Prologue #2
Laughter echoed to the high beams of the festive hall and Hunter shifted his gaze to find the source.
’Twas Gilmour who laughed. Gilmour of the MacGowans, the bridegroom, the rogue of the rogues.
But why would he not be merry? The earth’s treasures were his.
Wealth, power, and now this maiden bride at his side.
Hunter didn’t glance at her, for he knew exactly how she would appear—just like her sister—fair-haired and bonny and far beyond the likes of him.
He tightened one fist and turned to watch Ramsay make his way through the crowd toward Lachlan.
Aye, he knew the brother rogues, if not by acquaintance, at least by reputation.
Ramsay was the intellect, Gilmour was the charmer, and Lachlan .
. . Hunter narrowed his eyes. Lachlan was not a pretty lad.
Indeed, by the look of him, his nose had been broken on more than one occasion.
He was shaped like a wedge, his shoulders broadly muscled, his hips lean and sculpted.
Although all those about him had donned bright ceremonial garb, he wore naught but a free-fitting tunic, open at the neck and tucked into the MacGowans’ traditional tartan.
Deep greens and blues, to blend like magic into heather and heath.
His plaid was belted by a broad band of leather and held in place by a silver buckle fashioned in the shape of a wild cat’s snarling face.
Lachlan was the fighter.
And yet Hunter had saved him—had arrived just in time to ward off Lachlan’s enemies and carry him to Evermyst. What did the fighter think of that?
Would there be trouble? Oh aye. Lachlan had voiced his thanks.
But behind the gratitude there had been something more.
Curiosity certainly, but also resentment.
The rogue fox did not like to be beholden.
Perhaps he should have left him to fight his own battles, but—
“So you are the warrior.”
Hunter turned abruptly at the female voice, then shifted his gaze downward, for the speaker barely reached his chest. Indeed, she was as wizened and gnarled as a windblown tamarisk.
“Speak up, lad,” she ordered.
“Aye.” He glanced up once, making certain all was well. He must be cautious, for he was a fool to chance being here at all. “Some call me the warrior.”
“And I am Meara of the Fold.”
“I know who you are.” The words came unbidden and were colored with a shadow of emotion. Hunter held his tongue and said no more.
“Do you now?” she asked, and narrowed her ancient eyes until they were but slits in her furrowed face.
“Aye.” He made certain his tone was casual now, though a thousand unwanted emotions steamed through him. “You are the one who nurtured the ladies of Evermyst.”
“Nay!” Her expression changed. Perhaps there was pain there.
Perhaps there was sadness and regret, but perhaps he was seeing naught but what he wanted to see.
“Nay. I did not nurture them, but only Anora.” She lifted her much-folded chin and looked him in the eye.
“Isobel I sent away at birth, but perhaps you know that too.”
Hunter tightened a fist, then loosened it with a careful effort and focused all his attention on this one adversary, for perhaps, if the truth be told, she was more dangerous than all the other combined. “I have heard the tale.”
“Aye.” She nodded slowly. “Aye, and so you have.”
Hunter drew himself to his full height, looming over the wizened form. “Did you have something to say, old gammer?”
She pursed her parched lips and nodded. Something shone in her eyes, some emotion too deep to guess. “Spirit you have,” she murmured. “Spirit and pride.”
Her eyes were eerie and far seeing, and he dare not let her look too deep. Thus he turned to leave, but she snagged his sleeve in gnarled fingers.
“’Tis said you saved our Lachlan.”
He twisted toward her. “Some say that I did, but if left to his own defenses he would have rallied on his own, most like.”
“Modesty.” Her ancient voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “Aye—”
Hunter yanked from her grasp and turned to leave, but she snatched at his sleeve again. “I’ve a mind to hire you.”
He glanced back at her. “What?”
“You heard me, lad.”
“Hire me? Why?”
“’Tis said you are not afraid to battle. Indeed, ’tis said you are hired to kill in the name of king and country.”
“I have killed,” he confirmed.
She nodded solemnly. “’Tis said you are a great warrior.”
“And why, pray, would you need a great warrior when you are surrounded by the brother rogues?”
“Perhaps ’tis they what need the protecting.”
“What?”
“Trouble comes,” she murmured. “I feel it in me soul.”
“Your soul,” he scoffed, but suddenly he felt an unnatural draft of air. It drifted across the back of his neck, setting his hair on end.
The old woman glanced up as if worried.
“What manner of trouble?” he asked.
She shifted her gaze toward the twins where they stood on the dais. “I know not.”
“Are the maids in danger?”
“Tell me, warrior.” She pinned her uncanny gaze on him, and it was all he could do to keep from shifting his away. “Would you care?”
“Nay,” he said. “I do not even know them.”
“And what of Lachlan? Do you care for him?”
“If you’ve something to say, old woman, do so and have done with.”
“Evil comes to Evermyst.”
“Nay,” he murmured. “Evermyst is all but invincible.”
“Invincible.” ’Twas her turn to scoff. “Naught is invincible, warrior. Surely you know that.”
“What evil?” he asked.
“I know not. ’Tis why I would hire you to abide here with us.”
“Here?” His stomach lurched, his muscles cramped. If there was one place in the world that he did not belong it was here. “At Evermyst?”
“I will make it well worth your efforts, lad.”
Unnamed emotions burned like spirits through him, but in that instant he heard the brothers laugh. He shifted his attention. From across the room, the MacGowans watched him, and then, as if from a nightmare, Lachlan stepped toward him.
“Nay! There is naught I can do for you,” Hunter rasped and, turning, disappeared like a wraith into the crowd.