To Love a Highlander (27 page)

He would rest easier in his bed of a night once she left Stirling if he knew such a meaningful part of him had gone away with her.

He wasn’t a man of poetic sentiment.

But he did want her to have a means to reach him.

There was also another reason…

“You must wear the brooch in the hall on the morrow’s eve.” If she didn’t, he would pin it on her himself. “I’ve heard your father will be off to the Red Lion by midday. If that is so, the brooch will let me know the path is clear for our plan. Anyone who sees the pin will know it was a gift from me. Sir John, too, will notice. He’ll believe my seduction of you is real.”

Sorley hoped that would be the way of it.

If not, Sinclair would learn just what a bastard he could be.

Mirabelle tilted her head, watching him closely. “You’ve thought of everything.”

Clearly, he had no idea that he’d seduced her many years before. In this very castle, in the same great hall, his dark good looks and swagger catching her eye, his roguish smile and bold spirit winning her heart so completely no other man could ever hope to claim her affection.

She was his, then and now.

Yet he didn’t even guess.

“So that is why you are here.” She finished dressing, as calmly as she could, and brushed at her skirts. “I thought perhaps it was because of Little Heart. I know you rescued him.” She glanced at the kitten, now rolling about on the floor rushes. “I meant to find you in the morning to thank you. I’ll never forget that, not all my days. It was so good of you. But I never thought you’d appear in my bedchamber”—she glanced at the secret door, once again hidden behind the tapestry—“arriving by a hidden passageway I knew nothing about.”

“Few people do. Some friends and I played in the passage as lads.” He went to the tapestry, picked up a bulky leather sack and brought it to her, setting it at her feet. “These are goods for the kitten. Things William’s aunt and the folk in the castle kitchens said you’d need for him.”

“Supplies for Little Heart?” She looked at the sack and felt her face softening, the most wondrous warmth spreading through her.

Sorley shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Aye, well. The wee bugger deserved a good start with you. I could tell you wanted him badly.”

Mirabelle raised her head, meeting his gaze. “You could’ve brought this later. Little Heart is fine, as you can see. He’s not even limping anymore.” She scooped up the kitten, holding him to her breast. “I think knowing he’s now safe and loved made the hurt go away. I couldn’t find any injuries. I looked and—”

“He had a thorn in a hind paw.”

Mirabelle glanced at the kitten, then at him. “You removed it?”

“I did.” Sorley lifted his hands, showing her the backs of them. He also rolled up his sleeve, revealing a few livid red welts. “The mite didn’t understand I meant to help him.”

“Oh, Sorley!” She set down the kitten and rushed over to Sorley. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you so much!”

“Humph.” He disentangled himself and began unpacking the kitten sack, lifting out the food, bowls, and a water flask. Next came a cushion and a soft, worn plaid, cut down to kitten size, plus the other odd bits. He glanced at her, flashing a smile. “Berengaria and everyone else swore the kitten would require suchlike.”

He shrugged as he set a wooden crate and bag of what could only be river sand on the rushes. “I was told this would be most handy, especially as you’d surely be keeping the kitten in your room until your return to Knocking.”

Mirabelle looked at him, her heart clenching that he could mention her departure so casually.

“O-o-oh! How thoughtful.” She spoke as lightly as she could and nudged the crate with her toe. “I’d not have
considered such a thing.” She clasped her hands before her as she comprehended the crate-and-sand’s use.

It was clear Sorley wasn’t at all bothered by her imminent return to her hills.

Like as not, he couldn’t wait for her to leave, was counting the hours, glad to be rid of the nuisance she surely was to him.

The thought ripped her in two.

She couldn’t say for sure, but she’d swear the already dim light in the chamber darkened. That the wind’s howl suddenly sounded more thin, hollow as the emptiness she could feel opening inside her.

It was colder, too. The chill, damp air so biting she doubted all the covers in the castle would warm her when she slipped into her bed.

Gooseflesh rose on her arms, but she refused to rub it away. Just as she fought hard not to shiver. And why should she? For the ice wasn’t born of the dark, storm-chased night. It came from within her, deepening and worsening the more Sorley busied himself with the kitten goods.

The longer he failed to see past her eyes and into her heart.

“William Wyldes’s aunt gave me this.” He was setting a braided wicker basket on a chair, showing her how the wooden lid could be securely tied into place.

Mirabelle scarce noticed.

He remained oblivious. “She said it’d be useful for securing the kitten when traveling.”

“It’s perfect.” She joined him by the chair and examined the basket. “You know much of my doings. It is true, my father’s work here is almost done. When he returns from the Red Lion and his last look at the moss slates on the inn’s roof, he wishes us to be away to Knocking.”

She watched him carefully, hoping to see his brow furrow or some change of expression. But nothing altered. He
simply looked sure and strong, a big, strapping man she wanted so badly that even now her heart was leaping, just standing so near to him.

Did he not care for her at all?

Surely he must, for he’d rescued Little Heart to please her.

In truth, she’d heard he always looked after the vulnerable and needy, man or beast. Saving a kitten was likely just that, an act of compassion he would’ve performed for anyone upset about the kitten’s plight.

Mirabelle glanced behind her to where Little Heart now slept before the hearth fire. On his back, he’d stretched his little legs to the ceiling, looking so dear that she melted. She turned to Sorley, emotions of an entirely different sort making her bold.

“You could have brought me these goods another time.” She lifted her chin, challenging him. “Can it be”—she flipped back her hair, held his gaze—“you had another reason? For coming now, so late in the night?”

She tightened her fingers around the bronze MacKenzie brooch, hoping he’d admit that more than a wish to protect her had spurred him to give her such a gift.

But he only reached out and stroked her arm, his gaze lighting on her lips and then dropping to where her breasts pressed against the thin linen of her night-robe. When he again met her eyes, his own once more held the roguish charm that she found so irresistible.

“I could stand here until all eternity’s morrows dawned and faded and ne’er list all the things that would make a man seek your door, my lady.” He caught her hand, the one holding his brooch, and gave it a squeeze. “Indeed, Berengaria told me cats are swift. She worried that Little Heart might dart out, disappearing, when you opened the door.”

“I see.” Mirabelle tamped down her disappointment.

His words, while flattering, could’ve been made to any halfway fetching female.

She’d hoped he’d open his heart to her.

She wouldn’t embarrass herself by baring her own.

So she kept her chin raised, her back straight. “It was good of you to help me with Little Heart. And”—she uncurled her fingers, glanced down at his brooch—“I shall wear this pin proudly, and gladly make use of your offer of protection if ever the need arises.”

“Then all is well, my lady. I’ll no’ be here long after our meeting in the hall.” His features were hard now, revealing little. “I have urgent matters calling me away.”

“You’re leaving Stirling?” Mirabelle blinked, stunned. “So soon?”

“Aye, mayhap I’ll go tomorrow e’en, after we’ve parted.” He went to the hidden door, turning back at the concealing tapestry, already distancing himself from her. “I cannae say how long I’ll be away. But you’ll be fine. Sinclair willnae even glance at you once he’s seen us together in the great hall.”

“But I thought…” Mirabelle bit her lip and glanced aside. The kitten was yowling at her feet, batting her skirts for attention. “It might have been useful for us to be seen together after tomorrow night. Strolling the castle gardens, enjoying the rise of the moon from the battlements, or—”

“Such are pastimes for lovers, my lady.” His words ripped her heart.

She scooped up her kitten, holding him to her breast. “I know, but—”

“I dinnae ken that word, my sweet.” He touched two fingers to her lips, silencing her. “Be in the hall at the gloaming hour tomorrow e’en and we’ll settle the matter troubling you. Thereafter…”

He lifted the edge of the wall hanging and opened the secret door. “I will wish you a good life, Lady Mirabelle.”

“And I you,” she offered, her tone as cool as she could make it. “May you meet much success on your journey.”

“That I shall, for I will be repaying a much overdue debt.” He stepped into the dark passage, his eyes glinting in the shadows. “I ride north with Grim Mackintosh. His reason for seeking me was astonishing. He came to fetch me to meet my long-lost father.”

Mirabelle stared at him, feeling the words like a physical jolt. She forgot all else, a wave of happiness for him washing through her. “But that is wonderful. What a joyous reunion you will have—”

“I shall see you in the hall on the morrow, lass.” He gave her a slight bow, ignoring her words, not looking at all glad-hearted about his father.

Her own brow crimping, Mirabelle started to ask him who the man was, but Sorley was already descending the spiral steps of the hidden stairwell, disappearing into the deepness of the shadows.

He was gone, and she already felt his absence as if they’d parted forever.

E
arly the next morning, Sorley approached Stirling Castle’s scriptorium, sacred haven for the King’s scribes, bards, and other learned men. Claiming nearly the whole top floor of one of the main stronghold’s highest towers, the King’s much-prized library was a lofty, airy place. Even here in the corridor, the pleasant whisper of clean, cold wind slipped through tall, narrow window slits, and shafts of sunlight slanted into the passage, turning the whitewashed walls and well-swept floor a bright shade of gold.

Sorley scarce noticed, for his mind was on something much more sacred than the King’s collection of ancient tomes and parchment scrolls.

If he knew he was the last man who’d make Mirabelle a suitable husband, an equal truth was that he’d damn well ensure her safety. No matter what Highland dotard chieftain someday gained her as a wife.

That, he would do for her.

So he quickened his pace through the sunlit corridor, sending a silent prayer to his gods that he’d find her sire,
Munro MacLaren, hard at his transcribing work in the King’s scroll-filled sanctuary.

One more curve of the passage, and he’d be there.

Then he was.

Two royal spearmen guarded the scriptorium’s door, but they made no effort to halt Sorley’s approach. Indeed, one of them nodded infinitesimally and stepped aside at once, freeing the way for Sorley’s entry.

“Did you hear the wolves howling near the castle walls earlier this morn, Hawk?” The man greeted Sorley in Fenris code, his presence not surprising Sorley at all, for men of the secret brotherhood were well able to blend unnoticed in any group, even the King’s guard. “Could be the beasts will breach our walls one of these days.”

“That would be a sight never forgotten.” Sorley returned the man’s nod, giving him the coded alert that no word should be spoken of his visit to the scriptorium.

The fellow Fenris’s eyes acknowledged the message, then the man reached to open the door for Sorley, both guardsmen stepping back to allow Sorley to cross the sanctuary’s threshold. They closed the door quietly behind him.

For a beat, Sorley was near blinded by the light within the vast, many-windowed chamber. Rows of tall, stone-edged arches cut deep into the walls allowed the sun to flood the room. Just across from the door, the largest window of them all framed the same sweeping view of the distant Highland hills that Sorley drank in from the battlements every morning. Those ever-longed-for peaks reared before him in all their sun-washed glory, their magnificence slamming into him like an iron fist, piercing his soul, squeezing his heart.

Mirabelle rose before him, too, his mind’s eye seeing her astride a fast-running horse, galloping toward those blue-misted hills, her lustrous, flame-bright hair streaming out behind her, each muscle-packed bound of her steed’s racing hooves carrying her away from him.

At the thought, an unreasonable fury swept him and he blinked hard, forcing his eyes to adjust to the room’s dazzling brightness. Besides the many windows, candles burned everywhere, braziers cast additional light, and several bronze oil lamps hung on gold-painted chains from the room’s high, raftered ceiling. Where the walls weren’t covered with shelves of countless scrolls and precious books, every spare inch was colorfully painted in gleaming blue and shining gold, the brilliance scarce to be believed.

Unfortunately, the scriptorium appeared empty.

Leastways of occupants.

Or so Sorley thought until he strode deeper into the oversized room, into the crowded maze of scroll-and-parchment-cluttered tables.

Munro MacLaren perched on a stool before one of the tables, his slight form hunched over a scroll, his quill scratching noisily across the unfurled parchment. An ancient-looking tome was propped open before him, clearly the much-revered book on healing that he’d been called to Stirling to transcribe from the Gaelic into English for the King.

Bernard of Gordon’s invaluable
Lilium Medicinae
, penned over a century ago.

Only such a treasure would keep Mirabelle’s scholarly father from noticing Sorley walk right up to where he sat scribbling so industriously.

Sorley couldn’t imagine a man having such a fascination with books and healing.

He
had other interests.

So he placed both hands flat on the table and leaned in, knowing a direct approach was the only way to break the older man’s focus.

“Knocking,” he used the laird’s proper title, “I’d have some words with you.”

“I am busy with words now.” Munro MacLaren glanced
up with obvious irritation. “Orders were given that I’m no’ to be disturbed.” Looking right back down at his work, he began scribbling again. “By anyone, and the command was given by the King.”

“Was it now?” Sorley reached across the table and plucked the quill from Munro’s ink-stained fingers. “Be that as it may, I’ll still be having your ear.”

“Who are you?” Munro snatched back his quill, his scholarly-pale cheeks reddening. “There be two guards outside, how did you pass them?”

Sorley straightened and hitched a hip on the edge of the table, folding his arms. “Could be they are my friends. Or”—he stretched out the word—“they ken better than to stand in my way when I wish to speak with someone.”

“Are you a MacKenzie?” Munro was glaring at him from beneath beetling brows, just now noting the MacKenzie plaid Sorley wore with such pride, especially since learning his mother was of that race.

“I am called Sorley the Hawk,” Sorley answered, as coolly as MacLaren’s voice was agitated. “If you paid more heed to the folk moving about this court, you might have heard tell of me,” he added, not surprised Mirabelle’s bookish sire didn’t know him. For the same reason, he’d be unaware of Sir John’s perfidious nature.

“But you gleaned rightly, I have ties to the MacKenzies.” Sorley hadn’t planned on making the claim, but the words left his tongue as if he’d said them often, feeling so right, a wash of pride swelled within him. “My mother, rest her soul, was a Kintail woman.”

“And your father?” Munro narrowed his eyes at him, his question underscoring the Highlanders’ obsession with blood and lineage. “Surely he didnae go by the name of ‘the Hawk’?”

“My father is Archibald MacNab.” Sorley struggled to keep the distaste from his voice. “I’m his by-blow.”

“Are you now?” MacLaren looked at him with new interest, some of the suspicion fading from his face.

To Sorley’s surprise, he waved a hand at the bread, cheese, and ale at the far end of the table. “A son is a son is a son, lad,” he said, wriggling his inky fingers at the refreshments. “Help yourself to a bite or a nip of ale, and tell me what’s so important you’d disturb my work.”

Sorley ignored his hospitality. “That’s a sentiment I wouldn’t have expected from you, a Highland chieftain. Some might say a bastard is what he is, born on the wrong side of the bed linens.”

“Aye, well…” Munro glanced at his ink-smeared fingers, picked up a cloth, and rubbed at the worst of the stains. “Could be that’s true. But”—he looked up swiftly, his blue gaze measuring—“once a man’s been a bit seasoned by life, he kens what truly matters, laddie. Blood is blood, where’er its wellspring.”

“You are generous.” Sorley returned the older man’s gaze, sure the aging chieftain didn’t recall once sending his largest, meanest guardsman after a cheeky lad with too much swagger and not enough sense.

Or he meant what he’d said and was too tactful to own to the truth.

Highlanders were known to bend their words in favor of politeness.

Not that it mattered either way.

Sorley reached for the offered ale jug and poured out two cups, sliding one in MacLaren’s direction. The other he lifted in silent salute, draining his measure in one long gulp.

“To the MacNab, then. My errant sire.” He set down his empty cup with a clack and drew the back of his hand over his mouth. Only he knew he was trying to wipe the taste of the name off his lips.

Munro’s gaze was piercing, thoughtful. “Archie is an old friend and ally. I saw him last Christmastide, at his yearly
Yule feast, though he didnae mention any bastard son that I can recall.”

“He wouldn’t have done.” Sorley saw no reason not to speak true. “He doesn’t know I exist.”

“Ach, well! That changes everything.” Munro slapped the table, stirring his parchments. “You should journey to Duncreag Castle and make yourself known to him.” He spoke lightly, as if such a feat were easy. “He’d rejoice to see you. He’s an auld done man these days, could use a lift of heart.”

“I’m no’ here to speak of him.” Sorley leaned across the table again, bracing himself on his arm. His plan to accompany Grim Mackintosh north and seek long overdue vengeance on his father was something best kept out of this discussion. He was here for matters of much greater importance. So he drew a deep breath and used his most earnest tone. “I’d warn you no’ to allow Sir John Sinclair to ride with you to Knocking Tower, or to e’er let him visit you there. He is dangerous and no’ to be trusted.”

“Sir John?” Munro looked skeptical. “He has knowledge of the MacBeth healers. Spent time with them in their own domain, he did, the wildest corners of the Hebrides. He’s offered to share their wisdom with me, herb lore and healing methods he observed during his stay with them.” He glanced at the precious tome before him, the much-famed
Lilium Medicinae
, and then looked again at Sorley. “Such insight, straight from Scotland’s most renowned healers, would be invaluable. Perhaps even more so than this book.”

Sorley bit back a snort, not wanting to offend him. “If Sir John even dipped a toe in the great Sea of the Hebrides, the stars and the moon will fall from the sky. If he’s ever met a MacBeth healer, all the heather in Scotland will pull up roots and run south to England.

“He is only telling you such tales to win your trust, to gain access to your hall.” Sorley didn’t warn him of the
fiend’s reason: to claim Mirabelle’s hand. If he did, he’d have to disclose Sinclair’s dark and bent nature, and doing so would surely cost the laird weeks, if not months and years, of sleepless nights, worrying for his daughter’s safety.

A matter he meant to address.

It was enough for MacLaren to bar his door to Sir John.

Already, the older man looked discomfited. Blinking, he peered at Sorley, the candlelight revealing how watery his aged eyes were.

“Knocking is a fair place.” Munro’s brow pleated. “But I dinnae see why Sir John—”

“Would lie to you?” Sorley could name many reasons. But his mind raced for ones odious and believable enough without bringing Mirabelle into it. “He has great debts, difficulties deeper than even the King’s knowledge.” That much was true. “I’ve heard he’s plotting to entertain you with false accounts of his supposed stay with the MacBeths and that while he has your attention, his men will gather in your grazing lands, stealing away your cattle and taking them to the great markets in Crieff and Falkirk. By the time you’d note their absence, the beasts would be sold.” Sorley spun the tale as he went, not feeling guilty, for he knew Sinclair had committed even worse crimes. “No one would suspect him, because at the time of the cattle thievery, he was standing before your hearth fire, regaling you with his stories of the Macbeth healers.”

“Bluidy hell—who would’ve thought it!” Munro looked scandalized. “To think I believed the fork-tongued, flat-footed scoundrel.”

“You are not alone,” Sorley sympathized. “Many at court favor the man, even King Robert. So you mustn’t say aught of what I’ve told you.”

“How do you ken suchlike?” Munro cocked a brow, a thread of doubt creeping back into his voice.

Sorley shrugged and glanced aside, letting the growing
silence weight the air, lending credence to what he didn’t say aloud.

“Perhaps the same way I gained entry to this room even though two of the King’s guards stand outside.” Sorley used a meaningful tone, the closest he’d go to revealing his true position at court. “Some men aye see and hear more than others, my lord. Men who aren’t noticed, as unseen as a bird in a tree or a dog scrounging in the floor rushes beneath a hall’s high table.”

“So you’re a spy, then.” Munro’s gaze was sharp.

Sorley almost laughed, liking the man. “I am Sorley the Hawk, no more, no less.”

“Humph.” Munro didn’t look appeased.

“Who or what I am doesnae matter. Only that you decline Sir John’s petitions to ride north with you. And”—Sorley gave him a fierce look—“keep your gates closed to him if he should journey to Knocking on his own.”

“So I will, aye then.” Munro finally conceded. “Because you’re Archie’s lad. For sure, I was looking forward to hearing the MacBeths’ secrets.”

“You’d have been fed nonsense.” Sorley was sure of it. “But I can offer you something true, and much more interesting, I vow.”

Sorley reached beneath his plaid and withdrew a lambskin pouch, carefully untying its opening. As Munro looked on, he produced a cloth-wrapped stone root, a gift from Grim Mackintosh, and placed it on the table.

“This is a prize worthy of study,” Sorley declared, whipping away the cloth with a flourish. “It is a fossilized tree root, now harder than stone and blessed with much strength and power, or so I was told by the man who gave it to me, a Mackintosh of Nought territory in the Glen of Many Legends.”