To Love a Highlander (33 page)

“Perhaps, though they will be urged otherwise.” Sorley nipped her earlobe, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. “A good marriage with a kindly man, a safe home, and the promise of a carefree future is persuasive, lass. As will be no’ hurting other innocents.”

“You are a good man.” Mirabelle’s heart swelled and she placed a hand over his arm where he held her, squeezing tight. “The greatest of heroes, just as I knew.”

He chuckled again. “Did you now?”

“Always.” She blinked, lifted her hand to dash a tear from her cheek.

“I am glad to hear it.” He drew rein just inside the bailey, swinging down and reaching up for her, setting her lightly on the cobbles. “Though”—he unfastened the strap that held Little Heart’s basket to the saddle horn—“I aye thought it was my swagger that caught your eye.”

“It was.” Mirabelle didn’t lie, but she’d also seen his goodness even then.

She’d recognized it in his gaze. Just as she saw it there now as he gave a coin to the stable lad who ran up to take their horse. He told the boy he’d earn a second coin, or more, if he saw the kitten safely delivered to Mirabelle’s guest chamber in the ladies’ tower.

“So, lass!” He turned to her, offering her his arm as the lad dashed away, carrying the wicker basket as if it were made of gold. “Shall we see what’s afoot here?”

“Indeed.” Mirabelle slipped her hand through his arm, let him lead her into the crowd thronging the bailey.

In truth, she couldn’t remember ever seeing so many people gathered at the castle. The atmosphere was joyous, excitement in the air. Although it was near to gloaming, the sky already dark with evening clouds—she and Sorley had stayed in the clearing longer than intended,
enjoying
themselves too much to break away any sooner—so many torches blazed on the ramparts and throughout the courtyard and pillared arcades that the castle shone brightly. The walls and even the bailey cobbles gleamed red and gold, the mail and steel of the gathered warriors and nobles, reflecting the flames, adding to the brilliance.

Townsfolk were there, too, filling the courtyard and spilling out through the open gatehouse where men and women milled about beneath the curtain walls, carrying on as if at a gay and festive fair.

“Look! Some people have climbed onto the rooftops of the outbuildings, even the chapel…” Mirabelle tugged on Sorley’s arm, nodding toward the little sanctuary, memories
of their heated encounter there making her quiver with love for him. She glanced up at him, very proud, for he’d never looked more handsome than now, with the flaming torches making him shine like a Celtic hero. “Folk are even in the old burial yard, standing on the walls—”

She broke off, her breath catching, when she spotted a group of Highlanders standing in the shadows of the chapel wall. Big, heavy-bearded men, they wore polished mail coats and low-slung silver-studded belts hung not only with long swords but also with the wicked war axes of the North. Several had wolf pelts tossed across their massive shoulders, and every one of them was adorned with glittering arm rings and what, at a distance, appeared to be silver Thor’s hammer amulets glinting at their throats. Blinking, Mirabelle narrowed her eyes at the warriors, sure of it.

She also suspected who they were.

Didn’t they bear a strong resemblance to Grim Mackintosh of Nought?

The fine hairs on her nape lifting, her heartbeat quickening, she flashed a glance at Sorley, relieved to see he hadn’t yet noticed the Highlanders. She could only guess why they were here.

She was spared further speculation when the innkeeper, William Wyldes, strode up to them, the crowd parting to let him through.

“About time you returned!” He stopped before them, his feet wide apart, hands on his hips, his grin huge. “What’s a grand day without the guests of honor, eh?”

Laughing, he stepped forward and threw his arms around Mirabelle, crushing her in a tremendous hug before turning to Sorley. He punched him in the arm, good-naturedly. “ ’Tis a night o’ wonders, it is!” He grinned even wider, looked from one of them to the other. “Who would’ve thought—”

“What?” Sorley didn’t return his friend’s smile, something in his gut warning him he wouldn’t like the reason for
it. “Dinnae tell me all this revel has aught to do with me. That folk would rejoice to see Lady Mirabelle safe, I’ll accept. But I’m no’ wonder—”

Wyldes laughed, his merriment only increasing Sorley’s suspicion. “Be that as it may,” his tone confirmed Sorley’s gut feeling, “you are a part of a miracle, true enough. The King has pardoned a man his father banned from court ages ago, even welcoming the rascal’s return.”

“What
rascal
?” Sorley’s blood chilled, an icy cold rushing through him as if a great fist had plunged through his chest, snatching all the warmth in his world. “Who has come to Stirling to earn such a welcome?”

In answer, William made a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating a group of big-bearded, rough-hewn Highland warriors standing beside the chapel. Sorley eyed them, at first thinking they were Alex’s Highlanders, men known to be a wild and rowdy lot.

Sadly, he knew most of the earl’s followers, and a second look proved they weren’t Alex Stewart’s men.

“By the gods,” he ground out, frowning. He couldn’t say for sure, but looking at them now, he had a fairly good notion whence they’d come.

Turning back to William, he scowled even more. “Those can only be Nought warriors, from the Glen of Many Legends, Grim Mackintosh’s men.”

He purposely didn’t say what he knew: that Grim’s men were now lodged at Archibald MacNab’s stronghold, Duncreag Castle, rebuilding the raid damage, training a new garrison for his errant sire.

“So they are!” William beamed, his tone jubilant. “And guess who rode in here with them? Looking for you and—”

“By all the gods!” Sorley’s rage near choked him. “How dare he come here now, on such a day. Just when—”

“Sorley, please…” Mirabelle leaned into him, slid an
arm around his waist, even her goodness and warmth not lessening the cold boiling inside him.

“Stay out of this, lass.” He set his hand over hers, squeezing her fingers, hard. He kept his gaze on Wyldes. “I cannae believe my ears. Tell me I’m no’ hearing rightly, I urge you.”

“Aye, well…” William shrugged, his smile slipping only a bit. “Truth is, he didnae hie himself down here from his wild Heilands to—”

“Isn’t it a joyous night?” Maili appeared around the edge of a clutch of excited-looking matrons, bearing an armful of mead horns.

She offered one to Sorley, her pretty face alight. “Drink, laddie,” she urged him, winking. “A bit of mead and the world is right again.”

“That I doubt!” Sorley frowned at her, ignoring the proffered mead horn.

“So-so!” Maili kept smiling, her high spirits undimmed as William and Mirabelle accepted their mead, knocking the horns together before lifting them to their lips and drinking.

Sorley folded his arms, waiting until Maili sashayed off, not surprisingly in the direction of Grim’s Nought warriors.

As soon as she disappeared into the throng, Sorley fixed his fiercest look on William. “Archibald MacNab is here, feted by our King?”

“So he is!” William boomed the unwanted reply, looking not a whit unapologetic. Tipping back his mead horn, he took a long swig before once again grinning. “Though all this”—he waved the horn at the chaos—“is also about you, and your lady’s rescue. You ken her sire is much revered by King Robert.” William glanced at Mirabelle, admiration on his bearded face. “The King knows no man could better transcribe his prized
Lilium Medicinae
from the Gaelic than Munro MacLaren. He was outraged that MacLaren’s daughter was taken from this castle, right out from beneath his nose. Having the lady Mirabelle and her father here as
his honored guests worsened matters.” William took another long drink of mead, tossed aside the empty horn. “His relief was great when word came that you’d found and rescued her. So, with your father here, his son such a hero—”

“You were there as well,” Sorley minded him.

“Aye, well…” William stretched his arms over his head, cracked his knuckles. “When was the last time I had a chance to throw a spear?”

Sorley frowned again and glanced about, looking for any man who might be Archibald.

Not that he cared to spot the dastard.

“Why did he come south?” Mirabelle stepped between them, voicing the very question Sorley was too annoyed to ask again. “Did he hope to meet Sorley?”

For the first time, William looked uncomfortable. “No’ exactly,” he hedged, hooking his thumbs in his sword-belt and rocking back on his heels. “Truth is Grim Mackintosh’s wife, Lady Breena, missed him and insisted on making the journey down here to join her husband. The MacNab is fond of her, supposedly looks on her like a daughter. He came with her. Once they reached my Red Lion, Grim told him the real reason for his quest—”

“To find me, what?” Sorley lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck.

He should be pressing his hands to his temples, because his head was beginning to throb. The morning’s events and the bliss of his hours in the clearing with Mirabelle were now replaced by a terrible, growing ache between his damned ears. His chest felt oddly tight, too, as if he couldn’t breathe.

“You may like the man.” William’s face turned earnest, the caring in his eyes not sitting at all well with Sorley. “I have met him. He isnae what you’d expect.”

“I dinnae care if he walks on water or can sprout wings and fly to the moon.” Sorley folded his arms, more angry than he could ever recall being.

“He is o’er there, in thon sheltered arcade, in the shadowed corner with Laird MacLaren.” William jerked his head that way, stepping back to free the view. “You’ll see, he is no’ water-walker or moon-flyer.

“Go now, my friend.” He gave Sorley a nudge and nodded at Mirabelle. “Give him a chance.”

Sorley clamped his jaw, his fool throat somehow too thick to answer as he’d wished.

He did reach for Mirabelle’s hand, twining his fingers in hers. “Come, lass,” he managed, his voice rough. “Let us be done with this nonsense.”

“Indeed!” Looking most traitorous, her lovely blue eyes suspiciously bright, Mirabelle started forward, tugging him along with her.

Behind them, he heard William slap his damned thigh and bark a ridiculously cheerful shout of encouragement. Unfortunately, Sorley couldn’t catch the words, because, for some strange reason, his ears were buzzing.

Then the crowd around them started moving aside, clearing the way so he and Mirabelle could pass through the throng more easily to reach the small cluster of Highlanders gathered in a corner of the arcade.

“Damnation…” Sorley stopped, staring at the group. For sure, his eyes were fooling him.

Munro MacLaren, small and slight as he was, had never appeared more chiefly, or proud. Mail-clad as the Nought warriors, Mirabelle’s father stood next to Grim, the steel links of his armor shining like silver. His great tartan was draped nobly over his shoulder and, belying his scholarly heart, a fierce-looking sword was strapped to his hip. A beautiful young woman was speaking to him, her fiery-red hair gleaming in the arcade’s shadows. She could only be Lady Breena, Grim’s much-loved lady wife.

But it wasn’t Munro’s transformation or Grim and his lady who held Sorley’s attention.

It was the man standing a bit apart from them, gazing out across the throng as if searching for someone. Blessedly, he wasn’t looking toward Sorley and Mirabelle.

Sorley was gladdened by that turn of luck, because the Highlander, clearly a chieftain, could only be his father, Archibald MacNab.

“Dear saints, there he is.” Mirabelle squeezed his fingers, confirming his dread.

Sorley froze where he stood, staring at the man.

He
couldn’t
be his sire.

To be sure, his tartan finery and his proximity to MacLaren and Grim and his wife said he was. There any speculation ended, because the man standing in the shadows of the arcade was a shadow himself.

“He is ill.” Mirabelle tugged on his hand and glanced up at him, concerned.

“He is old, is all.” Sorley kept his gaze on the fiend, not wanting to feel any sympathy for him. “I’ll wager he kens well what I mean to say to him. That will be the reason he looks so pale and worried.”

And he did.

More than that, he was leaning on a crummock, a long Highland walking stick, clearly needing the support to stand. Worse, he appeared to have dark shadows under his eyes, and his hair stood up in tufts, the sparse white strands catching the torchlight, making him look ghostly. He didn’t appear at all like the dashing, silver-tongued poet he was reputed to have been in his youth.

He looked like a wretch.

Or so Sorley had thought until his vision blurred and he could hardly see the bastard, because, for some reason, his eyes were burning, filling with stinging moisture he refused to acknowledge as tears.

“Mother of Thunder,” he swore, swiping the back of his hand across his cheek. “That cannae be my father.”

“I vow he is. I know him, you forget.” Mirabelle slid her arm around him, urging him toward the arcade. “I think he’s seen us.”

“Nae…” Sorley didn’t want it to be true.

But when he looked, the man had turned to Mirabelle’s father, who nodded solemnly, as if confirming a question. Then, as if he sensed Sorley’s stare, the apparition who could only be Archibald turned to look at Sorley. They locked gazes, neither moving, not even blinking.

Sorley cursed again, or thought he did.

He wasn’t sure, because the old man’s face lit then, glowing brighter than a balefire. He started forward, using his walking stick to maneuver the few arcade steps and then tap-tap his way toward Sorley and Mirabelle.

He gained a few paces across the bailey before he tripped, stumbling, his walking stick flying from his hand to clatter to the cobbles.

Archibald would’ve landed on the ground as well if, somehow, Sorley’s feet hadn’t sprouted wings, letting him race forward. He caught and steadied the old man before he could fall to his knees.

Righting him, Sorley reached to adjust Archibald’s plaid and found himself holding his father’s arm, supporting him.