Chapter 3 #2
At the sight of his master, however, Shadowbane let out a ringing neigh and stomped his foreleg hard enough to shake the boards of the floor—and to nearly smash the foot of the man who was combing him.
Ciaran bit back a snicker—Shadow had always had a temper—but the man was unimpressed.
“I have a devil mount of my own,” he told Shadowbane calmly. “Ye’ll nae be getting any kind of reaction out of me.”
“He’ll bite ye next if ye try to keep him from me,” Ciaran called, causing both men to turn.
One of them he recognized from the rotating shift of guards who had been posted to watch over Ciaran.
This was James McGregor, the Captain of the Guard for Clan Buchanan.
He had fair hair and light eyes, like a piece of green sea glass, but one glance at the stern planes of his face and the rangy readiness in his muscles would disabuse anyone of the notion that such a man might be considered soft or sweet.
He gave Ciaran one nod of recognition that wasn’t quite friendly but wasn’t quite hostile, either. Ciaran supposed that this was the best that he could expect from such a man as McGregor.
The other man had dark hair, a wide build, and a guarded expression. He set aside the curry comb and extended a hand to Ciaran.
“I’m Arran McPherson,” he introduced.
Ciaran hesitated before cautiously extending his own arm to shake.
“McPherson,” he said in acknowledgement.
Clan McPherson was one of the unknowns in the war that had gripped the Highlands this past year.
Initially, Laird McPherson had allied himself with the Donagheys, but recent reports had suggested that he had transferred his allegiance to Finlay Gordon.
It was a kind of uncertainty that Ciaran despised, and that was before he even considered his own precarious position at the Keep.
Before he could consider this further, Shadowbane stomped his foot again, this time in fury that he had not yet been appropriately greeted by his rider.
Ciaran carefully disentangled himself from Eilidh’s support, grateful that he didn’t stumble as he took the few steps between where she stood and where he could caress Shadow’s dark coat.
He couldn’t afford to look weak in front of these warriors. He would rather not look weak in front of Eilidh, either.
“The horse has been well minded,” James commented.
He was pleased to see that the captain was correct; Shadowbane was in as good condition as he would have been if Ciaran himself had been administering care.
“Shadowbane and Ciaran Gunn—the two of ye are legends of the battlefield. We wouldnae neglect any horse, let alone one such as he.”
“Your care is appreciated,” Ciaran muttered.
It was ungracious, but he didn’t want these men to think that he considered himself in their debt. This war was more complex than the ones Ciaran had fought before, and fighting began long before anyone lifted a weapon. He couldn’t afford to forget that.
The nod from James was infinitesimally friendlier this time, but Arran did not seem as easy to convince.
“Tell me,” he said with a casual air that was not convincing in the least. “How did ye end up on our borders, beaten half to death?”
That our didn’t escape Ciaran’s notice, nor did the way neither James nor Eilidh reacted to Arran referring to the Buchanan lands thusly. Whatever was going on with Clan McPherson at large, this McPherson, at least, was clearly loyal to the Donagheys.
Ciaran kept his voice level as he repeated the same lie he’d told Eilidh—and that he’d told the dozen or more guards who had asked him ever since.
“I was riding when Shadow and I were beset by bandits,” he said. “I managed to get back to my mount after they attacked, and we got away, but not before they got some blows in.”
“I already told ye that, Arran,” Eilidh said, exasperated.
But Arran’s eyes were still on Ciaran. “Aye,” he agreed. “Ye did. But it still strikes me as strange. I cannae see a pack of lowlifes felling Ciaran Gunn. Not without help.”
The words were level, but the implication in Arran’s words was clear.
Eilidh, his wee defender, stepped up next to Ciaran, a stubborn set to her jaw. “Ye will have to forgive my brother by marriage,” she said sourly, and Ciaran squirreled away that knowledge for later consideration.
The marriages of the four Donaghey sisters were an important factor in the war, and if Arran had married the third sister, that would mean that only Eilidh was still unwed; something that made her still a pawn in the game that was stretching across the country.
“He is suspicious by nature,” Eilidh continued, pinning Arran with a poisonous glance.
Arran was unmoved. “Aye, I will do what it takes to care for my people,” he said easily. “Which makes me ask again: how did mere bandits get the best of ye, Gunn?”
Eilidh spared one more scowl for McPherson, but then she, too, turned to look at Ciaran expectantly. He felt the uncommonly heavy weight of that expectation.
He opened his mouth to say something reasonable, but he was spared when the sound of carriage wheels rattling on cobblestones echoed across the courtyard, stealing everyone’s attention.
Ciaran might have ignored it, except a high flush rose on Eilidh’s cheeks, and she looked back at him with a guilty expression.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I meant to tell ye about our guest.” She paused, fidgeted. “Ye may wish to brace yourself, Ciaran Gunn.”