Chapter 2
2
It was late midday when the first farms came into view, their owners tolling in the fields under the warm sun. There was not a vast difference between clans most times, with the same farmers supplying the clan and its laird with the necessities right to the warriors that protected the clan.
Still, the color of one’s tartan was what separated them from each other, and started the battles that raged on for centuries.
Ian had never been this close to the MacGregor village before, their battles raging on near the border. From his vantage point, he could see the swirling smoke from the huts just over the last rise, the sounds of chattering reaching his ears. It wouldn’t be long before they would come into view, and he was already steeling himself against the looks they would get. Their tartans would give them away immediately.
“Halt!”
“Bleedy hell,” Remy muttered as they pulled up their horses. There were four warriors dressed in Macgregor colors at the last bend, their hands on the hilts of their swords and grim looks on their faces.
Ian held up his hand, halting his guards from approaching the warriors. “We come invited.”
One of the warriors nudged their horse forward, his face emotionless. “Aye Wallace. We have been waiting on ye.”
Dalziel motioned his horse forward. “That is laird Wallace tae ye, MacGregor.”
Ian fought the need to roll his eyes at his captain’s overbearing attitude as of late, wondering if one day his tongue would get them all into trouble. “Forgive mah,” he replied evenly. “We were held up by the rains.” While he had taken his da’s seat, he still didn’t feel like the laird. Some days, he expected his da to walk into the great hall and shoo him out like he had when Ian was younger. Stephan had supported his brother the best he could, but the clan’s fate rested on Ian’s shoulders and he felt the weight every single day.
It was why he was here, wanting to protect the clan that he fiercely loved. It was why he had chosen to bring a small guard with him, hoping that his sister could set up a meeting with her new laird so that they could talk peace. Ian didn’t want it to appear that they were trying to be threatening, nor did he want them to think he had other designs on why he was there.
It would, however, be a bit more difficult if Iris wasn’t settled here. Her letter had stated that the Macgregor clan chief was willing to meet with Ian and strengthen a bond between the two clans. Stephan hadn’t considered it to be a threat and neither did Ian. Iris wouldn’t betray her own family.
He sniffed, eyeing them. “Och, well come this way.”
“I dinna trust him,” Dalziel growled as he came to his place by Ian as captain of the guard.
“Ye dinna trust anyone,” Ian reminded him as the warrior turned his horse back to the others waiting. “We would be the same way they are. Tis all new tae us, this alliance.”
Dalziel snorted but Ian moved forward, falling behind the warriors and getting his first view of the Macgregor village. The huts were not much different than theirs, with children’s laughter drifting from places unseen while others called out greetings as they passed.
Some did stop and stare as they rode past and while Ian didn’t wear any sort of crown marking him laird, he knew that his likeness had made it back to the surrounding clans. That and seeing his warriors crowd around him likely didn’t hide the fact at all.
When the keep came into view, Ian gave a small sigh of relief, feeling the weariness in his bones. He longed for a warm fire and some whiskey, perhaps somewhere he could prop up his feet for a spell.
They passed by a few more cottages before reaching the outskirts of the walled courtyard. “The horses can be put there,” the warrior that had greeted them stated, pointing at the stables just outside the wall.
Ian followed his gaze and noted a young lass watching them with interest from the doorway, wiping her hands on a rag. The cottage was in good condition, likely due to the fact that the occupants maintained the stables next to it, though the lass looked a bit young to have such a lofty position. Ian’s own stablemaster was in his fiftieth year alone.
“Ida!” the warrior barked at the lass. “Where is the old man? He’s keeping us from a dram of whiskey, he is!”
“Hold yer horses,” came a grumble as the old man in question moved himself into view. He was stooped, his clothing grimy and his gray beard nearly touching the middle of his chest. This was the stablemaster? He looked as if he had one foot in the grave already the way he was shuffling around.
Still, Ian dismounted, sliding his reins over his horse’s head and stepped forward. “I am laird Wallace. Thank ye for keeping mah horses.”
The old man’s eyes widened for half a second and a sneer came across his wrinkled face before he was charging Ian with a bellow, his fist coming out of nowhere. Before his warriors could reach him, Ian felt the crunch of the old man’s bony knuckles on his nose, the force causing him to stumble along the cobblestone until he could get his feet under him.
“Uncle!”
The man started charging again, but this time, Ian was ready for the assault. The pain in his nose barely registered as Ian’s training kicked in and he grabbed the old man’s fist, wrenching his arm behind his back. The old man cried out, the smell of whiskey and unwashed body engulfing Ian as he held the man close, waiting for another threat. “Careful old man,” he warned his attacker, his voice low where no one else could hear. “I’ve a mind tae show ye wot happens when someone takes a shot at mah.”
“Go on then!” the old man shouted, feebly struggling against Ian’s grip. “Yer nothing more than a lowly Wallace! No good for nothing but killing innocents!”
Ian was surprised by his outburst but then again, they were still enemies. He didn’t expect them to all let go of the past that quickly. “I donna wish tae hurt ye.”
The old man scoffed, struggling more. “Ye lie. All ye Wallaces lie!”
The MacGregor warriors made no move to help Ian and he sighed inwardly, the pain in his nose increasing. They would probably like to see the old man run a sword through him and none would lift a finger to help him.
“Are ye alright?” Remy asked, eyeing the old man as he struggled in Ian’s grip, spewing all sorts of curses Ian’s way.
“I’m fine,” Ian replied, feeling the blood starting to run out of his nose as he thrust the man toward Remy carefully. “Take him.”
Remy did as he asked and Ian wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic, feeling the eyes on him as he did so. They were waiting to see how he would react, he realized, to the blatant attack on a visiting laird. He could easily kill the old Scot and no one would dare say anything.
That would be what was expected of a Wallace.
“Uncle! Wot were ye thinking?”
Ian turned to see the young woman grabbing the old man’s arm and wrenching him away from Remy, her hair the color of wheat covering most of her face. “Tis a Wallace,” the old man mumbled as she ran her hands over him, looking for injuries. Ian imagined it wasn’t the first time she had done so. “They destroy anything they touch.”
It also wasn’t the first time Ian had heard such a tale and likely not the last, but it still stung that people thought of them as lowly Scots that cared naught for what they did. He enjoyed a good fight as much as the next Scot but he didn’t slaughter innocents. Every Scot that had stepped in his path over the years was looking for his blood as well and taking their lives had meant he stayed alive just a little longer.
“Do ye wish tae take him into our custody?” Dalziel asked, his sword in his hand and a gleam in his eye. “Or do ye want mah tae gut him right here?”
“Nay,” Ian said immediately, the thought churning his stomach. “He’s nothing but a drunken old man. He meant nothing by it.”
“He struck a laird!” Dalziel pushed, anger contorting his face. “He deserves punishment and as yer captain, I will be the one tae deliver it.”
“I said nay,” Ian growled, his nose starting to throb. It likely needed to be reset and bloody hell, he needed a drink. “Put away yer sword. That is yer command.”
Dalziel’s gaze narrowed but he did as Ian asked, moving away in disgust. Ian knew that wasn’t going to be the end of the conversation between them.
The warrior from earlier approached Ian now that the initial threat was over with, wincing as he saw his nose. “Mah apologies, laird Wallace. He’s nothing but a drunken old fool.”
“No need tae worry aboot it,” Ian grimaced, hoping that his expression resembled some sort of a smile. He cared not about the old man and his ramblings but this wasn’t how he had expected his first visit to go with his sister. She was going to think that he had started something with one of her new clansmen.
“Ida!” the warrior shouted as he turned toward the cottage. “Come here and apologize tae the laird!”
“There’s no need,” Ian started as the young woman hurried to him, a wide look on her face. With her hair parted behind her ears now, he could see that her eyes were the color of a summer sky, with a pert nose and a full lush mouth with pale pink lips.
“I’m so verra sorry mah laird,” she said, dipping into some sort of curtsey before him, her eyes downcast in submission as if she expected Ian to yell at her. “He dinna mean tae hurt ye.”
“Tis fine,” Ian forced out, tearing his gaze away from her features. Never before had he been struck by a lass like her.
The last lass he had felt this strongly about had broken his heart.
Shaking that particular thought out of his head, Ian felt the drip of blood on his face again, wiping it away. “Please mah laird,” the woman called Ian said as she straightened. “Let mah tend tae yer nose.”
“The laird doesna need anything else from ye,” Dalziel shot back, stepping in front of Ian. “Stay away from him.”
“Dalziel back down,” Ian ordered, irritated that his captain seemed to think everyone was a threat right now. “If the lass wished tae help, then I will allow it.”
The captain didn’t take to his words too kindly, turning to face Ian with his jaw clenched. “She could ram a sword through ye the moment ye step inside.”
“I assure ye,” Ida spoke up from behind Dalziel’s broad shoulders. “I donna own a sword.”
“Harmless,” Ian added, eyeing his captain. “She’s harmless. Dalziel. Allow her tae tend tae mah. I canna let mah sister see mah like this.” It was partly a lie. Iris had seen him a great deal worse over their lifetime and she wouldn’t bat an eye at a broken nose. She probably would march up to him and force it back into place without so much as a grunt.
But Ian wished to see what this connection with this woman led him. He wished to learn more about why her uncle hated the Wallace clan and why he thought they had slaughtered innocent lives. There were many questions he had and none of them were going to be answered with violence.
Stepping around his captain, Ian met Remy’s questioning eyes but his friend knew better than to interfere as long as Ian wasn’t getting drunk off whiskey or about to spar with another. If nothing more, Remy was likely curious as to why Ian would be interested in a mere stable lass. She wasn’t even what Ian would consider a great beauty, but more a plain woman with impressive blue eyes that drew him in. “Lead the way Ida,” Ian finally said, motioning to the hut next to the stables. “While mah men stable the horses.”
She gave him a tight nod and Ian drew in a breath, starting across the cobblestones toward the cottage.