A Common Name
Sorcha landed in a startled heap upon the floor.
“Out, the lot of ye, and at once!” the bailiff barked, clipping his words in a brisk, staccato rhythm. “’Tis an official shire matter, so be gone now!”
He waved his hand in curt, chopping motions at the curious villagers gathered in the room.
They didn’t protest. Apparently, they didn’t care to cross the man—or perhaps it was the tall Montgomerys they feared more.
Whichever it was, Sorcha’s heart sank as the sounds of scraping benches and receding booted feet filled the air.
From the moment the leech had uttered the word witchcraft, she’d panicked, running straight for the village with Seton in hot pursuit.
Fear gave her speed. She’d charged into the inn with the Montgomery kilt pin clenched tightly in her shaking hand, thinking only to fool the men into believing her a distant relation, and owed a favor—the only plan she’d been able to come up with under the circumstances and a harebrained one at best.
But now, for the first time, she got a good look at the Montgomery towering over her, and her heart quailed.
The braw man was broad of shoulder and strongly built, standing well over six feet.
His chestnut hair gleamed almost red as it caught the light.
He cocked a suspicious brow her way, his every move projecting power and command.
Ach, how could her mother be so wrong? This Montgomery appeared anything but a half-witted fool.
She closed her eyes. So, this was how her nightmare began.
As the door slammed shut for the last time, the Montgomery’s deep voice growled, “A fool of a Cunningham? I’ve half a mind to let him have ye.”
It took Sorcha a moment to register the word half. She lifted a cautious eye. To be sure, the man glared, but the lines of good humor around his mouth stood at decided odds with his words. An unbidden glimmer of hope flickered in her breast.
“I’ll nae have Cunningham-Montgomery trouble in my shire, Alec Montgomery,” Seton declared, his boots scraping across the floor to stop perilously close by her hand.
Alec glanced over to test the man with a droll smile. “Seems ‘tis ye who’s stirring up trouble, Seton, and ye’ve been fishing for it the moment we set foot here yestereve. Is a quiet, peaceful village not enough for ye now?”
“’Tis a shire matter, and none of your concern,” the bailiff responded with a curt huff. “I’ll be taking this lass into my custody.” He bent down, reaching for her.
Alec moved swiftly, blocking him with a well-muscled arm. “Nay, have a care now, ye ill-bred malcontent,” he disagreed, slanting a challenging brow. “I’ll not allow ye to torment a lass—even though she be a Cunningham. ‘Tis odd, I confess, but I find I loathe ye even more than my own clan enemy.”
The man’s words rankled, but Sorcha kept her lips sealed. Clearly, the Montgomery was the lesser of the two evils. Mayhap, the kilt pin was a blessed thing, after all.
The scarred bailiff’s face reddened. “I’m warning ye, Montgomery,” he hissed. “Dinna cross my path. She’s a witch—cursed a God-fearing man to death with an unholy brew.”
The Montgomery moved with surpassing speed. Before Sorcha could react, his strong arms swept her up from the floor. Losing her balance, she fell against his chest, and alarmed, looked up into his face.
An impertinent grin played over his lips. “Are ye truly a witch, lass?” he murmured, lowering his lashes over his green eyes. “Casting a spell over me now, aye?”
Astonished at his lighthearted response, she merely gaped in surprise.
Behind him, a man groaned.
“’Tis nae laughing matter,” the bailiff sputtered before Sorcha could reply. “I’m taking her now, Montgomery. ‘Tis my duty, and if she proves to be a God-fearing woman, I’ll send her straightway to Lainshaw myself.”
The word Lainshaw had a strange effect on the man holding her. His chest muscles tightened and his expression chilled as he pushed her away, muttering an accusation of “Cunningham” under his breath.
It felt like a slap on the face.
Her eyes flashed even as the hope flickering in her breast drained away, right down through her toes.
Aye, he was bewildering, toying with her one minute, and the next, turning colder than a fish, but what had she expected?
He was a Montgomery. There was no aid coming from that quarter, particularly with accusations of witchcraft swirling in the air.
“I’m no witch,” she began fiercely in her own defense. “’Twas only angelica tea, to aid Tinker’s cough—”
At the mention of Tinker, Alec’s brows knotted. “Ach, what was that? What did ye say?” he interrupted. “Tinker? Lady Margaret’s Tinker? What harm befell him?”
Sorcha’s heart sank even more. Clearly, he knew the old man and likely cared for him. Still, she pressed on with the truth. “’Twas the chill and the rain,” she heard her own voice reply, sounding thin and tired. There was simply no way this could end well. “I swear I only gave him angelica—”
“Enough,” he thundered, holding up a hand.
Anger filled the jade-green eyes locked on hers, but then he surprised her by directing his wrath at Seton instead.
“Aye, you’re muckle more daft than I thought, Seton, and I thought ye already the leading fool in Scotland.
Do ye wish to become the prime lackwit of all the world as well?
” he scoffed. “Tinker’s tiptoed around the grave for years.
If the man was out and about in this weather, then ‘tis no small wonder he met his death, God rest his soul.”
Hope seesawed through Sorcha once again.
“I’ve been tasked with keeping this shire safe,” the bailiff objected. “This lass is under my charge, and I dinna think—”
Alec’s scathing laugh cut him short. “Ach, I’m inclined to believe ye dinna think at all, ye pimple-arsed lackwit.”
The bailiff’s eyes popped at the insult. “I’ll have ye—”
“Dinna cross me, ye fool,” Alec warned in a threatening rumble. “The lass is under my charge, and I’ll be escorting her to Lainshaw myself. Ye can journey there to present your concerns to the earl, if ye wish, but I assure ye, ‘twill be a waste of your time.”
Sorcha held her breath.
The angry scar on Seton’s chin reddened. He opened his mouth to protest, but Alec chose that moment to rest his hand upon the dirk hanging from his belt.
The two men at the table suddenly shifted.
Sorcha had barely noticed them before. With a dangerous smile, the lean, dark-haired one wearing a Mackenzie plaid rose to his feet and hooked his thumb around the hilt of a finely crafted sword as the younger man—a lad, really—followed suit, fondly patting his own blade.
Seton’s mouth clamped shut.
“Aye then.” Alec chuckled, deepening the dimple on his chin. “Mayhap there’s a wee bit of wit left in that bald noggin after all.”
The bailiff’s eyes narrowed, and it was obvious he struggled to restrain himself, but he finally grated, “Have it your way, this time. But since ye’ve such a keen interest in the official matters of the shire, I’ll charge ye with delivering Lady Margaret’s belongings forthwith.
” He began to walk away but then halted, raising a gloved finger to add, “And ye’ll remove the auld tinker’s cart off the western road afore ye go.
Rest assured, I’ll be seeing the earl over this matter, and I’ll hold ye accountable that the lass stays in Lainshaw until I get there, Alec Montgomery. ”
“If agreeing gets rid of ye faster, then aye,” Alec replied with an easy smile. And then his tone hardened. “Dinna doubt me. Nothing is worth more than the word of a Montgomery, Seton. Nothing.”
A chill rippled through Sorcha. Of a certainty, this tall, battle-hardened warrior of a Montgomery had to be different than the ones her mother had known, and the thought of traveling anywhere in his company was disturbing …
in many ways. But did she really have a choice?
One glance at Seton’s livid face told her no.
“’Tis on your head,” the bailiff warned starkly.
Alec chuckled again to reply, “Then a happy sheriffing to ye, Seton!” With a cheeky grin, he blew the man a kiss.
Seton’s face turned a mottled purple. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but when the three men began to drum their fingers lightly on their weapons, he pivoted woodenly and made for the door.
As it closed behind him, Sorcha expelled a long breath, one she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding.
The charged intensity of the bailiff’s exchange had drained her far more than a hard day’s work.
Her knees began to shake. Almost numb, she watched Alec share a deep laugh with his companions as the villagers filtered back into the room.
“If ‘twas Lady Margaret’s precious bed in that cart, Taran,” Alec addressed the highlander wearing the Mackenzie plaid, “I’ll be sore tempted to let it rot where ‘tis.”
Taran’s lip twitched in what could have been amusement, but it was difficult to tell. “Why poke the hornet’s nest, cousin?” he asked calmly, brushing his long dark hair back from his forehead.
“Look at it this way, if ye bring her the wretched thing, she’ll be in your debt,” the younger Montgomery offered.
Alec grinned. “I quite like the sound of that,” he admitted with a deeper chuckle. “That ‘twill gnaw at her spindly bones the most, aye?”
But Sorcha scarcely heard him. To her dismay, her knees gave out, and with a kind of gurgling gasp, she sank to the floor.
Three pairs of eyes riveted upon her at once.
Unwilling to appear weak—yet unable to trust her wobbling knees—she stayed where she was and gathering her dignity, jutted her chin out fiercely.
“Tread carefully, Montgomery. Lady Margaret’s nobler Montgomery relations know me well,” she bluffed from her place on the floor. “They’ll not leave ye unpunished if ye harm a single hair on my head.”
A sudden grin warmed Alec’s eyes. Crouching down so they were face-to-face, he crossed an arm over his knee and probed. “And aren’t ye such a wee bonny lass, aye? Ye know the lairds of Eglinton that well, do ye? The earl and his brothers?”