21 THE LAIRD OF GAMHNACH MHÒR
LIZA WAS CROSSING the barmkin when the visitor arrived.
She’d just left the kitchen, where she’d locked horns with Murdo again. She’d bested the cantankerous cook in the end, and they’d planned the coming week’s meals together. All the same, it was a relief to be out of that hot, smoky place. She was enjoying the feel of the sun on her face when a feather-footed cob passed under the stone archway.
Liza pulled up short, her gaze going to where two of the Guard stepped out to block his way. Her gaze narrowed then. She recognized the man astride the horse. He was big with a heavy brow and a mane of dark hair. A thick beard covered his jaw. He was the individual she’d told Loch about—the mysterious visitor Leod received sometimes.
And as the newcomer drew up his horse, Rankin descended from the walls to greet him.
Liza’s pulse quickened at the sight of the Captain of the Guard. A fortnight had passed since that incident in the armory, since Loch had departed leaving her in charge of Moy—for the moment at least—and in that time, things between her and Rankin had been tense.
Reaching the cobbled barmkin, the captain strode across to the newcomer.
Liza’s gaze tracked him. He no longer looked like a pirate captain these days. Instead, he wore leather braies and a padded gambeson, and his long fair hair was pulled back from his face and secured at the nape of his neck.
“What’s yer business here, stranger?” Rankin greeted the man astride the cob.
The man didn’t answer immediately, for he was surveying the stonemasons on the eastern wall, who were rebuilding a section. It was the most urgent of the repairs, for that wall had started to crumble in places. However, the newcomer’s brow furrowed at the sight. “Maclean’s been busy,” he muttered. “It looked as if half of Lochbuie village were repairing their roofs as I rode in.”
“Aye,” Rankin replied. “There’s plenty of work to be done here.”
The man’s gaze swung back to Rankin, his frown deepening. “Where’s MacCormick?”
“He’s dead. I’m the Captain of the Guard now.”
The stranger stiffened. “And ye are?”
“Captain Rankin. Now, ye answer my question.”
“I’m here to see the laird,” the man growled. “And our business doesn’t concern ye.”
“I think ye’ll find it does,” Liza spoke up then, moving across the barmkin toward them. “Whatever ye have to tell me, ye can share with the captain of my Guard.”
The stranger’s gaze snapped to her, his dark eyes widening. “Get yer husband, woman … I’m not talking to ye.”
“Leod’s dead,” she replied, halting next to Rankin. “I’m in charge here.”
A thrill went through her as she spoke those words. The past fortnight hadn’t been easy. She’d dealt with more than her share of sullen servants, wary villagers, and sneering guards, but after her victory over Murdo this morning, her confidence had been bolstered. She certainly wouldn’t let this man humiliate her the way Mal had.
A heartbeat of silence followed this admission before the man’s mouth twisted. “Lying bitch.”
“Lady Maclean speaks the truth,” Rankin answered, his hand straying to the hilt of his dirk. “Disrespect her again and ye shall taste steel.”
The stranger’s heavy-featured face tightened, and he glanced around, taking in the faces of the other guards now surrounding them. He likely didn’t recognize many of them, although his gaze lingered upon where four men had turned from their posts on the wall to watch. “What happened here?” he finally rasped, cutting his attention back to Liza.
“Leod made a mistake that cost him his life,” she answered, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m a busy woman. Tell me yer name.”
The stranger’s lips flattened. “Ross Macbeth … I’m laird of Gamhnach Mhòr.”
Liza frowned. Gamhnach Mhòr was a small island off the south coast of Mull, a short distance from Carsaig, a village to the west of Moy. “I didn’t think anyone lived on Gamhnach Mhòr.”
“Aye, well, Leod gave it to me,” Macbeth replied, his tone surly.
Liza inclined her head. “How curious.” Indeed, this was the first she’d heard of any such arrangement, not that she should have been surprised. Leod had shared little with her. “So, what brings ye to Moy, Macbeth?”
His eyes narrowed. “My business is with Leod, not with ye.”
“Well, unless ye can talk to the dead, ye are out of luck,” Rankin replied, a warning in his voice.
Macbeth remained mutinously silent. Meanwhile, Liza’s gaze swept over him and his horse, marking the bulging leather satchels strapped behind his saddle.
“I’m in charge of these lands now,” she said finally, lifting her chin to eyeball him. It was impossible to warm to this bullish, mannerless man. Her response was aggressive, but something about him made her hackles rise. “What are ye carrying in those fat saddlebags?”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, visible even under his thick beard. His big hands clenched upon the reins. Macbeth’s gaze shifted then, going to the tower house behind Liza. Something unpleasant flickered in his dark eyes.
Without thinking, Liza’s hand strayed to the hilt of the dirk she’d taken to wearing of late. Fortunately, Makenna had taught her how to defend herself with one of these—a skill she’d never thought she’d need.
However, a lady laird might.
A flush crept over Macbeth’s face then as he struggled with his anger. “Nothing,” he snarled. Then, muttering a curse under his breath, he reined his cob around and kicked it into a canter, leaving as swiftly as he’d arrived.
As the thud of hoofbeats receded, Liza turned to Rankin. “That was the man I told ye and the Maclean about … Leod’s visitor.”
“Really?” A groove etched between the captain’s eyebrows at this news. “He was certainly a shifty bastard.”
“Aye.” She exhaled sharply then, realizing that she’d been breathing shallowly. Her welcome had sent Macbeth on his way, yet she couldn’t help feeling as if she’d failed. His reaction to the news she was laird stung—a reminder that some men refused to treat with women.
“I wonder what he had in those satchels?” she mused.
“Something he was anxious ye didn’t see,” Rankin replied. He turned to his men then, who’d gathered close, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. “Spectacle’s over, lads,” he said gruffly. “Back to yer posts.”
Liza’s chest constricted. I should have detained him . Aye, maybe—although his abrupt departure had caught her by surprise.
The guards went swiftly and obediently, leaving the laird and captain standing together alone in the center of the barmkin.
Rankin swiveled back to Liza then, his gaze spearing hers.
Liza stilled. Mother Mary, she wished her pulse wouldn’t spike every time this man looked her way; it was starting to vex her.
“I’d say Leod’s mysterious friend definitely has something to do with that strongroom full of coin,” he said quietly.
Liza’s gaze widened at these words. Cods. “In that case, Loch will be interested to learn about Ross Macbeth of Gamhnach Mhòr,” she replied. “Can ye spare one of yer warriors?”
He nodded.
“Good.” She stepped back from him, eager to put some distance between them once more. “I shall write the Maclean a missive now.”
She was about to turn and make for the entrance to the tower house when howling rang through the barmkin, the noise echoing off stone.
Rankin murmured an oath, glancing around him.
And then, an instant later, a lad of around seven winters ran out into the cobbled space, blood streaming from his nose. “Da! Where’s my Da?” he bawled.
Halfway across the barmkin, the lad tripped, falling flat on his face. His howls grew louder still. A moment later, Rankin scooped him up before glancing up at the walls. “Fergus, is this yer lad?”
A wiry warrior with thinning red hair appeared, his gaze going to the weeping boy in the captain’s arms. “Davy? What happened to ye, lad?”
“Craeg hit me!”
Liza stiffened. That made no sense at all. Her son was two winters younger than Davy and a gentle soul.
Rankin set the boy down, allowing him to clamber up the stairs and throw his arms around his father’s legs. Meanwhile, Liza had turned, her gaze shifting to the gap between the kitchen and the bakehouse, where Davy had burst from moments earlier.
She then headed toward it.
She was vaguely aware of Rankin following her yet ignored him. Her focus was on locating her son.
Liza found him sitting in the narrow passage between the bakehouse and the wall. He’d scrunched himself up into a ball, his head buried against his knees, and his shoulders were shaking.
“Craeg!” She rushed to him, sinking to her knees at his side. “Are ye hurt?”
He raised his head, his face flushed, his cheeks wet with tears, and she recoiled to see anger in his night-brown eyes. “Davy Black is a liar!”
Liza’s breathing grew shallow. “What did he say, love?”
Her son’s thin throat bobbed. “That ye killed Da!”
Cold washed over Liza. She’d hoped to keep the truth from her son for a while yet, until he was old enough to understand. But she should have realized that others living within these walls wouldn’t be so cautious—especially bairns who listened in to whispered adult conversations.
A scuff of boots behind Liza warned her that Rankin had arrived.
Still ignoring the captain, she drew a deep breath and held her son’s eye. Lord, she didn’t want to speak of this to Craeg. However, she was now backed into a corner.
“Yer Ma didn’t kill yer father,” Rankin said then, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it. “I did.”
Liza’s heart kicked against her ribs, her lips parting. She should be angry he’d interrupted, and yet relief washed over her.
Craeg’s attention shifted to beyond her shoulder, his gaze fixing on the captain, and a tremor shuddered through him. His small hands clutched at her arm, clinging on. She too glanced Rankin’s way, to see that he’d lowered himself to a crouch so that he wasn’t looming over them.
Liza swallowed then, as her throat tightened. “Don’t be afraid, lad,” she whispered, focusing on her son once more. “Captain Rankin won’t hurt ye. He did it for me … I asked him to.” Craeg’s face was a picture of confusion, and so she plowed on. “Yer Da tried to kill me … and failed. The only way I could return to ye was to attack this castle.”
His bottom lip started to tremble, his eyes gleaming. He understood now though what the shouting had been about on that morning he’d hidden in the cellar with the servants—and that those men he’d seen in the barmkin hadn’t been sleeping.
“Da tried to kill ye?” he finally asked, his voice weak, lost.
“Aye.” Liza hauled him into her arms, crushing him in a firm embrace. “But he failed.” Her eyes started to burn then, tears sliding down her cheeks.
I’m an awful mother.
She was supposed to be a protector, to shield her bairn from what she’d done. But she’d failed. Her gaze met Rankin’s then. His blue eyes were shadowed, his handsome face strained. She wagered he’d never told a bairn he’d killed his father before. Aye, their bargain had benefited each of them, although it had come at a great cost to Craeg.
It was a sobering moment—for them both.