To Love a Highlander (22 page)

“We are blessed, I’ll no’ deny.” Grim lifted his tankard, tapping it to Sorley’s.

Seeing no course but to return the courtesy, Sorley raised his own ale and took a sip.

William’s famed, frothy ale tasted like sawdust.

“I’d rather hear what you want.” Sorley set down his tankard. “Most men seeking me wish a fight. It’s no’ every day a man asks round about me, wanting to talk. I dinnae care for it.”

“I’d feel the same.” Grim held his gaze. “Though I wouldn’t have minded your friends joining us.” He glanced at the archway, now empty and in deep shadow. “Such stalwarts are worth all the world’s gold. A man needs loyalty. It’s times of turmoil and doubt that show us who our true friends are. Thon men are yours.”

Sorley now knew that he didn’t like Grim.

No’ at all.

The man wasn’t just a Highland warrior. He was a warrior-poet.

They were the worst of the lot.

He knew it well, because Caelan fancied himself as such. With his rich chestnut hair and blue eyes, he aye boasted that his good looks and silvered tongue made him a great favorite with the ladies.

Sorley believed true men didn’t need words to win a lass’s favor.

He was a man of action.

He also had honor. His own brand, anyway. And for that reason, he’d never have plunked himself down at a table so
close to a supposed friend’s should-have-been-secret meeting with a stranger.

Some men simply lacked scruples.

Before he could say so, William came through the archway wearing his big leather apron and an even larger smile. He carried a huge tray of smoked fish from the river, a house specialty, bread and cheese, more bannocks and butter, and a dish of smoked oysters.

As he placed the offerings on the table, a young kitchen lad brought bowls of venison stew, the same much-praised recipe that Caelan was spooning. The lad’s tray also bore still-warm gooseberry pasties fresh from the oven. There was even a little pot of bramble preserves, another house favorite and made by William’s widowed great-aunt, Berengaria, who claimed a spoonful cured all ills.

Sorley eyed the preserves, considering eating half the jar.

Turning to the lad, William took the bowls of stew and set them before Grim and Sorley. The stew was well-seasoned and rich, the rising steam mouthwatering. Seeing their appreciation, William patted the table and grinned. “This should last you a while. There’s more. Sorley knows my stew kettle is bottomless.”

Sorley noticed William was making no move to disappear as he usually did after serving a table.

Apparently he’d turned as long-nosed as Roag, Caelan, and Andrew.

So Sorley sent a pointed look at the shadowed archway. “Good trade this day, William. Glad to see thon tables so full for you.”

“That they are.” Wyldes shrugged, the twinkle in his eye hinting he already knew Grim’s tidings.

“Aye, well.” He set his hands on his aproned hips, his face creasing into a warm smile. “I’ll be leaving you. Ring the bell if there’s aught you need.” He tipped his head toward a small beribboned bell affixed to the wall not far from their
table. “Loud as it gets in the long room, I aye hear a summons and will come.”

He left them with a half-grin on his face, his steps jauntier than usual. Ever a good-natured soul, his increased joviality was still suspect.

Sorley addressed Grim as soon as Wyldes vanished into the long room. “Can it be that everyone in this inn kens why you’re here?”

“That I doubt.” The Highlander didn’t turn a hair. “Some may have their own ideas. It was necessary to make enquiries. Such questions aye raise others, don’t they? Men love secrets.”

“I dinnae care for them.” Sorley’s patience was waning. “I’m also no’ fond of waiting. So”—he pushed aside William’s tantalizing stew bowl and leaned across the table, into Grim’s black-bearded face—“tell me what you want or I’m leaving now.”

“If you knew Highlanders, you’d understand we love telling tales.” Grim dipped his spoon into the stew and took a leisurely bite. After what seemed forever, he set down the spoon and carefully dabbed his mouth with a white linen napkin. “Words matter to us. Our ancestral homes, our hills and glens, all our history, are the threads that weave our past and carry us into tomorrow. Ours is a different world, and it shapes us.” He paused, glancing at the windows where nothing could be seen but swirling mist. “We take our time. With how we say things, and many other matters. There are sennachies who take days to recite their clan chief’s lineage. Such bards are greatly prized and envied by those with less skilled storytellers.”

Sorley watched him from stony eyes. “Some might say such a love of blether means you’re all a bunch of bluidy windbags.”

“We can be that, for sure.” Not looking at all offended, Grim lifted his tankard, took a healthy sip.

Sorley didn’t touch his.

“I’ve little patience with Highlanders, less with their myths and legends.” Sorley sat back in his chair, trying to ignore the heat inching up his nape, the throbbing tightness forming between his shoulder blades.

“Yet you wear a MacKenzie plaid.” Grim flicked his gaze over the proud blue and green tartan.

“I like the colors.”

“Do you have MacKenzie blood, then?”

“I dinnae ken whose blood runs through my veins, as you’re surely aware.” Sorley wasn’t about to admit his admiration for the MacKenzies and their almost-mythic chieftain, Duncan, the Black Stag of Kintail.

He did reach for another bannock and more bramble preserves. “I dinnae care either. Bloodlines and lineage have no meaning for me. It also doesn’t matter to me whose tartan I sling across my shoulder.” He held Grim’s gaze, knew his own was hard and cold. “If the colors and weave suit me, the wool keeps me warm and dry, I’m fine.”

He felt anything but.

He snapped his brows together, took a too-large bite of brambly bannock.

“Perhaps you have a touch of MacKenzie in you?” Grim studied him, critically. “You have their coloring. The dark hair and eyes, though”—he rubbed his bearded chin, making his warrior rings clink together—“some have startling blue eyes, especially the women.”

“I’ve ne’er seen a MacKenzie woman.”

“Can you be so sure?”

“Indeed!” Sorley again leaned toward the Highlander, ominously this time. “I ne’er forget a lass. No’ the ones I take to my bed, nor the ones I merely wish a ‘good morn.’ That, too, you’ll ken, seeing as you’ve been slinking around asking about me.”

Grim only smiled. “MacKenzies are a hot-blooded race.
They lose their heads easily, giving in to their temper.” He spoke as if Sorley didn’t have steam shooting out his ears. “They’re known to have grand passions. The ladies—”

“I dinnae give a flaming heap of heather about MacKenzie women.”

Grim lifted a brow, his expression saying he should.

Sorley was tempted to shove away from the table and storm from the room.

All that kept him from doing so was knowing his three archfiends and Wyldes would see him go. They’d laugh in his wake, ribbing him for weeks.

So he reached for Berengaria’s special bramble preserves and smeared a heaping spoonful onto a bannock. He didn’t really believe the brambles cured all ills, but he was annoyed enough to try anything.

The bramble preserves were delicious, anyway.

Grim…

He was a worse annoyance than Sorley would’ve believed.

“See here, Grim of Nought,” he resented that his bitterness slid into the place name, but he couldn’t help it. “You’re a fighting man.” Sorley let his gaze dip to the silver warrior rings in Grim’s beard. “Perhaps you enjoy kicking a man when he’s down. Be warned, I kick back and worse. Truth is I love a good clash. If you—”

“I’m no’ here to fight.” Grim spoke so evenly, Sorley disliked him even more. “And I ne’er kick a downed foe. No man I ken would do so. No’ if he’s a good warrior. My beard rings”—he lifted a hand, fingering one—“were made only from the swords of the most valiant enemies I cut down. Men who fought well and died better. I honor them by wearing the rings.”

“I did wonder.” It was all Sorley could think to say.

He also frowned harder. Rarely had anyone made him feel so callous with a few deft words.

Softly spoken,
lilting
words that only worsened his mood.

“Aye, well…” Grim was watching him with a razor-sharp gaze. “I’m no’ here to speak of my warring days. Nor did I come to spin bluidy tales, though the truth is often as disturbing. I wish to tell you of Duncreag, a holding in Glen Creag, the glen of rock.”

Sorley cocked a brow. “I thought you were from Nought, in the Glen of Many Legends?”

“So I am.” Grim helped himself to another spoonful of venison stew. “Nought is my home. Just now, I’m helping a neighboring chieftain rebuild his stronghold, Duncreag, and his garrison.

“A war-band of broken men took the castle about a year ago, doing much damage. Worst of all”—he paused, dabbing the napkin to his lips again—“the brigands slaughtered almost every soul at Duncreag. The chief’s sons and daughter, most of his kin, and even his beloved lady wife all perished.”

“I’ve heard such feuding is rampant in the Highlands.” Sorley took a bite of bramble-laden bannock. He needed to occupy himself and didn’t want Grim to see that his tale affected him. No stranger to fighting, he did feel sick inside whenever he heard of women mistreated.

To learn of innocent ladies slain made his gut twist painfully.

So much so, that he forgot his dislike of Grim.

“Even in Stirling, we hear tell of the clan warfare, the rampaging—”

“The tragedy that befell Duncreag and Archibald MacNab had naught to do with clan feuding.” Grim was watching him even more intently now. “Archie’s stronghold was raided because the attackers thought to find a hoard of treasure hidden there. They also hoped to use Duncreag as a base for their depredations in the surrounding glens. Duncreag is remote. You’d be hard put to find a better-suited hideaway for such a purpose.” Grim took a long sip of ale, his gaze never leaving Sorley’s face. “The stronghold sits atop a sheer
bluff, a great soaring one even higher and more rugged than Nought. The only access is a thread-thin goat track that winds up the cliff face. Duncreag should be impregnable, and will be better defended once I’ve trained and settled Archie’s new garrison.”

“The MacNabs weren’t good fighters?”

“Duncreag was taken by stealth. But, aye, the men weren’t the stoutest warriors. The MacNabs’ strongpoint has ne’er been swinging a sword.”

“What then?”

“They’re a race of poets.” Grim sat back, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Seldom have I heard words and song of such beauty as can be enjoyed in Duncreag’s hall of a cold, dark night, the fires blazing and good ale flowing at the tables.”

“Humph.” Sorley snorted, his resentment of Highlanders returning with a vengeance.

Hadn’t he dreamed of spending his nights thus, as far back as he could remember?

He also finally grasped what Grim wanted of him. Leastways he had a suspicion.

“You’re in charge of manning the chief’s new garrison?”

“I am, aye.”

“Can it be you’re asking me to help you?”

“No’ quite, though it’d be a boon for Duncreag if you would.”

“Alas, I cannae.” Sorley ignored the stab of regret his denial brought. “I’m a Stirling man as much as you’re a Highlander. My life and work are here, no’ off in your hills fighting for men I dinnae ken.”

“And if I told you they are men you should know?” Grim swirled the ale in his tankard, studying the frothy brew as if it held all the world’s wisdom. “If I told you the chief, Archie MacNab, is a broken man? That, as I believe, it would heal him greatly if you ride north with me?”

Sorley frowned.

Something wasn’t right, a word, a twist of phrase, a puzzle he wasn’t seeing.

He set down the spoon he’d been about to dip again into William’s delicious venison stew. “Why do I have the feeling there’s more to this than needing a good fighting man to help rebuild a garrison?”

“Because there is.” Grim leaned forward, his face earnest. “I am as much Archie’s friend as the acting captain of his new garrison.”

“That’s no’ an answer.”

“It is if you agree that when you love a man, you want the best for him.”

“That makes even less sense.” The fine hairs on the back of Sorley’s neck were beginning to rise. Worse, he had the most uncanny sense that his plaid was stirring, moving about his shoulders and arms almost like the gentle, caressing hands of a woman.

He gave Grim the driest look he could muster, not wanting him to guess his ill ease. “Any seasoned warrior could train a garrison. Surely there are enough stalwarts in your hills for such a task?”

Grim didn’t blink, his steady gaze making Sorley feel under assault. “The garrison is only part of it. To be sure, we have braw fighters in the Highlands. I want the man who will no’ just join me in strengthening Archie’s defenses, but also make him whole again. He needs and deserves his peace. I mean to give it to him.” He offered Sorley the slightest of nods. “No’ what he’s lost, but something else to lift his heart again.”

“You’re that close to the MacNab?”

“I care about him, aye. He’s a fine chieftain, a good man who made mistakes.” He gestured with his stew spoon, pointing it at Sorley. “We all do, or will you disagree?”

“Nae.” Sorley shook his head, not sure if the odd rushing
in his ears was his blood or the wind racing past the inn’s windows. “There isn’t a man walking who doesn’t carry regrets, sorrows, and guilt.”

He wasn’t sure where the words came from, or the sympathy he felt for this unknown Highland laird.

For some reason, his throat was thickening and he felt an odd pain in his chest. His heart thumped slow and hard. And each breath was a struggle. He almost felt lightheaded.

Reaching for his ale, he drained what was left in the tankard.

He’d always heard Highlanders had a touch of the fey about them, and Grim was proving it. Even the din from the nearby long room seemed to be fading, his whole world contracting to the Highlander’s strong, black-bearded face, the bitterly earnest look in his eyes. The intangible sense that a hint of pleading lurked in his gaze’s smoke-gray depths.