To Love a Highlander (7 page)

“William spoke true.” Maili didn’t look at her, intent on smoothing the linen on the next table. “The only two men who were here before you were farm lads bringing a cartload of peat.”

Mirabelle set down her wine cup. “We passed two beggars as we turned into the inn’s rear yard.”

“You heard William.” Maili didn’t meet her eyes. “There weren’t any such men here.”

“I spoke with one of them.”

Maili moved to another table, her wrinkle-straightening hands more busy than ever. She also kept her face averted. “Perhaps they were wayfarers? All sorts of travelers use the crossroads.”

“The men were leaving the stableyard, riding two ancient horses.” Mirabelle watched the girl closely. “They didn’t look like any beggars I’ve ever seen. They were big, well-built men, burly and muscled.”

“Many such men visit the Red Lion.” Maili gestured toward the door arch, the smoky long room now filled with the rumble of deep, male voices. “Our patrons are farmers and their sons, smithies and thatchers, men from the town, and sailing men from the wharves along the river. Sometimes we see well-born parties like your father and his guardsmen.

“Everyone hereabouts knew not to look in this morn.” She bobbed a curtsy. “If you’ve no further wishes, I’ll leave you. There’s a bell”—she lifted her chin toward a small ringer fastened to the wall near Mirabelle’s table—“if you need me.”

“I’m fine, although…” Mirabelle ran a finger around the edge of her wine cup, deliberately stalling to keep the girl with her.

She knew something Mirabelle didn’t.

And the more she tried to hide it, the more Mirabelle wanted to know what it was.

So she willed herself to appear relaxed, spooned a dollop of gooseberry preserves on a thick slice of warm, crusty bread. She also decided on a different approach. “You said you work at the castle…” Mirabelle spread the preserves evenly. The Stirling connection was her best opening. “Do you know Sorley the Hawk?”

“Everyone knows him.” Maili’s face softened, her eyes turning dreamy in a way that pinched Mirabelle’s heart. “Sorley and I go way back. We grew up together, mostly causing mischief in the castle kitchens.”

“Oh.” Mirabelle put down her spoon. “I didn’t realize—”

“Och, I’m not someone’s by-blow, my lady.” The girl gave Mirabelle a smile. “Not that I’d be hanging my head if I was.” She winked. “Truth is, most such bairns are born of love, or at the least, powerful desire. That’s a very fine way to have been made if you ask me. I cannae say the same for many nobles.”

“I do agree.” Mirabelle did.

“That I knew, my lady. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have met my eyes when I brought you in here, much less spoken to me. Some of the worthies at court don’t see me at all, or they act as if I’m air.

“Sorley faced worse, not having a father in a place where blood and station matter over all else. Many were unkind…” She let the words trail away and smoothed the apron tied around her waist. “My mother worked in the castle kitchens and looked after him. Until she succumbed to a fever.” She glanced aside, her gaze on the peats glowing softly on the grate. “My father passed when I was two summers and so I became an orphan, dependent on those with a heart, much like Sorley and other castle bastards.”

“I am sorry for your losses.” Mirabelle was. She liked Maili, admiring her goodness and her strength. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak her mind. There was so much she wanted to know. “Sorley’s fortunes appear to have bettered. The court ladies speak highly of him.”

“They would, wouldn’t they? He’s a bonnie man. He has the devil’s own good looks, charm, and…” A wash of pink stole across Maili’s cheekbones. “He’s most popular at Stirling, aye.

“You’ve noticed him, too, my lady.” She spoke bluntly, then reached down to pet a large gray tabby cat that’d slipped into the room and now leaned against her skirts. Straightening, she smiled. “Most women do.”

Mirabelle took a sip of wine, considering. “Yet that
wasn’t always so. You said he was treated poorly at court?” She hoped he’d forgotten the night of her uncle’s celebratory feast, the Highland reel they’d danced and that had ended so cruelly. But what choice had she other than to walk away with her chaperone? The fierce guard, one of her father’s most brutish warriors, who’d accompanied the woman, would’ve ripped Sorley’s head off his neck had she stayed at his side.

Wishing she’d had the courage to have done so, she set down her wine cup. “Popular as Sorley is now, something must’ve changed.”

“To be sure!” Maili’s smile flashed again. “He saved King Robert’s life. After that, he became a royal favorite. His reputation soared and almost overnight, those who’d shunned him sought his friendship. Such is the way among nobles.”

As soon as the words left her lips, her smile vanished and she pressed a hand to her breast. “My pardon. I didn’t mean to say—”

“I’m not offended.” Mirabelle rushed to reassure her. “The royal court is much different from Highland halls. There are some men who could well be Lowland worthies, but they are few and not looked upon kindly. Our chieftains do swagger a bit and hold great power, but they are also a friend and protector to every clansman. All have the right to approach the chief at any time, knowing they’ll be welcomed, their concerns taken seriously. Indeed, they think of themselves as his cousin, no matter how tenuous the bond. Our lairds call them such, so why shouldn’t they?

“In clan society, all men are important and appreciated. The blood ties and”—Mirabelle’s heart squeezed—“the love of our land bind us powerfully.”

“I should like to have been of your Highlands, my lady.”

“It is a privilege we cherish, calling our hills home.”

Maili again reached down to pet the cat, who was now
batting at her hem. “I should leave you. You’ve only had a bite of gooseberry bread.”

“It is good.” Mirabelle glanced at the crusty loaf, scarcely seeing it. Her mind raced, her heart thumping at her daring. “If you have a moment, I’d love to hear how Sorley saved the King’s life.”

“Oh, it’s a grand tale!” The girl beamed. “Perhaps even romantic enough to be sung in your Highland halls. It happened when Sorley was six-and-ten summers, during a royal procession to Holyrood Abbey in Edinburgh. The King and his party were riding in style, for the King loves Edinburgh and looked forward to returning there. In a joyous mood, no one paid any heed to the thick mists darkening the day. Great swirls of it blew across the heather, veiling outcrops and large swathes of whin and broom. Sorley—”

“He was in the royal entourage?” Mirabelle lifted a brow, doubtful.

“Aye, well…” Maili glanced at the door arch, lowering her voice. “He wasn’t with the King’s party. Some of the squires had been taunting him more than usual, claiming they’d win glory at an archery tournament to be held at Holyrood. Local archers were encouraged to enter the competition. Sorley followed the group, hoping to—”

“He wished to compete?” Mirabelle guessed, her heart squeezing for the bold lad she knew he’d been.

No boy should be jeered at by others. She understood his need to prove himself.

“Sorley excelled at anything he did.” Maili went to stand before the fire, the gray tabby cat trailing after her. “He wasn’t allowed to train with the squires, so he hid in the shadows and watched them. Later, when the castle slept, he’d sneak to a dark corner of the training ground and practice, mimicking what he’d seen. He quickly mastered sword work, but it was with a bow that he shone the brightest.” Maili smiled, clearly reminiscing. “Not even the most
seasoned castle archers shot better. His friends, the other lads in the kitchens and stableyards, swore he could split a hair at a hundred yards. That wasn’t just boys’ bluster, he truly was good.”

“He proved it at the tournament?” Mirabelle was sure that was so.

“That he did, my lady. He took all prizes in his age group.”

Mirabelle looked at her. The girl’s face glowed and her eyes held admiration. Was it possible her affection for Sorley went deeper than the innocent relationship she’d described? If so, it was no concern of hers. So why did the possibility pinch her so fiercely?

Trying to ignore the sensation, she took a small piece of cheese.

“Will you not join me?” She offered the tray to the girl, pleased when she accepted a bit of green cheese and an oatcake.

Watching her, Mirabelle remembered something Maili had left out of her tale. It was her own fault for distracting the girl. And she felt a need to learn as much about Sorley the Hawk as possible. If he accepted the proposal she’d made him, they’d share great intimacies.

If she knew more about him, she’d be able to better relax when the time came.

She might be willing to lose her innocence, but the act was still a bit daunting, much as she was attracted to Sorley.

She also remained certain he was the man she’d encountered in the inn’s rear yard. Likewise she was sure the innkeeper had looked into the private parlor to warn Maili against revealing Sorley’s disguise.

Mirabelle took another sip of wine. Her Highland curiosity would give her no rest until she discovered the reasons behind such an intrigue.

So she set down her cup and turned her entire attention
on Maili. “You said Sorley saved the King on the journey to Holyrood?”

“He did, aye.” Maili took a linen napkin from another table and dabbed at her mouth. “There was an ambush, planned by a small troop of English hunkering in a thicket of whin and broom. The underbrush and mist hid them well, but Sorley spotted them just as one of the archers aimed at King Robert. Before the assailant could loose his arrow, Sorley fired one of his own, piercing the man’s wrist.

“The archer fell, his arrow flying wild and slamming into the heather.” The girl’s face lit, her excitement catching. “His men yelled and burst out of the thicket, armed with flails, light spears, and swords. But the King’s men were warned and ready, making short work of the Sassenachs. By e’en, when the royal party reached Edinburgh, Sorley’s feat was on all lips, his fame sealed. From that day onward, men called him Sorley the Hawk.” Maili swiped at her cheek, her eyes glistening. “Had it not been for his keen eyesight and sharp aim, our good King might not have lived.”

“It’s a fine tale.” Mirabelle found her throat thick, her voice not as steady as she would’ve wished. “I’m not surprised, given the high praise I’ve heard when castle folk speak of him. Tell me”—she had to know—“does he come to the Red Lion often?”

In a blink, the brightness slipped from Maili’s face and she darted a glance at the archway. Men’s voices could still be heard, Mirabelle’s father’s the most dominant as he continued to praise the virtues of the learned order of MacBeth physicians and Celtic medicine. The clatter of cutlery and the chink of ale cups proved that the men were still eating, not yet ready to clamber onto the inn’s roof.

Turning back to Mirabelle, the serving girl drew a long breath. “Aye, well, Sorley does look in now and again. Most men hereabouts do, lest their womenfolk forbid them a cup or two of ale and…” She blushed, and then shrugged. “A bit
of comfort such as they don’t enjoy in their marriage bed, as you surely knew.”

“I do.” Mirabelle didn’t lie. “All men need more than a plaid to warm their bones of a cold, dark night.”

Maili’s face warmed with a smile. “You are unlike any gentleborn lady I’ve ever met.”

“I am myself, no more.” Mirabelle flicked an oatcake crumb off the table linen. “Life can be hard in the Highlands. We don’t have time or inclination to fool ourselves or put a gloss of nicety on things that simply are. Women learn early to accept the ways of men. They are all driven by desire.” Mirabelle glanced at the room’s one window, just catching the tail end of a horse riding by on the road. “Highlanders understand a man’s need for a woman, his thirst for land, and the love of his own glen, the drive to protect kith and kin.”

“I do not think Sorley cares about land, but he is well-lusted, my lady. Such a man is to be celebrated, if only because he joys in living.” Maili moved to a nearby table, nipping its guttering candlewick. She waved away the rising smoke, then turned back to Mirabelle, her tone conspiratorial. “If I didn’t think of him as a brother, I’d have lured him into my bed years ago. Word is one night in his arms spoils a lass for all other lovers.”

“So I have heard.” Mirabelle couldn’t count the number of times she’d caught such whisperings.

“And you?” Maili peered at her with a considering eye. “Why are you interested in him?”

“Because”—Mirabelle decided to speak true—“I believe he is the beggar I spoke with when we arrived at the inn.”

“Och, nae.” Maili shook her head. “Sorley takes great pride in his appearance. His raiment is as fine as any courtier’s. Ne’er would he slink about garbed in rags, no’ after having to suffer wearing castoffs and worse as a lad.”

“I don’t know…” Mirabelle glanced at the fire, seeing more than the orange-glowing peats. “More than one
Highland chieftain has been known to walk his hills in a wayfarer’s robe, the hood pulled low to hide his face. When trouble is about, sometimes a humble soul is able to see and hear more than could e’er be learned on a chiefly ride through the glen, pennants waving and pipes blaring.

“We of the hills and glens ken that much is not as it seems.” She looked back at Maili, sensing she could trust her. “I believe Sorley is more than he appears. Indeed, I am sure—”

She went silent as the inn door banged open. Both women glanced at the archway just as a man called a good morn to the men in the long room.

“Ho, stranger!” William Wyldes greeted him, full of cheer and welcome. “Are you wanting a room or just ale and a warm meal? We’ve other comforts if you’re cold and weary from your journey.”

“I’ll be needing a bed, aye,” the man answered, his voice carrying. It was a deep voice, low and rich, thick with the lilting tones of the Highlands. “A few nights, mayhap more, I cannae say. An ale and some of that stew I’m smelling would suit me fine.”

Maili glanced at Mirabelle. “A Highlander,” she whispered, full of awe.

“Aye.” Mirabelle’s heart leapt at the soft dialect of her home.