Chapter Twenty-Three
Morgan was looking quite pale and strained as they drew within miles of Clyth Castle. Emma worried that the ride in, and out of the wagon, and the fact that he’d taken her—quietly—every night of their travels had done his recovery harm.
He’d groused at her every time she mentioned it, reminding her of the early days when he’d first arrived at her healing hut. Realizing how stressful returning to the castle must be for him, she didn’t argue back. She knew if things grew too bad, he would turn to her.
Their relationship had grown since their marriage. Of course, it had gotten much better from the time Morgan had been dragged into her healing hut.
She was happy with their nighttime activities, although they didn’t have an actual bed. The men with them were thoughtful enough to spread their wraps far from them at night, but she knew that Morgan took some teasing each morning, which stopped once she joined the men.
Now the time had come for Morgan to stake his claim as laird. She had to admit to some fluttering in her stomach and the beginnings of a headache. Morgan appeared calm, but with how he held his body so stiffly, he was either nervous himself or he was in pain.
They were less than eighty furlongs from the castle when the first Gunn warriors appeared. Two rode in the front with at least thirty behind them. One man at the head of the group carried the Gunn banner.
They either didn’t recognize Morgan, or pretended not to. “Halt!” the warrior next to the one carrying the banner said. “Who goes there?”
Knowing it must be painful, she watched Morgan stiffen his legs in the stirrups and stand. Cupping his hands he shouted, “Morgan Gunn, Laird of the Clan Gunn of Clyth Castle.”
The man carrying the banner shook his head. “Nay. The Laird of the Gunn Clan is dead. He was hanged by the king’s order.”
“I can assure ye I am no’ dead. As I said, I am Laird Morgan Gunn, nephew of Laird Stephen Angus Gunn, and rightful heir.”
The two men leaned close to each other and spoke. The one not carrying the banner said, “Morgan Gunn was taken prisoner at Castle Leod and executed.”
“Nay. I repeat, I am Morgan Gunn, and I was no’ taken prisoner. I was injured in the fake battle waged on Clan Mackenzie and have been working with the healer since then, regaining my strength.”
His body stiffened most likely in anger. His voice rose. “I am no’ dead! I am the rightful Laird of Clan Gunn, and I demand ye move out of the way.”
At those words, there came the ring of all the Mackenzie warriors behind them drawing their swords.
The two Gunn men in front of them, the ones to whom they had been speaking, waved at their men behind them, who fumbled.
One was having a hard time withdrawing his sword.
Another slid from his horse and landed on the ground.
He didn’t move. No one noticed.
Two others looked down at their empty scabbards and shrugged.
Obviously disgusted with the group, Morgan shook his head and waved their warriors on. They rode past the Gunn men, with the two at the head of their group arguing with each other.
*
Once they grew closer to the castle, the men on the rampart began shouting to them.
Morgan held up his hand. The men stopped. He leaned forward, once more cupping his mouth with his hands. “Open the gate. The Laird of Gunn Clan has arrived.”
The men stared at him with their mouths hanging open.
“Open the gate, I command ye,” Morgan shouted.
After several minutes while the two men on the rampart merely stood and stared at them, another joined the two.
Patrick Gunn, a distant relative Morgan couldn’t—and didn’t want to—trace. A man he’d clashed with in the past, and whom Morgan had always waited for him to dump poison into one of his drinks.
Patrick stabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. “I am the laird of Gunn Clan. So ordered by the king. Be off with ye. Ye are a traitor to the clan.”
Morgan turned to Gregory. “What think ye of this? You’ve been in front of the king no’ that long ago.”
Gregory cupped his chin with his thumb and index finger and frowned in thought.
“Since yer uncle claimed to have an order—which was fake—from the king when they took my wife, I wouldna’ put too much faith in this claim, either.
Besides, yer uncle was executed only several weeks ago.
It seems too soon for all that is necessary to disclaim ye as the heir and make this mon the one. ”
Morgan nodded and turned to Patrick. “Open the gate immediately. I would see this order from the king.”
Patrick and the two men argued among themselves. Morgan turned to Gregory. “I would ask you to prepare yer men for battle,” he said, and Gregory nodded.
“With pleasure, Laird.” He turned to the warriors “Get ready to battle.”
The men all drew their swords and roared with pleasure at the chance to fight such an obviously unprepared group of warriors.
Patrick and the men with whom he argued suddenly stopped, realizing that they were about to be attacked. “Wait!” Patrick shouted to them and then called to the Gunn soldiers on the ground. “Open the gate.” Then he turned and left.
The gate slowly opened and Morgan led the men and his wife into the outer bailey. “Where is Duncan?” He was the man in charge of the stables and someone Morgan knew he could trust.
“Right here, Laird. Welcome home.” The man of about forty summers smiled he approached the group with long strides.
Morgan leaned over and said softly to him, “I injured my leg in the battle with the Mackenzies. It’s still a tad sore, so I may need ye to steady me when I dismount without letting anyone see.”
Duncan nodded. “Aye, Laird.”
As gracefully as possible, Morgan slid from his horse. His leg was stiff and he nearly collapsed once he landed on both feet. But before anyone could notice his infirmity, Duncan put his arms around him in a bear hug, supporting him until he felt steady.
“Och, mon, ye’re squeezing ma ribs,” Morgan gasped said in a soft, choked voice.
“Ye didn’t mention ye injured yer ribs, too.
” Duncan responded just as softly. Then he stepped back, clutching both Morgan’s upper arms and grinned into his face.
“Oh aye, quit yer complaining, Morgan Gunn,” he chided fondly.
Morgan took a careful breath and then nodded to let him know he was steady.
With that, Duncan clapped his upper arms and stepped away. “Welcome back, Laird,” he said.
“It’s good to see ye, old friend,” Morgan said sincerely. He turned and walked up to Patrick, who glared at him.
“I would see the king’s order now.”
“’Tis put away safely.”
Morgan just stared at him.
“Word came to Clyth Castle that ye were a prisoner at Castle Leod and would be executed shortly. Since we had already received word of yer uncle’s execution, I was next in line.”
“I doona ken why ye think ye are next in line after me.”
Patrick stiffened. “I am yer da’s cousin’s nephew.”
Someone behind Morgan tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh.
Morgan frowned at the unsufferable upstart. “Lucky for ye, since I am here now, there is no need for ye to be troubled with laird duties.”
“Be that as it may, ye need an heir. And a Second-in-Command,” Patrick snarled.
He turned and, looking at Emma who had left the wagon to come stand near him, reached out his hand. “Since I am married, may I introduce Lady Emma Gunn. I expect to produce my own heir soon.”
Patrick’s brows rose almost to his hairline. Then he pointed to Emma. “The lass is a Mackenzie!”
Morgan placed his arm around Emma’s shoulder. “Aye, she was a Mackenzie. Now, Emma is a Gunn.”
“And ye bring Mackenzie warriors with ye. Have ye sold our clan to the Mackenzie?” Patrick sneered. “Or did ye sell the clan to the Mackenzie in return for yer whore?”
Morgan saw red and the blood pounded in his ears at the insult.
Emma screamed as he jumped on Patrick. “Nay, Morgan!”
Pain exploded in his still-healing ribs he landed on Patrick, but he got a few good punches in before Gregory pulled him off the man.
Taking a deep breath, he turned to Duncan who he knew he could trust not to poison them—and said, “My wife is weary from the trip, so we will retire to the laird’s bedchamber. Please have the evening meal sent up to us. I will expect to see all the men in the morning to assess their abilities.”
“Aye, Laird,” Duncan said, and started in the direction of the kitchens.
Emma wrapped her arm round Morgan’s waist, no doubt as a show of caring, when she was actually helping him walk. He turned back to Patrick. “I will accept everyone’s pledge of fealty before we head to the lists tomorrow. Anyone who has a problem with that should be gone before first light.”
He looked at the men behind Patrick. “Anyone.”
They entered the laird’s bedchamber and, with no surprise to Morgan, discovered all of Patrick’s belongings, were scattered all over the place.
There was even a half-full mug of whisky on the sill of one of the windows.
He yelled for one of the chamber maids to get some lads to move everything of Patrick’s out.
“Where shall we put it, Laird?”
He was gratified to hear the young lass refer to him as such. “Ask Patrick. If ye can’t get an answer, leave it in the great hall. Also, get someone to unload the wagon we traveled with and have them brought up. My wife’s things are in there.”
She smiled and dipped in a curtsy. “Welcome home, m’laird.”
Once the lass closed the door, Morgan hobbled to the bed and dropped onto it with a very loud groan.
“Ye have probably damaged yer bruised ribs, ye stubborn mon,” she tsked as she hurried to his side and glared at him.
“Ach, wife, I couldna let that comment from Patrick go.” He leaned up on his elbows. “No one speaks of my wife like that.”