Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
I t was a clear and rather beautiful day, and as they rode, she found herself marveling at the countryside around them. The last time she’d been out here, it had been well and truly dark, and what little might have been illuminated by moonlight or Niall’s lantern had been thoroughly obscured by fog. Now, though, she was able to actually see a bit of the countryside. It was as beautiful as it had been when she’d gazed at it through the windows of Davey’s car, what felt like a whole lifetime ago. Strange — she hadn’t thought of the old man in days. Hadn’t thought about much to do with her old life, in truth.
She said as much to Niall when he rode up alongside her, ostensibly to ask if she was enjoying the ride — but she saw by the casual way he scanned her posture and hands that he was also checking that she was in control of the horse. Well, she was. She’d been a good and obedient student — and Amelia, for her part, had been an excellent teacher, able to hone right in on the most important elements without wasting time on anything extraneous. Sure, she had no idea how to handle the horse at higher speeds — but getting on and off, walking and stopping? Those she had well under control.
“What does Scotland look like, in your time?” Niall asked softly.
From the sound of his voice, it was a question he’d been thinking about for a long time, and she repressed the instinct to give a flippant answer when she turned to see his face. Beyond him, she could see the Laird and Hamish looking curiously in her direction, having heard the question too.
“A little like this, still,” she said thoughtfully, gesturing out over the view of the moors that had emerged as the forest thinned. “Every bit as beautiful, though the buildings have changed, and the roads are paved. I wish I’d been there longer — I’d have more to say,” she admitted, a little embarrassed by her lack of insight.
“She’s right, it all is pretty much the same but for those things,” Amelia added with a smile.
“Knowing it’s still called Scotland is enough to keep me happy,” Niall said, a defiant little smile lighting up his eyes. “Despite the best efforts of the English, they couldn’t take our country from us.”
“I suppose we have that in common,” Lissa said with a smile. “My countrymen rose up against English rule in the eighteenth century. So did most of their colonies. The Empire’s all but vanquished, in my time.” She bit her lip, well aware that the situation was a little more complicated than she was letting on — but it was an accurate statement, in broad strokes. And it wasn’t as though Niall had any way of checking her facts, was it?
At any rate, it wasn’t long before thoughts of the future were firmly banished by the immediate present. As they traveled up a stretch of road in the forest, she felt a sudden sense of deja vu, and realized why only as a pair of familiar iron gates came into view up ahead. This was it — the part of the forest she’d gotten lost in. Could it really have only been a week that had passed since then — since she’d come stumbling back down this stretch of road beneath her horse’s hooves, to find Niall riding out of the fog toward her? So much had changed since then that she felt like an entirely different person.
Maybe she was.
There were guards posted on the gate, and she recognized the blue of their livery this time — Niall had explained the men she’d seen had been wearing Weatherby’s colors. Their faces paled at the sight of the Scottish contingent riding up out of the forest, and though Laird Donal rode up first to offer a cordial and peaceful greeting, Lissa could see that neither of the guards had any intention of putting up a fight here. Even as the first guard inquired after the Laird’s purpose in visiting in such large numbers, the second was already getting the gates open. They seemed only moderately reassured by Laird Donal’s statement that they were only there to offer their assistance with the inquest — and then the whole group was riding through the gates.
Lissa took the opportunity to look around at the grounds of what would have been her hotel if things had gone a little differently that fateful day. It was as though Weatherby — or his gardening staff, at any rate — had made a conscious effort to make the place look as English as possible. There were carefully manicured flowerbeds left and right, grassy hills that had carefully been cleared of any hint of Scottish wildflowers, and even a hedge maze in the distance. Up ahead of them, she could see the manor, looming impressively — not quite as tall as the Keep, of course, but certainly rivaling it in grandeur.
But she didn’t have much of an opportunity to admire the manor. Because riding out from the side of it were a handful of men on horses, and from the looks of naked fury on their faces, she had a feeling that they weren’t going to have as easy a time getting past them and into the manor as they had with Lord Weatherby’s guards on the gates. Hamish and Niall both urged their horses forward, joining with Laird Donal at the front of the group — she and Amelia moved over to the side, allowing the armed men to move up behind their leaders in support. The delegation of Englishmen were well and truly outnumbered — but they didn’t seem to have noticed that. Three of them had even drawn their swords, which struck her as unnecessarily hostile — especially given that neither Laird Donal nor any of the other men had so much as made a move toward the weapons they were carrying.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” demanded the man at the front of the group. He was a slender man, tall and stooped where he perched on his horse, and there was a hardness in his watery gray eyes that set Lissa’s teeth on edge immediately. The men around her noticeably stiffened at the sound of his voice — the unctuous vowels, the elongated drawl of his upper-class English accent. She remembered the quiet way the Scotsmen had looked at each other on the ride, when she’d mentioned that Scotland had survived its years of English occupation, and was very glad that she’d brought that up on the way over here. “You are trespassing on English lands — this level of brutish aggression will not be tolerated?—”
“Laird Donal MacClaran, of Clan MacClaran.”
It was Niall’s voice that boomed out like a lightning strike, surprising her almost as much as it clearly shocked the English lord — he stopped speaking mid-sentence, eyes widening a little with shock and outrage. Thus announced, Laird Donal urged his horse forward a few steps, pinning the English lord with a calculating gaze.
“Lord Edward Codlington,” one of the other Englishman said hastily, at the prompting of a murderous sidelong glance from the leader of the group.
“Lord Codlington,” Laird Donal repeated, inclining his head graciously. “I would that we were meeting under less troubling circumstances.”
“I can only assume you have been deeply misinformed as to your welcome here,” Codlington said, his voice dripping with venom. “Otherwise, I’d be forced to conclude that this visitation is an act of naked aggression.”
“It’s you who has been misinformed, in that case, Lord Codlington.” Donal’s voice was still polite, but there was steel in it. “I’ve brought material witnesses to the inquest that you and your men are here to conduct.”
“And I’m expected to ignore the brutes you’ve brought with you, am I?” Codlington snarled.
Lissa knew a deliberate barb when she saw one — the way his hand twitched around the hilt of his sword only confirmed it. Codlington wanted Donal to lose his temper and to attack, to justify sending them away. He hadn’t been quick enough to hide the flash of fear that had come across his face when Donal had mentioned the witnesses that he’d brought for the inquest — it was obvious that the MacClaran presence was a threat to whatever it was he was trying to achieve with the inquest.
“I’ll ignore that insult,” Laird Donal said, his tone still pleasant though his smile had hardened into an ominous rictus. “As guests of Lord Weatherby, we’ll extend to you some of the courtesy we owe him.”
Lissa had to hide a smile at that deliberate piece of bait. Codlington fell for it — a smug expression passed across his face. “I’m afraid Lord Weatherby is gravely ill,” he sneered now, clearly relishing the delivery of the news. “Gravely, gravely ill. He’s in no condition to receive guests?—”
“Very kind of you to take on the hosting duties, Edward,” intruded a new voice.
The color drained from Codlington’s face as he turned to see another man hastening out of the house. This one was surrounded by guards in that familiar blue livery, though he himself was dressed from head to toe in what looked like black velvet and far too much jewelry. He had black hair combed back sharply from a pale, somewhat wan face — she could tell he was still recovering from an illness. But his green eyes were clear, and he was moving with a vigor and confidence that had clearly shocked the hell out of Codlington.
“The rumors of my impending doom have been greatly exaggerated, I’m relieved to announce,” the man said briskly, his guards staying close by his side as he approached the confrontation. “Laird Donal! A pleasure to see you. It’s been too long.”
“Lord Weatherby, the pleasure is mine.” Donal was working hard to hide his smile, with little success — even Hamish and Niall, the most highly-trained diplomats present, couldn’t hide the twinkle in their eyes.
Amelia and Lissa, for their part, were grinning like maniacs. Amelia leaned close enough to point out Sir Baldric — he was one of the men standing behind Lord Weatherby, a formidable-looking bald man in his forties wearing a lot of black leather and a deliberately neutral expression. He was looking intently at the group, and when his eyes fell on Lissa, he gave her a little nod, which she returned.
Meanwhile, Lord Codlington had managed to pick his jaw up off the floor. “Lord Weatherby,” he forced out, clearly struggling to muster a positive tone. “It’s so good to see that you’re feeling better. I was just?—”
“—welcoming our honored guests, I hope?” Lord Weatherby cut across the other Lord, before clapping his hands imperiously. “See to their horses, men! Baldric, you’ll see to it that rooms are arranged for our guests, yes?”
“Lord Weatherby, I really must?—”
“Very kind,” Donal cut across the spluttering Codlington. “The men are happy to set up camp out here — we’ve brought sufficient provisions, too, not wanting to put any extra burden on your hospitality.”
And, Lissa thought with amusement, it was a lot harder to poison an army who had brought along their own food — from the disappointed look on Codlington’s face, she had a feeling he was thinking the same thing.
“Well, then. Do join me inside for some afternoon tea,” Lord Weatherby said brightly.
And with that, the confrontation was over. They were on their way into the manor… and all Lissa had to do was suppress the urge to poke her tongue out at the furious Lord Codlington as she passed him.