in a fit of laughter.
“I am nae finished yet. I ha’e also heard the Macleans must be especially wicked to ha’e acquired so many missionaries sent by Iona to save their souls.”
“Ye and yer clan will ken soon enough what sort of character the Maclean laird possesses,” the dark-haired one said, an edge to his voice. “Had ye nae best be getting back to the keep? There are hungry men to feed and they’ll soon be descending that hill behind us.” He arched a dark brow. “Yet ye ha’e caught no dinner. Nae e’en a stringy rabbit. For the laird’s sake, I hope someone in yer clan kens how to hunt.”
She stepped closer to him and his horse and realized her mistake as his tall shadow fell over her. “I’d wager I’m a better shot than any man in yer party,” she said, craning her neck to look up at him. “Better e’en than yer esteemed Highland laird.” His horse snorted as if in response to her boast.
“Is that so? Perhaps later we will ha’e a contest with the laird to find out. He might enjoy that. He’s fair with bow and arrow.”
“He’ll need to be more than fair to best me.”
He frowned. “What can ye tell us about the lady of the keep? Our laird will also be most curious.”
Sorcha pursed her lips. This was a chance to help them form an impression of the odious woman they were about to meet. Perhaps they would warn the laird before he set foot in the keep. “She will be a good match for the Maclean, for she eats wee children and arrogant Highlanders who dunna behave. But I understand Highlanders dunna taste vera good .”
The blonde man continued to be amused but the one with hair as black as night was not. He said nothing, and his direct gaze nearly unnerved her.
“Is the lady as beautiful as a blooming rose and as pleasant as a summer breeze?” the blonde giant asked.
“Well, her face is unflawed by the pox and she has most of her teeth.”
“Good Christ.” When the blonde man stopped laughing he said, “Well then, lass, do ye require assistance back to the keep? Would ye like to ride with us?”
In response, Sorcha stormed off, the sound of the men’s laughter rankling her pride. Impudent men! How much worse would their laird be? Unable to resist, she turned to look behind her and saw movement, men not a half mile off, beginning to descend the closest hill now, afternoon sun glinting on steel.
The arrogant Maclean was somewhere in that throng of men, and he was early. Which one was he? The movement on the hill became a line of horsemen, then two, then three, advancing perfectly and in sync at a canter despite the marshy ground, with the Maclean banner rippling proudly in the wind.
The battle of wills was about to begin. The ruse was on.
She reminded herself she was the daughter of a brave Douglas man, her ancestors had been crusaders in Spain and the Baltic, and as soldiers, were allies and vassals in the service of the kings of France. They’d been warriors who had carved out a great reputation among the noble houses of Europe and in Scotland. Her ancestor, Sir James, had fulfilled a vow of Robert the Bruce himself to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.
When Bruce died in 1329, it was Sir James who took the king’s embalmed heart with him on a crusade. En route, he found himself in a battle and all avenues of escape sealed off. So he threw the small silver casket containing the heart into the fray and charged after it, yelling, “Always before me, Great Heart!” He was killed but his bravery lived on.
Another ancestor, Archibald Douglas, Fourth Earl of Douglas, had married the daughter of Robert the Third. He became a general in Joan of Arc’s
“I am nae finished yet. I ha’e also heard the Macleans must be especially wicked to ha’e acquired so many missionaries sent by Iona to save their souls.”
“Ye and yer clan will ken soon enough what sort of character the Maclean laird possesses,” the dark-haired one said, an edge to his voice. “Had ye nae best be getting back to the keep? There are hungry men to feed and they’ll soon be descending that hill behind us.” He arched a dark brow. “Yet ye ha’e caught no dinner. Nae e’en a stringy rabbit. For the laird’s sake, I hope someone in yer clan kens how to hunt.”
She stepped closer to him and his horse and realized her mistake as his tall shadow fell over her. “I’d wager I’m a better shot than any man in yer party,” she said, craning her neck to look up at him. “Better e’en than yer esteemed Highland laird.” His horse snorted as if in response to her boast.
“Is that so? Perhaps later we will ha’e a contest with the laird to find out. He might enjoy that. He’s fair with bow and arrow.”
“He’ll need to be more than fair to best me.”
He frowned. “What can ye tell us about the lady of the keep? Our laird will also be most curious.”
Sorcha pursed her lips. This was a chance to help them form an impression of the odious woman they were about to meet. Perhaps they would warn the laird before he set foot in the keep. “She will be a good match for the Maclean, for she eats wee children and arrogant Highlanders who dunna behave. But I understand Highlanders dunna taste vera good .”
The blonde man continued to be amused but the one with hair as black as night was not. He said nothing, and his direct gaze nearly unnerved her.
“Is the lady as beautiful as a blooming rose and as pleasant as a summer breeze?” the blonde giant asked.
“Well, her face is unflawed by the pox and she has most of her teeth.”
“Good Christ.” When the blonde man stopped laughing he said, “Well then, lass, do ye require assistance back to the keep? Would ye like to ride with us?”
In response, Sorcha stormed off, the sound of the men’s laughter rankling her pride. Impudent men! How much worse would their laird be? Unable to resist, she turned to look behind her and saw movement, men not a half mile off, beginning to descend the closest hill now, afternoon sun glinting on steel.
The arrogant Maclean was somewhere in that throng of men, and he was early. Which one was he? The movement on the hill became a line of horsemen, then two, then three, advancing perfectly and in sync at a canter despite the marshy ground, with the Maclean banner rippling proudly in the wind.
The battle of wills was about to begin. The ruse was on.
She reminded herself she was the daughter of a brave Douglas man, her ancestors had been crusaders in Spain and the Baltic, and as soldiers, were allies and vassals in the service of the kings of France. They’d been warriors who had carved out a great reputation among the noble houses of Europe and in Scotland. Her ancestor, Sir James, had fulfilled a vow of Robert the Bruce himself to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.
When Bruce died in 1329, it was Sir James who took the king’s embalmed heart with him on a crusade. En route, he found himself in a battle and all avenues of escape sealed off. So he threw the small silver casket containing the heart into the fray and charged after it, yelling, “Always before me, Great Heart!” He was killed but his bravery lived on.
Another ancestor, Archibald Douglas, Fourth Earl of Douglas, had married the daughter of Robert the Third. He became a general in Joan of Arc’s
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