To Love a Highlander Page 6

  She lifted her face into the wind, trying not to wince.

  “All I wish is here, lady.” Sorley leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. “For truth, I cannae see the lure of a place so remote and empty that the only sound is the wind across the moors and the fall of rain on stone. Or, saints forbid, the lonely echo of one’s own footsteps halloing through a deserted glen.

  “Indeed”—he folded his arms—“a man must be mad to dwell in such a place.”

  Mirabelle held her peace, refusing to let him bait her. “I would say it is astonishing that anyone could resist living there.”

  Something like annoyance flashed over Sorley’s features. “I’m sure every Highlander believes that is so.”

  Mirabelle’s chin came up. “We know it is.”

  “And I must be gone.” He pushed away from the wall, adjusted his thick calfskin jerkin.

  “I’ve kept you, haven’t I?” Mirabelle glanced at his travel pouch over by the tower stair. “You were on your way to the Red Lion.”

  “Aye, so I am.”

  “Do you always carry so many weapons when visiting an alehouse?” She flicked a look at his sword, then the dirk tucked beneath his belt. She couldn’t be sure, but suspected he also had a dagger in his boot. “Have you more arms in thon leather bag? You already said it doesn’t contain coin for the tavern wenches.”

  “Are you aye so inquisitive, sweetness?” He leaned in, so close that his breath warmed her cheek. “Curiosity is no’ a safe habit.”

  “Highlanders are a curious folk.”

  “That they are.” He smiled, clearly pleased to twist her words.

  “You know what I meant.” Mirabelle studied him, noting the irritation behind his levity. “You dislike Highlanders, don’t you?” She tilted her head, tapping her chin. “I wonder why that is when, as you say, you have never traveled north to visit our hills?”

  “I’ve no need to go there.” He turned away from her, again bracing his hands on the wall. “Enough Highlanders come to court for me to know them well. A man needn’t walk a folk’s heather to ken the make of them.”

  “I see.” Mirabelle went to stand beside him. “A Highlander hurt you.”

  “Nae, one of the devils sired me.” He glanced at her, his voice like ice. “Leastways, I suspect as much.”

  “Oh. I am sorry.” Mirabelle was.

  She wanted to sink into the stone slabs of the battlement. She should’ve known there was a deeper reason for his resentment of her people. The hills and moorlands that, most times, stole a man’s breath, stilling his heart with their haunting beauty. Yet he’d claimed he sought this spot every morning, “allowing himself the pleasure of the view…”

  Mirabelle understood then, and the knowledge broke her heart.

  She stepped forward, hoping he’d think the chill wind and not sympathy misted her eyes. “Do you know who the man was? Have you ever tried speaking to him?”

  “Nae, lady, I dinnae even ken his name. Nor do I wish to. I’ve no desire to meet him.”

  “And if ever you did?”

  “That isn’t likely.” He cupped her chin, lifting her face to his. “More important is that you meet me in the chapel this e’en. I’ll be there no’ long after gloaming. I’ll give you my answer then.”

  “About your father or me?”

  “Concerning the ‘matter of delicacy’ we spoke of yestere’en. My father doesn’t interest me in the slightest. Nor do gently bred ladies.” He released her and bowed slightly. “Crazed as it is, I’m mightily tempted to make an exception for you.”

  Before Mirabelle could respond, he strode away, heading toward the tower stair. At the door, he picked up his satchel and looked back at her.

  “Because I ken how curious Highlanders are, I’ll give you one answer now, Lady Mirabelle.” He set his hand on the latch, his dark eyes hard. “If ever I do meet my sire, it will be a day like no other.”

  Then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the stairwell. A hint of his sandalwood scent remained behind. And the knowledge that Sorley the Hawk was not a man to be trifled with.

  He was bold and dangerous.

  Much more sensually appealing by the light of day than she’d realized in the dimness of his bedchamber. She also knew that if he agreed to do as she’d bid him, he’d do more than ruin her.

  He’d steal her heart.

  She strongly suspected she wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop him.

  Worse, she doubted she’d want to.

  Chapter Three

  Sorley didn’t care for men said to possess the devil’s own temper.

  Restraint was aye the better way. A surer means to achieve one’s goals. Yet just now, as he strode past the cottages that marked the end of Stirling town, he had the unpleasant feeling that the dark one himself had climbed up from his fiery pit to blast him with brimstone and sulfur, fouling his mood and stealing the roguish charm that never failed to attract the ladies.

  He also knew who was responsible for calling the fiend into his world.

  Worst of all, she loosened his tongue.

  Frowning, he quickened his pace past the cottages. Little more than hovels, these homes were thick-walled and heavy with thatch, each one set close to the narrow road.

  They belonged to the poorest of the poor. Good, hardworking folk. Many were the times he secretly dropped a cloth-wrapped packet of foodstuffs on the door stoops. Sometimes cold, generously sliced roasted meat, other times a handful of the castle cooks’ prized cheese pasties. Now and then, he’d leave a castoff tunic or length of linen, given to him by a Stirling laundress. On feast days, he set flasks of uisge beatha on the deep-cut window ledges, knowing well that all Scotsmen appreciated a nip of the strong Highland spirits.

  This day, he hoped no one noticed his passage.

  Some of the tenseness left his shoulders as he neared the wood at the town’s edge. The pines were dense, their scent already reaching him. He breathed deep, appreciating the cooling mist that chased the heat from his face, the back of his neck.

  If he didn’t know better he’d swear someone had strapped a furnace on his back. His blood boiled that hotly, making him more certain than ever that Lady Mirabelle had cast a witchy spell on him, an incantation to dash his wits.

  How else could she have used a single glance from her great lavender-blue eyes to persuade him to blurt his most private secret?

  Praise the gods he hadn’t expounded on his suspicions, admitting he was certain his father wasn’t just a Highlander, but a chieftain.

  His gut told him so.

  Only a Highland man in a position of power would ever find himself at the royal court, after all. In his experience with courtiers, Highlanders and otherwise, only such men possessed the arrogance to leave their unwanted seed planted deeply in the bellies of castle lovelies. Long-nosed as Mirabelle was, if she guessed his thoughts, she’d no doubt begin peppering chieftains and lairds about their amorous pasts upon her return to her bluidy hills.

  He couldn’t allow such probing into his affairs.

  When the day came for him to face his sire, the dastard wouldn’t have a jot of warning.

  His errant sire could wait.

  This morn, he had Fenris matters to attend to, an urgent mission for the crown that already had his sword hand itching to reach for steel. Sir Henry Lockhart, traitor to King and country, would never guess his fate when he approached him garbed as a penniless wayfarer riding an equally decrepit nag.

  Sorley excelled at such disguises.

  Few warriors, even among his secret band of Fenris brothers, could carry off such messy work without letting even a drop of blood soil King Robert’s hands. Lockhart deserved a particularly unpleasant end. Savoring the moment the bastard sensed his doom, Sorley welcomed the bend in the road that signaled the approach to the Red Lion. Set conveniently at a crossroads, the rambling old inn offered a greater selection of sway-backed, long-toothed horses than the stables at Stirling Castle.

>   Better yet, the Red Lion was run by William Wyldes, a rough-hewn giant of a man who never saw anything and spoke of even less. He enjoyed laughter and song, bonnie lasses, and making a profit. As long as a body paid for his ale and victuals, didn’t cause too much of a ruckus or tear up the rooms, all was good in Wyldes’s world.

  He also demanded that the tavern wenches be treated with respect.

  If a man broke his rules…

  For the first time that morning, a smile curved Sorley’s lips. Sir John Sinclair had only visited the inn once, to his knowledge. Taking offense at something the noble said to a serving lass, Wyldes tossed out the courtier, making sure his richly garbed arse landed in the mud. Sorley’s smile broadened at the memory of how the innkeeper had warned Sinclair he’d leave minus his best piece if he dared to return.

  Sorley appreciated a man who kept order, taking care of his own.

  He strode faster when the inn came into view. Old before he was even born, the inn was rumored to have been built on the site of a pagan sacred well, popular even in ancient times with travelers seeking blessings and refreshment. These days, thick stone walls greeted guests, and a sloping slate roof, the tiles laced with lichen and moss, ensured that a fire would be unlikely to spread.

  Thick piney woods protected the inn’s back, while the front looked out upon pleasantly rolling countryside. Villagers and farmers were frequent guests. And the river was close enough to attract those who journeyed by water.

  A reputation for good, homey food and excellent ale did the rest, pulling in trade from near and far. If some came because of the friendliness of the well-made, aye cheerful tavern lasses, that was only to be expected. William Wyldes sought to please all patrons.

  Eager to please his King, Sorley pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the inn’s low-beamed long room. The air was thick with the smell of stew and ale, and peats glimmered in the fine stone fireplace. But the scarred tables were empty. A few oil lanterns burned, their smoky light not enough to banish the corner shadows. The clatter of plates and ale cups came from the kitchen, the noise breaking the silence that hung so heavy in the public room.

  Sorley remained where he stood, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, not liking the stillness.

  He knew why when a hand clamped down on his shoulder and a familiar voice boomed behind him, “You’re losing your touch, letting a beautiful woman leave your bedchamber after less time than it takes to properly kiss a lass.

  “Or”—his archfiend, Roag the Bear, stepped around him, grinning—“did she run after discovering you dinnae even know how to kiss?”

  “What have you done?” Sorley glanced around the empty long room. “Downed all of Wydes’s ale so that your wits are addled? I slept alone last night, no’ that it’s aught to you.”

  “That I know!” Roag’s grin widened. “The lady would’ve sliced you with her razor-sharp tongue had you tried to keep her any longer.

  “She cannae abide you, that one.” Roag dropped onto a chair and stretched his long legs toward the fire. “We’ve known that since we were lads, what?”

  “You’re talking nonsense.” Sorley remained standing, the other man’s cheek making his head ache again. “I ne’er have aught to do with ladies, as well you know.”

  “Whate’er.” Roag shrugged, his damnable grin appearing permanent.

  Roag, too, was an agent of the crown. A Fenris Guard, much as Roag’s membership in the secret brotherhood sometimes irked Sorley. For sure, he didn’t recall any mention of the lout’s participation in dealing with the unpleasantness that was Sir Henry Lockhart.

  Hoping he hadn’t erred, Sorley did rake the arse with a narrow-eyed stare. A great hulk of a man, hence his by-name, Bear, Roag enjoyed the same dark good looks as Sorley, much to his annoyance. Even more galling, the thin knife-slash that arced across Roag’s left cheekbone gave him a dashing, roguish air that appealed strongly to women.

  Sorley couldn’t stand him.

  So he crossed his arms, ignoring the chair Roag pulled out for him.

  “What are you doing here?” Sorley glanced across the room, not surprised to see a fetching dark-haired lass peering at them from behind the kitchen door. She was Maili, a cheery, plump-breasted castle laundress who enjoyed earning a bit of extra coin at the Red Lion.

  Sorley suspected she simply had a taste for men and took delight in lifting her skirts. She did put her heart into each amorous adventure, as he knew well.

  Roag especially favored her. But Sorley’s gut warned that the buxom lass wasn’t the bastard’s only reason for being at the inn.

  Following Sorley’s gaze, Roag winked at the maid before turning back to Sorley. “I ken you’ve sampled her charms, so dinnae tell me you wonder what drew me here. There’s no’ a sweeter tumble for miles. Unless”—his grin returned, flashing boldly—“you tame Lady Mirabelle. I’ll wager she’d set the heather ablaze.”

  “The lady’s amorous abilities are of no interest to me,” Sorley lied. “If she even possesses such skills, which I doubt.”

  Roag snorted. “And Wyldes will turn out his stable of comely, well-made tavern wenches and hire shriveled, grizzle-haired crones to serve his patrons. Those with breasts hanging to their knees will claim the highest price.”

  “You deserve such a female.”

  “There speaks a man soured because he cannae enjoy the MacLaren minx in the heather.”

  “You’re a bastard, spawned on the hottest hob of hell.”

  “So I am.” Roag shrugged, looking amused.

  Furious because his archrival had struck a nerve, Sorley tore his gaze from the lout’s grinning face before he planted his fist in the middle of it. Resisting the urge, he glanced at the shadowed doorway to the kitchen and then the fire burning low in the grate.

  Roag leaned back in his chair, lifting his arms to hook his fingers behind his neck. “Lady Mirabelle scorched you once years ago.” The humor left his face, the flicker of sympathy in his eyes annoying Sorley more than his devilry. “Dinnae let a second mistake turn into something that will fry you to a crisp. That lass—”

  “What mistake?” Sorley’s tone was his lowest, his most deadly.

  Unimpressed, Roag raised his arms over his head and cracked his knuckles. “Allowing her into your bedchamber, that’s what. A fool would know you thought she’d leap into your embrace, now that all the court ladies adore you.” He lowered his arms and shook his head. “A shame; from the way she left so soon, it was clear she wanted none of you.

  “Now if she’d been with me…” He let the words tail off, his levity returning. “I’d have shown her—”

  “Hold your tongue is what you’ll do.” Sorley was on him in a beat, leaning across the table, his hands braced on the well-scrubbed surface. “Dinnae push me too far,” he warned. “Have done with such prattle and tell me why you’re following me about. And speak plain. I can see your lies at a hundred paces. This close, they’re as conspicuous as a three-eyed troll.”

  “You wound me.” Roag clapped a hand to his heart.

  “Nae, I ken you.”

  Before Roag could respond, a deep voice boomed behind them, “And I ken there’s a fine north wind blowing this morn.”

  On hearing the secret Fenris greeting, both men turned to see William Wyldes striding toward them, carrying two brimming cups of ale.

  “Is there indeed?” Sorley lifted a brow when the innkeeper stopped before the table.

  “Aye, and it’ll worsen before the day is o’er,” Wyldes gave the required answer, letting Sorley and Roag know they could speak freely, the inn hiding no one with peeled ears and, worse, a flapping tongue.

  “I also ken, as should you, that I dinnae allow fighting in my public room.” The innkeeper plunked down the ale cups and then planted his hands on his hips. A big man, he equaled Sorley and Roag in height and muscle, but had a shock of unruly auburn hair that he wore tied back at his nape. His beard was just as bushy and wild, and he had light blue eyes th
at always smiled. And although he kept the Red Lion ruckus-free, there was no man better to have at your side in a fight.

  Just now he looked Sorley and Roag up and down. “You ken the rules,” he reminded them. “No brawling. Unless”—he winked—“it’s a fight I start myself.”

  “Understood.” Sorley clapped him on the shoulder and then pulled back a chair, reaching for one of the ale cups after he took a seat. “I’ll just call on our long friendship and ask you to take a swing at this bastard.” He turned a significant look on Roag. “I’ll do the rest.”

  “Try and you’ll meet the cutting edge of my sword.” Roag tossed back his ale and slapped the empty cup on the table. “The blade already has your name on it.”

  “As mine carries yours.” Sorley glared at him.

  Wyldes laughed. “Someday the two of you will kill each other. When it happens”—he grabbed an ale jug from another table and refilled Roag’s cup—“I’ll be filling my purse taking wagers, not jumping into the fray. If I did that, I’d be obliged to have done with both of you and then wouldn’t the King be after me?”

  “True enough.” Sorley took a healthy gulp of his own ale, secretly annoyed that Roag also held a place in the King’s graces. “Though I cannae believe our good Robert set Roag on my tail this morn.

  “He has other reasons for making a nuisance of himself.” Sorley glanced at him, sure of it. “He thinks I’m hoping to bed a gently bred lady.”

  “Are you?” Wyldes looked amused. “I’d no’ bet on it.”

  “Rightly so.” Sorley lifted his cup in salute. “Here’s to a man who kens me well.”

  “Let’s no’ forget the man who kens Wyldes better than you.” Roag reached across the table, knocking his ale cup against Sorley’s. “William!”—he looked at the innkeeper, using his given name—“why is this den o’ madmen so empty? The floor swept and the tables scrubbed cleaner than a bairn’s behind?”

  “Why would any man go to such trouble?” Wyldes pulled back a chair, joining them. “Word came that a party of lofties are riding in later this morn. I wasn’t told if they’ll be staying the night or just wanting a good, warm meal and my best heather ale.