Chapter 13
Leave.
Lachlan marched through the house. The corridors were dark but he knew his way to the door. Aye, he would leave.
From the chaotic library he heard the old man start and call out something incoherent, but Lachlan did not stop. In a moment he was outside. The autumn air felt crisp, and though it cooled his skin effectively, it did little for his ardor as he strode down the hill toward the stable.
From upwind the flop-eared hound approached on cautious feet and growled as he circled Lachlan in the darkness.
Lachlan growled back and continued on, into the barn where the warm equine scents welcomed him.
He wouldn’t wait until morning. Nay, ’twas far better to be gone now.
True, there were bound to be reivers and brigands on his journey north, but with the mood he was in just now, he would be far safer than they if any challenged him.
I want you to leave, she’d said. After glancing up through her lush lashes with those mercurial eyes. After allowing him to touch her siren body. After sighing like an angel beneath his—
“Lad?”
He started like an untried boy and spun toward the noise, sword drawn.
The old man didn’t move so much as an eyelash. Instead, he glared at Lachlan with bloodshot eyes, his pale lips pursed.
“Jumpy you are,” he said, “for a deaf mute.”
Lachlan grunted, lowered his sword and exhaled softly. Apparently he was a bit tense, he realized and sheathing his weapon, turned to find Mathan’s bridle. From the shadows, the hound growled again.
Longshanks shuffled along behind, his walking stick rapping on the hard-packed earth. “I’ve seen better performances from a peck of cabbages.”
Lachlan glared at the old man. He had no idea what he spoke of, but neither did he care to.
“You’ll never succeed on the stage.”
MacGowan said nothing as he stepped into the nearest stall.
“If you’re mute I’m a corpse,” hissed Shanks.
Mathan accepted the bit with grudging reluctance, swishing his tail belligerently as he did so.
“So the brawn means naught.”
Ignoring the old man, Lachlan let the reins dangle in the straw and went to fetch his saddle.
“’Twoud have been just as well if you’d been a scrawny lad with pimples and a lisp.”
Lachlan didn’t respond. Mathan grunted as the girth was pulled tight.
“Highlander! Pah!” spat the old man and stepped up close behind. “It’s a coward you are.”
Lachlan spun about, grasping the other’s tunic in a fist that ached for activity.
“Tell me, gaffer, do you tire of living?”
Longshanks hung like an empty bag from Lachlan’s fist, but his eyes never faltered as he glared with violent heat into his capture’s face.
“So it’s true—you are no more mute than I am daft.”
“I disagree,” Lachlan said and loosening his grip, pushed the old man away.
“I am not so daft as you are cowardly.”
“You think me a coward?” Lachlan asked and bent to reach for his reins.
“Why else would you leave her?”
Lachlan straightened with a jolt. “Of whom do you speak?”
The old man snorted. “So ’tis just as I suspected—you are not only a coward, but a simpleton as well!”
“What are you playing at, old man?”
“No bigger than a lambkin, she was, when first she came to us.”
“Who?” The word sounded unreasonably loud to Lachlan’s own ears, but the other didn’t seem to hear.
“Bundled like a precious gift when I brought her to me master. Even then he was not a young man, but mayhap events have aged him more than time.”
Silence swallowed the darkened barn. Lachlan waited, but patience was not his virtue.
“A babe was left at Nettlepath?” he asked.
“Have you grapes in your ears!” rasped the old man. “She came as a babe, over a score of years ago.”
Lachlan scowled. “Laird . . . Giles?” he guessed carefully.
“Rhona!” snapped the other. “Her name be Rhona, you half-witted toadstool.”
“Tell me,” said Lachlan, watching the other through narrowed eyes. “How is it that you have lived to such a ridiculous old age?”
Shanks snuffled a snort. “You think yourself a warrior! But a few years past Lord Barnett could have sliced you in twain with a feather. And his son . . . David.” He drew a deep breath.
“A right braw lad he was. Swift and sure as an adder. The best ever I’d trained, until .
. .” He closed his ancient eyes for a moment. “We should not have sent her away.”
Forbearance was certainly not Lachlan’s foremost attribute. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the old man’s tunic again.
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“The miller’s goat,” spat the gaffer and, raising his walking stick, rapped Lachlan’s knuckles. Pain spurted through his arm, and he abandoned his hold. The old man stumbled away, holding his weapon high. “I speak of the girl, you feeble-minded imbecile.”
“Rhona?” Lachlan guessed.
“Ahh, so you are not the complete lackwit.”
“Don’t test me, old man. You’re one breath from death’s door. I would feel little guilt for pushing you through.”
“Huh! I would accept your challenge, young coxcomb, were it not for her,” he said, and nodded jerkily toward the house as he began to pace.
“Ach, your Lordship,” he said softly, as if speaking to another.
“He is a fool! Perhaps.” He nodded, agreeing with himself.
It seemed he had forgotten Lachlan’s presence entirely.
“But he has come. None other has done as much. So surely he possesses some cunning.”
Lachlan watched in silent amazement as the old gaffer paced and argued.
“The wits of a turnip, he has. But what of strength? Strength is naught without intellect. You’ve said as much a score of times.
Aye, but he has learned the truth, yet he feels no need to blather it about like a London fishmonger.
” He nodded to himself. “And she has accepted him. Perhaps he will bring her peace. Who else can say the same?”
The old man suddenly turned his glare on Lachlan.
Quiet fell like dust motes into the stable, broken only by the soft coo of a pigeon from the loft.
“Very well,” said Shanks.
“So . . .” Lachlan began, “the lot of you—you’re all mad as wild boars.”
“I do not like it, but I suppose you must do.”
“Must I?” Lachlan stared in mute amazement. “’Tis wonderful to know. And what, pray—”
“You are acceptable, you fool. For our lassie.”
“The one who calls herself the warrior?”
The old man slashed his staff upward. It hissed like a serpent inches from Lachlan’s face. “Mock her and you will rue the day!” he warned.
Perturbed practically to the end of his limits, Lachlan half turned away, then pivoted back and snatched the staff from the ancient hands. “Do not threaten me,” he said, pointing the staff back at its owner.
“So you are angry.” The old man nodded. “Then you’d best strike me down if you can, for if you slander her name again I will surely feed you to the crows.”
“Damnation!” stormed Lachlan and tossed the staff at the other’s feet. “I do not slander her, old man, I—” he began, but he stopped himself.
“You what?”
Lachlan glared at him. “’Tis none of your concern.”
A gleam came into the gaffer’s eye. “Perhaps he is peaceable, Shanks. Aye, me laird,” he agreed with himself. “But perhaps he is naught but a coward as I first suspected.”
“You do know I can hear you, don’t you?” Lachlan asked.
The old man turned his rheumy gaze back to MacGowan. “Have you not heard the prophecy?”
Lachlan glared. “What prophecy?”
“He does not know,” said Shanks. “What do you say about his cunning now, me laird? I say there is none other and I have not much time left to see her content. Do not say—”
“What the devil is wrong with you?” cursed Lachlan.
The old man broke out of his conversation. “You are the chosen one then.”
“Chosen for what?”
“To care for her, you dolt.”
Lachlan threw back his head and howled at the ceiling. In the rafters, the doves took flight. “Believe me, old man,” he said finally, “she does not want me to care for her.”
“Then why did she bring you here?”
“In truth, I gave her little choice.”
“Rhona?” Shanks said, then smiled crookedly. His teeth were all but black. “You do not know her well if you think she be without options. Aye, she has chosen you whether you know it or nay, and you shall be the one.”
Lachlan crossed his arms against his chest. “And if I refuse?”
Shanks clenched his bony fists. “The crows be hungry,” he vowed.
“Holy mother,” hissed Lachlan. “I see where she gets her charming temperament, but tell me this, why have you trained her to be a warrior if you now wish her to be a maid?”
The old man winced. “Me laird cherished her. Do not believe otherwise.”
Lachlan remained silent.
“Aye, he cherished her, but he could not show it. His son was lost. His wife the same. We did not know how to nurture a lassie, and she had such spirit. Like a lion she was in a pinch. She took to swordplay like the king’s firstborn and—” He paused.
“It did not seem harmful to allow her to learn, but then she grew older. The face of a queen she had, but the fist of a knight.” He clenched his own feeble hand.
“The children of the village were afeared of her.”
Quiet settled in.
“I did not know then what I know now of the Black Douglases.”
Lachlan’s mind spun, trying to keep up. “You sent her to the Douglas stronghold?”
“They were strong and well connected. We thought that even though she was . . . unique, they would find a place for her. A mate.”
“Archibald Douglas? The earl of Angus?” Lachlan glared at the old man.
The name of Douglas was infamous amongst his kinsmen.
For shortly after marrying Scotland’s queen, Archibald had abducted the young king.
Many months James had been kept captive in Edinburgh.
Only good fortune and the king’s own clever disguise had seen him freed. “In what year did you send her there?”