Chapter Seven
Rory lagged a little behind the three other men as they rode across the long, narrow bridge toward the outer battlements of Luthmore castle.
He had chosen to remain on the periphery of their group for the duration of the journey north.
It was not that Rory disliked the others.
After all, Abbot Matthew’s estimation of character was never made lightly.
If he had chosen Adam, Robert, and Timothy to provide the MacKenzie warriors with support in the absence of a laird, then Rory had to trust they were each worthy of the task.
And over the last two days, he had judged them all to be decent sort of men and loyal to Scotland. Still, they were noblemen.
As the son of peasants, Rory had spent little time in the company of gentry.
In fact, the only time he had ever spoken to noblemen or women was when he and his brothers had been robbing them.
Rory smiled, remembering those not-too-distant days.
Their gang had been called the Saints—the name chosen by an authority higher even than the abbot—so named by the bishop himself.
In fact, it was the bishop who had given them the swords and black masks that had sent terror into the hearts of those English nobles who were unlucky enough to meet the Saints on the rode north into Scotland.
Not that their terror was reasonably grounded.
The Saints had adhered to a simple code; they were thieves not murderers.
More than that, they were not even truly thieves.
Their stolen gains were never kept for themselves—every coin, jewel, or trinket fed the cause.
It was Scotland’s money. The Saints were only taking back what was rightfully theirs.
Of course, the men in his company now were unlike the English nobles who had stared down the length of the Saints’ blades.
They were Scotsmen, allies, and brothers-at-arms. Still, he did not feel entirely at ease with them.
Timothy and Robert, both good men, seemed rather odd to him, and Adam, although overall of decent character, possessed an underlying arrogance, as if he was used to giving orders and having men obey.
At least they were almost to Luthmore Castle.
Rory bit the inside of his cheek to silence the laughter bubbling in his throat at the sight of Timothy once more dropping his reins and making the sign of the cross.
Rory was certainly not an ungodly man, but it was at least the tenth time Timothy had released his reins to pray just that morning.
Rory had never questioned the abbot’s wisdom, and he was not about to start, but he could not imagine what Timothy would teach Alex’s Highland warriors.
As if conjured by Rory’s question, a large, fierce looking man with an enormous broad sword strapped to his back and clad in naught but a plaid rode out to meet them.
“Who are ye? And what business have ye at Luthmore?” the Highlander growled.
Rory kept his distance. It was the other men who had business with the whole MacKenzie clan, and one of them was in possession of a letter to prove it.
Rory was there to see only one MacKenzie, the lady of the keep, and he too had a special letter in his satchel.
But it was for Alex’s eyes only. A pleasurable warmth flooded his chest at the prospect of seeing her again.
He sat back in his saddle and watched Adam nudge his horse forward and dismount in front of the guard.
“We’ve been sent by Abbot Matthew of Haddington Abbey to bring his condolences to the lady Alexandria and to Clan MacKenzie.
We are to be of service to her in this her hour of need.
” Adam withdrew a small square of parchment from his saddlebag.
Rory was not surprised to see that it was Adam who carried the missive from the abbot.
“I have a letter for the captain of the MacKenzie guard with the abbot’s seal to prove the truth of my claim. Are ye Gavin MacKenzie?”
The large Highlander relaxed his stance.
“I am,” he said, stretching out his hand for the letter.
After examining it, he held it up for everyone to see.
Oddly, there were no written words, but then Rory realized the abbot must have guessed that Gavin MacKenzie would not be able to read.
Instead, a likeness of the MacKenzie coat of arms filled the page, and at its center was the seal of the abbot.
Gavin smiled. “Ye’re all most welcome. I pray ye provide our lady with whatever comfort ye may. She is beloved by her people and none can observe her grief without feeling the acuteness of pain in our own hearts. Her father, too, was a great man...God rest his soul.”
Adam followed first behind the warrior. As the son of a lord or some other such title, it was his place.
Behind Adam rode Robert—who Rory had liked well enough.
He seemed to be an expert on horses, having spoken of little else on their two-day journey.
After Timothy, Rory fell in line, which was fitting as he was the son of a peasant, not to mention an outlaw.
More than that, Rory’s position in the rear of the line suited him just fine.
As an expert swordsman, the abbot sent Rory under the guise of training the MacKenzie warriors, but since that wasn’t his true purpose, he wished to bring as little attention to himself as possible.
Passing through the massive MacKenzie gates, Gavin waved over a tall man, slim of build with long, white hair.
Adam, Robert, and Timothy crossed the courtyard to meet him while Rory stayed back to observe.
The white-haired man conversed with the visiting noblemen for several minutes before he dipped his head in a polite bow and made his way to Rory.
The man possessed shrewd blue eyes and an intelligent air. “I bid ye welcome,” he began. “My name is Michael MacKenzie. I am steward of Luthmore Castle. May I know yer name, sir.”
Rory smiled. “I’m not a knight or a lord. I’m as common as the ground we stand upon. I hail from Berwick where I once labored on the docks like my da before me. Ye need not call me sir.”
Michael smiled in return. “Ye’re a friend of the abbot’s, which makes ye welcome here—title or no title.
” Then he motioned to the other men. “I was just telling yer traveling companions that the lady is not in the keep just now, but I expect her return forthwith—” A commotion near the gate cut Michael short.
Rory looked back in time to see a flurry of chickens and children burst into the courtyard, followed by a bigger boy with a messy mop of bright red hair and a dusty, flaxen-haired woman screeching with her hands twisted into claws of attack.
“I’m going to get ye,” she cried, her laughter undermining the threat.
Michael groaned, shaking his head. Rory could not help but laugh out loud.
Alex was as vibrant as he remembered her, and now even more pleasing in her disheveled state: hair tangled; her threadbare tunic covered in small dirty handprints, clearly from all the hugs she received from the wee ones; her feet bare and nearly black from dirt.
Michael may not have approved of Alex’s appearance or demeanor, but Rory could not take his eyes off her.
She was magnificent, her cheeks flushed from her exertions, her face lit with unabashed joy. She was genuine—and he was captivated.
“Lady Alexandria,” Michael said loudly.
“Uh-oh, Alex. We’re in trouble now,” the red-haired boy said, laughing.
Alex stopped in her tracks as she sought Michael’s gaze through the dust and chaos. “I ken what ye’re going to say, Michael. I’m a disgrace, but I also think ye ken my reply—I don’t care about the state of my tunic or my hair.”
“Got ye,” a wee voice called out the instant before Alex fell back onto the ground.
A moment later, she was drowning beneath a sea of small arms and legs.
“Ye wee beasties,” she called out. “Attacking when I was distracted.” She got to work tickling bellies and bare feet.
Peals of tortured laughter rang out. “Save yerselves,” one of the children yelled, and soon the mass dispersed.
She closed her eyes as she tried to catch her breath.
“My lady, may I help ye to yer feet?”
Alex opened her eyes. She squinted against the bright sunshine that shadowed the man above her.
Then he squatted down beside her, his face instantly becoming clear.
She drew in a sharp breath, but his sky-blue eyes held a warning.
And the slightest shake of his head told her all she needed to know—that night in the woods had never happened.
To the world around them, they were meeting for the very first time.
Still, she would know that face anywhere.
Her heart raced as she placed her hand in his.
“’Tis nice to meet yer acquaintance,” Rory said, his voice deep and unhurried.
“The pleasure is mine,” Alex said, boldly returning his gaze.
He bent lower and wrapped his arm around her waist, then lifted her to her feet. His hand did not linger, but she could still feel the imprint of warmth where he had touched her.
William moved to stand in front of Alex. She smiled down at her young protector. “This is my wee brother, William. But everyone calls him, Will.”
“’Tis good to meet ye, Will,” Rory said.
Michael cleared his throat, intruding upon their conversation. “My lady, ye’ve more guests to meet,” he said, gesturing to three young men, all impeccably dressed, and each offering her a smile in greeting.
“If ye please,” Rory said, once more winning her attention. “I have a letter from the abbot. He instructed me to present it to ye even before introductions were made.”
Curious, Alex took the offered letter and without hesitation, she broke the abbot’s seal and began to read:
My Dearest Alexandria,