Chapter 3
Magnus was getting dizzy.
He had watched so many flailing arms and frilly skirts that he felt as though he had been part of the ceilidh itself.
He was extremely bored, resorting to entertaining himself with fantasies of the long walk back to his castle, where he could be alone with the trees and the wind and wallow in blissful solitude once more.
He was not accustomed to public events and disliked the noise and the curious looks he had been getting from every corner. He was convinced everyone was staring at him because of the patch across his eye or his infamous past. Neither was welcome, and it was putting him on edge.
He decided that, impolite or not, he would find his host and take his leave. They had discussed the alliance, and he felt he was in a good position with Laird MacIrvin. Although they had only had a brief exchange of words, he was convinced that their association would be a favorable one.
He stepped down from the platform at the side of the room and slowly made his way round to the back of the hall where he had seen his hosts departing a few minutes ago.
He had never been good at such social occasions.
Long ago, he and his wife had attended a few such functions—invited by the old lairds of the land.
But in recent years, his time had been spent at war or traveling to and from the next battle.
He was no longer au fait with modern social customs and, in truth, had enjoyed their absence from his life.
The only reason he had traveled so far to be here was due to the council’s insistence that he make a new alliance. That had only come about because he refused to remarry.
The idea of taking a new bride horrified him.
He glanced at the dancefloor, shuddering at the idea of ever having to court a woman again. He could not imagine what sort of lass would look at his face and see anything but a barbarian.
Having finally worked his way to the other side of the room, Magnus was about to ask a servant where he might find his host when he heard raised voices coming from the far end of the corridor.
He quickened his pace, walking through a low arch only to see Laird and Lady MacIrvin in a heated discussion with an older English gentleman. He was rather red in the face and gesturing wildly with his hands. He seemed, to Magnus’s untrained eye, almost unhinged.
“You will tell me where she is this instant,” the Englishman declared.
Laird McIrvin looked as though he was about to give the man a piece of his mind when Daphne laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“Lord Burton,” she said sternly, turning to the Englishman. “Your daughter is here, as you know, and she will be available to greet you. But you have arrived without a warning. You cannot expect her to be ready to see you immediately. Please give her some time to prepare herself.”
“Prepare herself? That is all she has done for weeks! I gave her leave for a month, and she failed to return to me. I have been forced to travel hundreds of miles to bring her home, and I arrive here to find her frolicking in a room full of strange men. God knows what she has been up to in my absence. I shall drum some sense into her—you mark my words.”
“Lord Burton, I willnae have ye sully the honor of me guest with baseless accusations,” MacIrvin warned, his eyes flashing with real anger as he looked down at the Englishman.
Magnus had to give the older man credit; he wasn’t intimidated by someone a foot taller and broader than him.
“You don’t fool me,” Lord Burton spat, pointing an insolent finger at MacIrvin’s face.
Magnus had seen enough. He might be a guest, but he would not see his host spoken to in such a manner. He stepped forward, deliberately using his bulk to tower over Lord Burton, who glanced up in shock and surprise as Magnus rudely interrupted their conversation.
“Laird MacIrvin, Lady MacIrvin,” he stated quickly, “thank ye for yer hospitality and the invitation to attend the celebration. Alas, I must away. It is a long walk back to me lands, but I will contact ye soon to extend our agreement.”
He offered his hand, his eye flicking to the Englishman, who was staring at him wide-eyed, his face almost purple with fury.
As MacIrvin shook his hand and Magnus stepped back, he heard Lord Burton mutter about “insolent Scottish manners” and fixed him with a hard stare.
“Are ye sure ye willnae stay?” MacIrvin asked, glancing at the high windows above them. “The sky is wild, and there’s a storm on the horizon. Daphne and I would be honored to have ye as our guest, and we could continue our discussion in person over breakfast.”
Magnus put a hand on his chest in thanks, genuinely touched by MacIrvin’s offer.
“Nay. I am seldom away from me castle. I wish to get back tonight. But I thank ye for the offer.” He cleared his throat, forcing out the words that felt so foreign on his tongue.
“Ye are welcome to visit MacWatt Castle whenever ye are able.”
He was surprised to realize that he meant it. He liked the Laird. Despite MacIrvin’s fearsome demeanor and arrogant reputation, there was a kindness in his eyes that he could not hide. Marriage had been good for him, a concept that Magnus was unfamiliar with.
He turned to Daphne, who held her son in her arms. The babe was quiet now, watching events around him with great interest.
Magnus’s gaze fell on the little face looking up at him, and a strained, yawning sense of loss engulfed him for a moment.
He bowed low, shaking off the feeling as best he could. “Thank ye, M’Lady. I wish ye every happiness.”
“Please, call me Daphne,” she replied warmly. “We are neighbors now, but I would like us to be friends someday.”
He glanced down at the baby. “Thank ye for the honor of celebrating with ye, Daphne. I am most grateful. He has the face of a warrior, make nay mistake.”
Laird and Lady MacIrvin exchanged a secretive look that he could not quite decipher before he turned to go.
“Laird MacWatt!” MacIrvin called, breaking from the group and following him with his arm outstretched to hail a manservant who hurried across the corridor. “Let me provide ye with a carriage at least. I cannae allow a fellow laird to walk home in the rain. It is miles to the shoreline.”
Magnus opened his mouth to protest. He loved walking in the rain, especially at night, but he did not wish to offend.
With an inward sigh, he nodded. “Aye, that is a kind offer. I believe ye may be right, a storm is brewin’.”
MacIrvin nodded at the servant, who extended an arm to show Magnus the way.
As they walked back through the main hall and weaved through the crowd, Magnus could not help allowing himself one last look at the side of the room, but the phoenix had seemingly flown the nest. There was no sign of the beautiful red-haired girl anywhere.
He did not understand what had caused him to feel such a connection to her in so short a time.
There was a fire in her eyes, to be sure, and she was a bonnie wee thing, but it was something more than that. There was a longing in her gaze that spoke to something deep inside him.
I have nay business looking at a lass that way, it can only end in disaster.
He followed the manservant out of the room through endless torch-lit corridors, the shadows flickering around them, as lively as the dancers at the ceilidh.
Magnus’s castle was a little larger than MacIrvin’s, with wider corridors and lighter halls.
He did not mind the dark in the wildernesses of the world.
After all, there could be no day without the night.
But he hated the shadows in his home. There was enough darkness in his past without creating more of it in his everyday world.
As they rounded a corner, the servant pushed through a heavy oak door, and they entered a courtyard where a magnificent carriage with four black stallions was waiting for him.
He looked at it in astonishment, realizing that MacIrvin had offered his own carriage to take him home. He was touched and surprised by the gesture.
As the servants busied themselves with the final arrangements for the horses, Magnus walked to the carriage door and pulled it open. It had a magnificent interior, far too fine for him, but he would not decline a comfortable journey home.
He stepped inside, feeling the soft velvet of the seats as he sat in the semi-darkness. A servant slammed the door shut behind him, and no sooner had he rested his back against the seat than they were moving.
He closed his eye, enjoying the motion of the carriage. Accustomed to walking everywhere, this was luxury indeed. As his head reclined against the soft cushion behind him, however, he felt a tingle run up his spine. It was a familiar feeling he had always experienced when danger was near.
He opened his eye immediately, scanning the small space around him for any sign of a hidden spy or ambush.
Have I let me guard down too soon? Has Laird MacIrvin arranged for someone to lie in wait to slit me throat?
Magnus sat forward abruptly, and as he did so, a strange bulge formed in the seat beneath him. Cursing, he bent forward, reaching an arm underneath the bench as his fingers closed around fabric where empty air should have been.
He gripped firmly, hearing a stifled cry below him as he dragged the assailant out from under the seat without mercy.
In an instant, he had pulled the dirk from the sheath at his waist, and as he shoved the other occupant of the carriage firmly against the opposite seat, he dragged the knife up to their throat.
Magnus froze. It was no man. It was not a spy, an assassin, or anything of that nature.
It appeared that he had caught a phoenix.