Secrets Of A Highland Warrior. Nicole Locke
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was...huge. Broad of shoulder, his arms twice as thick as any man’s she’d ever seen. His horse was the largest, because he was the largest. All her life she’d been surrounded by warriors, fierce, protective. But there was no one like him...this stranger who rode through their gates as if he owned McCrieff Castle.
He’d worn no helmet, but the distance between them was not far and she had seen the glint of determination as he surveyed his surroundings. Everything about him screamed of dominance, of power, of ownership. He was a ruler and, like all rulers, he held himself as if he owned it all.
She had watched as he minutely adjusted the reins of the great beast he rode, as he dismounted and strode towards her father. The sound of the chainmail slapping against leather, the crunch of pebbles under his feet, the way his brown hair brushed against his forehead when the wind picked up.
She had felt the way her fingers tingled as he swiped away the errant curl. And in that, she knew she hadn’t only gawked because he was a Lochmore who held some power. She’d gawked because he was a man. And the shiver through her body had nothing to do with the slight wind at the time and all to do with the man whose searching eyes found her.
She reached the top of the stairs only to find the winding hallway to her chambers empty as well. Everyone was down below or in hiding. This part of the keep was her refuge and domain. But she didn’t feel safe.
She hadn’t felt safe downstairs hiding partially surrounded by thick walls and a great door. She had thought herself well hid and certainly well beyond the man’s acknowledgement.
Yet, his eyes hadn’t remained on her father, they had scanned his surroundings, finding the men with arrows and swords, finding...her. Her heart had skipped before it thudded strong in her chest as their gazes met. He’d been too far for her to discern his features with clarity, too far for her to hear the conversation they’d held properly.
It hadn’t mattered. The distance hadn’t taken away the impact of his gaze on her and it hadn’t masked some of the words exchanged with her father.
Words, a name she never thought to hear. His name was Rory. Rory. A name that shouldn’t hold significance to her except that the old healer had told her a fable. A mere story, but it was lodged as a fact firmly inside her thoughts and memories. She’d curse the healer for telling that story if it didn’t risk her very soul blaspheming the dead.
Could he be the same Rory? Ailsa scoffed at herself for thinking that thought, rushed into her room and slammed the door. No one here. Good, for her knees trembled so badly she leaned against the door and forced them to lock before she slid to the floor in a useless puddle.
He couldn’t be the same Rory, even if Rhona’s story was true. Rory was a common enough name. And even if he was that baby, should it make a difference? No. Her friend Magnus was dead for ever. Just last winter two McCrieffs guarding the border had died when several Lochmores rushed across the border and engaged in a fight.
No a name shouldn’t make a difference. The only difference between how McCrieffs treated Lochmores was when a Lochmore strode through the courtyard, her father had invited him in, and then...and then confiscated his weaponry.
As he should. Her father should have also marched him to the dungeon or beheaded him right then and there. Instead, there had been an invite for breaking fast and more words exchanged that she couldn’t fully understand since most were lost with the distance between them.
Pushing herself away from the door, Ailsa hastily grabbed her shears she kept in her room and strategically folded them into the pleats of her belt and gown. Her father might have confiscated Lochmore’s weapons, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have hers. If Lochmores were invited to dine at McCrieffs’ table, she would be ready.
* * *
‘Your Chief is bedridden and you are Tanist,’ Rory said, repeating her father’s words slowly.
He sounded stunned. Ailsa was stunned as well, but at least this fact she knew. Everything else was as much a surprise to her as it was to the man who sat on her father’s left side while she sat at his right.
Her shears tucked into her belt, she had descended the stairs, a roaring in her ears as introductions were made. As the proximity to this Lochmore filled in the details the distance of the courtyard had not revealed.
His eyes were not the dark brown of earth, but held the light of a gem lit behind it. His size was formidable as she’d thought. Yet it wasn’t that which made her eyes unerringly fall to him again and again. There was something about him that compelled her. It felt like a tincture of awe and wariness.
She shouldn’t have felt either. Lochmores didn’t deserve admiration, and as for wariness...her father had unarmed them all. They weren’t out on the battlefield, but in the comfort of McCrieff Hall, eating and drinking food. Decent food, too. Not the usual fare. Her father had ordered a true feast for this occasion. Ailsa had never seen the Hall so full. There were three tables in the hall. Theirs, the smallest that sat no more than ten on one side, was perpendicular to the two larger tables. Lochmores kept to one side, their backs to the wall and they faced the inside, faced the McCrieffs.
She focused her thoughts on that. There might be no battlefield, but the men had sat as if there was. That was the cause of her wariness. Not this man who bore the name of Rory.
‘The Chief is bedridden and has been for months,’ Frederick replied.
‘And you didn’t think to notify us, though we sent letters regarding the King’s demand?’ Rory said.
‘His illness has nothing to do with our lack of reply, Lochmore.’
‘Then you are the one who ignored them so we could dine here. A letter to that effect would have been more agreeable. Or at least more comfortable for me, since I would have worn different clothing.’
‘Your being comfortable doesn’t concern me.’
‘Nor my safety.’
‘You’re alive.’
‘Without a weapon, so I wonder for how long.’
‘Isn’t it enough that you eat at our table?’ Ailsa knew it was rude to talk around her father, but would not hold her tongue when it seemed the King made demands she knew nothing of. A serving tray laid out with vegetables and covered in a rosemary sauce was presented, giving her an opportunity to break the argument between the two men. ‘Are these leeks not fine enough for you?’
Rory’s gaze fell to her and she refused to look away. A full dining hall and her father between them and yet no one else existed. The tray lowered and broke their line of sight, but only for a moment. A moment more while his eyes remained on the tray and the leeks were laid upon his trencher.
Those few brief breaths allowed her to reflect on the curl of his brown hair, the squareness of his jaw, the strong brow with eyebrows that slashed as if they had a purpose. He looked as if he had a purpose.
Then his gaze was on her again. ‘The leeks look delicious,’ he said, stabbing one with his knife, ‘but are insufficient if I wanted to defend myself.’
What was happening here? ‘Why do you need to defend yourself?’
His mouth quirked as if she told something amusing. ‘We are enemies, are we not?’
Frustrated at her useless question and his fruitless answer, Ailsa searched the Hall for the truth.
She sat where she always sat with her father since Hamish no longer could sit at the same table, yet she didn’t feel as if she was in the same chair, the same Hall or in the same place she’d always been.
This wasn’t a battle and yet it felt as though it was. Deadly silence and watchful stares. Food was served, but no trenchers were shared. Every man had his own goblet. Where the extra spoons, food or goblets came from she didn’t know. She also didn’t know how her father arranged such elaborate plans without her knowing.
On a typical day, by now there would be banter,