for the small room, in truth a private parlor, was awash in golden candlelight. Every wall sconce was lit and slender tapers stood on the linen-draped tables. The glow shimmered on the walls and spilled across the polished flagstone floor. Even the ceiling rafters glistened, the age-smoothed wood as black as a midnight sea reflecting the light of the stars.

  Any other time Sorley would’ve appreciated the sumptuousness, especially the fine hint of peat in the air, the earthy-rich scent coming from a small, handsomely tiled hearth on the far side of the room.

  It was there, at a lavishly set table, that the Highland warrior sat.

  “I didnae come here to fight you.” The Highlander stood, proving himself every bit as large and fierce-looking as everyone said.

  Still, he didn’t strike Sorley as hostile.

  Unfortunately, his greeting indicated he’d heard Sorley’s quip to Roag, Andrew, and Caelan.

  If he’d caught anything else, he gave no sign.

  He just looked across the room at Sorley, almost measuring him. Leastways, that’s the impression he gave. He had a gaze that seemed to peer deep, and his eyes were the same dark gray as the mist rolling past the room’s small-paned windows. His face was a good one, strong and open. But his expression was hard to read, not friendly or unfriendly, though the silver warrior rings he wore braided into his beard proved that he wasn’t a man to anger.

  “Grim Mackintosh, of Nought in the Glen of Many Legends.” He extended a hand, waiting for Sorley to come and clasp it.

  When Sorley did, he discovered Grim’s grip was as firm as his own. “Sorley.” He nodded once, annoyingly ashamed that he couldn’t state a surname. The lack hadn’t bothered him in years, but Grim’s steady, assessing gaze made him uncomfortable. “Men call me the Hawk.”

  “That I ken.” A touch of warmth lit Grim’s eyes and he flicked a glance over Sorley. “All the men hereabouts speak highly of you. And”—he quirked a half smile—“so do the women.”

  “We’ve agreed you aren’t here to fight, which much surprises me,” Sorley returned, gauging his words. “But I dinnae believe you’re here to praise me either. I’d know why you’ve been asking about me.”

  “Aye, well…” Grim’s levity vanished and he pulled out a chair, patting its back. “Will you no’ join me for a meal and ale? There is much we must speak of, important matters that’ll go down better with good food and libations.”

  Sorley remained standing.

  He didn’t like Grim’s answer.

  And the man’s sof
t, Highland voice, its deep richness and lilting tones, wore on his nerves.

  “I have ne’er been to the Glen of Many Legends.” Sorley crossed his arms, not ready to claim the offered seat. “Nought territory is a place I’ve heard of often enough. There are many tales, saying it’s wild and bleak.”

  “So it is!” The Highlander’s face warmed. He even smiled, his glance going to the fire as if the red-glowing peat bricks could take him home. “There is nowhere more grand than Nought.” He turned back to Sorley, his gaze intent. “Imagine a place so breathtaking, so heartwrenchingly beautiful that each time you walk there, your awe is as great as if you’re seeing it for the first time. That is Nought, my friend.” He sat back, a corner of his mouth hitching up as he reminisced. “It is a place like no other.”

  “Yet you tore yourself away to come here.” To Sorley’s amazement, he was sitting.

  He didn’t recall taking his seat.

  Grim met his eye, nodding once. “See you? Even just hearing of Nought has spelled you.”

  “I am nothing the like.” Sorley took an oatcake and a bit of cheese, not wanting Grim to sense his discomfiture. I ken that Highlanders love their land.” He met Grim’s strange gray gaze, hoping he wouldn’t guess his lifelong fascination with rugged, heathery hills, empty moors, and soft Highland mist. “All Scots ken how the men of the north feel about their glens.”

  “We are blessed, I’ll no’ deny.” Grim lifted his tankard, tapping it to Sorley’s.

  Seeing no course but to return the courtesy, Sorley raised his own ale and took a sip.

  William’s famed, frothy ale tasted like sawdust.

  “I’d rather hear what you want.” Sorley set down his tankard. “Most men seeking me wish a fight. It’s no’ every day a man asks round about me, wanting to talk. I dinnae care for it.”

  “I’d feel the same.” Grim held his gaze. “Though I wouldn’t have minded your friends joining us.” He glanced at the archway, now empty and in deep shadow. “Such stalwarts are worth all the world’s gold. A man needs loyalty. It’s times of turmoil and doubt that show us who our true friends are. Thon men are yours.”

  Sorley now knew that he didn’t like Grim.

  No’ at all.

  The man wasn’t just a Highland warrior. He was a warrior-poet.

  They were the worst of the lot.

  He knew it well, because Caelan fancied himself as such. With his rich chestnut hair and blue eyes, he aye boasted that his good looks and silvered tongue made him a great favorite with the ladies.

  Sorley believed true men didn’t need words to win a lass’s favor.

  He was a man of action.

  He also had honor. His own brand, anyway. And for that reason, he’d never have plunked himself down at a table so close to a supposed friend’s should-have-been-secret meeting with a stranger.

  Some men simply lacked scruples.

  Before he could say so, William came through the archway wearing his big leather apron and an even larger smile. He carried a huge tray of smoked fish from the river, a house specialty, bread and cheese, more bannocks and butter, and a dish of smoked oysters.

  As he placed the offerings on the table, a young kitchen lad brought bowls of venison stew, the same much-praised recipe that Caelan was spooning. The lad’s tray also bore still-warm gooseberry pasties fresh from the oven. There was even a little pot of bramble preserves, another house favorite and made by William’s widowed great-aunt, Berengaria, who claimed a spoonful cured all ills.

  Sorley eyed the preserves, considering eating half the jar.

  Turning to the lad, William took the bowls of stew and set them before Grim and Sorley. The stew was well-seasoned and rich, the rising steam mouthwatering. Seeing their appreciation, William patted the table and grinned. “This should last you a while. There’s more. Sorley knows my stew kettle is bottomless.”

  Sorley noticed William was making no move to disappear as he usually did after serving a table.

  Apparently he’d turned as long-nosed as Roag, Caelan, and Andrew.

  So Sorley sent a pointed look at the shadowed archway. “Good trade this day, William. Glad to see thon tables so full for you.”

  “That they are.” Wyldes shrugged, the twinkle in his eye hinting he already knew Grim’s tidings.

  “Aye, well.” He set his hands on his aproned hips, his face creasing into a warm smile. “I’ll be leaving you. Ring the bell if there’s aught you need.” He tipped his head toward a small beribboned bell affixed to the wall not far from their table. “Loud as it gets in the long room, I aye hear a summons and will come.”

  He left them with a half-grin on his face, his steps jauntier than usual. Ever a good-natured soul, his increased joviality was still suspect.

  Sorley addressed Grim as soon as Wyldes vanished into the long room. “Can it be that everyone in this inn kens why you’re here?”

  “That I doubt.” The Highlander didn’t turn a hair. “Some may have their own ideas. It was necessary to make enquiries. Such questions aye raise others, don’t they? Men love secrets.”

  “I dinnae care for them.” Sorley’s patience was waning. “I’m also no’ fond of waiting. So”—he pushed aside William’s tantalizing stew bowl and leaned across the table, into Grim’s black-bearded face—“tell me what you want or I’m leaving now.”

  “If you knew Highlanders, you’d understand we love telling tales.” Grim dipped his spoon into the stew and took a leisurely bite. After what seemed forever, he set down the spoon and carefully dabbed his mouth with a white linen napkin. “Words matter to us. Our ancestral homes, our hills and glens, all our history, are the threads that weave our past and carry us into tomorrow. Ours is a different world, and it shapes us.” He paused, glancing at the windows where nothing could be seen but swirling mist. “We take our time. With how we say things, and many other matters. There are sennachies who take days to recite their clan chief’s lineage. Such bards are greatly prized and envied by those with less skilled storytellers.”

  Sorley watched him from stony eyes. “Some might say such a love of blether means you’re all a bunch of bluidy windbags.”

  “We can be that, for sure.” Not looking at all offended, Grim lifted his tankard, took a healthy sip.

  Sorley didn’t touch his.

  “I’ve little patience with Highlanders, less with their myths and legends.” Sorley sat back in his chair, trying to ignore the heat inching up his nape, the throbbing tightness forming between his shoulder blades.

  “Yet you wear a MacKenzie plaid.” Grim flicked his gaze over the proud blue and green tartan.

  “I like the colors.”

  “Do you have MacKenzie blood, then?”

  “I dinnae ken whose blood runs through my veins, as you’re surely aware.” Sorley wasn’t about to admit his admiration for the MacKenzies and their almost-mythic chieftain, Duncan, the Black Stag of Kintail.

  He did reach for another bannock and more bramble preserves. “I dinnae care either. Bloodlines and lineage have no meaning for me. It also doesn’t matter to me whose tartan I sling across my shoulder.” He held Grim’s gaze, knew his own was hard and cold. “If the colors and weave suit me, the wool keeps me warm and dry, I’m fine.”

  He felt anything but.

  He snapped his brows together, took a too-large bite of brambly bannock.

  “Perhaps you have a touch of MacKenzie in you?” Grim studied him, critically. “You have their coloring. The dark hair and eyes, though”—he rubbed his bearded chin, making his warrior rings clink together—“some have startling blue eyes, especially the women.”

  “I’ve ne’er seen a MacKenzie woman.”

  “Can you be so sure?”

  “Indeed!” Sorley again leaned toward the Highlander, ominously this time. “I ne’er forget a lass. No’ the ones I take to my bed, nor the ones I merely wish a ‘good morn.’ That, too, you’ll ken, seeing as you’ve been slinking around asking about me.”

 
Grim only smiled. “MacKenzies are a hot-blooded race. They lose their heads easily, giving in to their temper.” He spoke as if Sorley didn’t have steam shooting out his ears. “They’re known to have grand passions. The ladies—”

  “I dinnae give a flaming heap of heather about MacKenzie women.”

  Grim lifted a brow, his expression saying he should.

  Sorley was tempted to shove away from the table and storm from the room.

  All that kept him from doing so was knowing his three archfiends and Wyldes would see him go. They’d laugh in his wake, ribbing him for weeks.

  So he reached for Berengaria’s special bramble preserves and smeared a heaping spoonful onto a bannock. He didn’t really believe the brambles cured all ills, but he was annoyed enough to try anything.

  The bramble preserves were delicious, anyway.

  Grim…

  He was a worse annoyance than Sorley would’ve believed.

  “See here, Grim of Nought,” he resented that his bitterness slid into the place name, but he couldn’t help it. “You’re a fighting man.” Sorley let his gaze dip to the silver warrior rings in Grim’s beard. “Perhaps you enjoy kicking a man when he’s down. Be warned, I kick back and worse. Truth is I love a good clash. If you—”

  “I’m no’ here to fight.” Grim spoke so evenly, Sorley disliked him even more. “And I ne’er kick a downed foe. No man I ken would do so. No’ if he’s a good warrior. My beard rings”—he lifted a hand, fingering one—“were made only from the swords of the most valiant enemies I cut down. Men who fought well and died better. I honor them by wearing the rings.”

  “I did wonder.” It was all Sorley could think to say.

  He also frowned harder. Rarely had anyone made him feel so callous with a few deft words.

  Softly spoken, lilting words that only worsened his mood.

  “Aye, well…” Grim was watching him with a razor-sharp gaze. “I’m no’ here to speak of my warring days. Nor did I come to spin bluidy tales, though the truth is often as disturbing. I wish to tell you of Duncreag, a holding in Glen Creag, the glen of rock.”