“And how do you expect to get back inside looking like you’ve had a roll in the stables, and not the fun kind?”
Laurel spun around and finally looked at her annoying shadow. Her eyes widened as she took in the dark-haired man from that morning. He was even more colossal than he’d appeared from a distance. She also noticed that he was older than she expected, touches of gray at his temples and flecks of it in his stubble. His dark gray eyes were the shade of pewter.
“Buggering hell,” Laurel muttered.
“You have quite a collection of words to describe the situation.”
Laurel looked around before turning back toward the keep again, but she waited for the man who was both her rescuer and tormenter to step beside her. She glanced at his plaid and cringed.
“Laird Campbell, I presume,” Laurel said.
“In the flesh, lass,” Brodie grinned as Laurel’s head jerked up. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but he could picture her expression. He’d glimpsed her as he left the lists that morning, and he’d found himself wondering what she would look like up close. Now she had the hideous veil obscuring her looks. “Are you not going to ask how I kenned it was you? I suppose you believe no one else recognizes you in that ensemble.”
“It’s worked for five years,” Laurel blurted. “I’m guessing my reputation precedes me, and you can think of few other women who’d be carrying fine satin and cursing a blue streak. Have I entertained you, my laird?”
“Not entertained so much as intrigued,” Brodie confessed. “You don’t sound like a Highlander except for when you speak Gaelic; then I would never guess you spoke anything else.”
“I’m not a Highlander anymore,” Laurel whispered. She didn’t know why the man caused a gaping chasm to open in her chest, since he wasn’t the first Highlander she’d encountered while in Stirling. But despite his ferocious appearance, she’d caught the humor in his voice and seen the crinkle around his eyes when he smiled. The melding of fierce and friendly was how she thought of Highlanders, both men and women, and something about Brodie Campbell made her homesick in a way that her brother and father’s visits never had.
“I dinna believe that for a moment,” Brodie said, switching to Gaelic. “Ye can never stop being a Highlander. It’s in our blood, lass. In our bones. It’s the first breath of air we breathe as we come squalling and fighting into the world. Ye can speak like a Lowlander, and ye can dress like them, too. But ye will never cease being a Highlander, Lady Laurel.”
Laurel’s throat tightened, listening to Brodie describe just how she felt about her home and the way of life she’d been forced to give up. There’d been other ladies-in-waiting from the Highlands, but like Laurel, they’d all assimilated into courtly life. There were few times that she spoke about what her home among the rugged landscape had been or how much she longed to return.
“Ye dinna need a plaid to tell ye’re a Highlander,” Laurel smiled. “Ye have the gift of the gab.”
“Mayhap, but ye dinna disagree with me,” Brodie’s grin broadened.
“There’d be nae point, since we ken I’d be lying. There are few places created by God that can be finer than the Highlands.”
“Dinna let a Hebridean hear ye,” Brodie chortled.
“Or the Irish,” Laurel giggled. She caught herself, unfamiliar with the light-hearted sound coming from herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sounded so young. But her humor died when she spotted the postern gate. Brodie sensed her discomfort and slipped her arm through his. When she tried to pull away, he patted her hand and shook his head.
“Dinna fash, Lady Laurel. Let me speak. Hand me the fabric, lass.” Laurel did as Brodie instructed, and she breathed easier when he tucked it under his opposite arm, keeping it well away from her soiled gown. As they approached the postern gate, Laurel recognized the guards and was mortified. They didn’t know who she was beneath her veil, but they certainly recognized her from her countless trips in and out of the keep over the years. “Shh,” Brodie soothed.
Laurel expected comments about the stench that clung to her or about her wretched appearance, but with Brodie beside her, the guard at the gate and the ones they passed within the bailey said nothing. Laurel led them to the side door she used and along the passageway to a stairwell. Their booted steps echoed against the bricks, so neither spoke until they reached the floor with Laurel’s chamber.
“Thank you, my laird,” Laurel said, dipping into a shallow curtsy, all traces of her Gaelic accent gone.
“Back to sounding like Scots, are we?” Brodie whispered conspiratorially as he handed the fabric to Laurel. “Lady Laurel, before you go, I have a question that I’ve wanted answered since I first saw you.”
“Aye?” Laurel said, not bothering to hide her dread.
“Where were your guards?”
Laurel looked around, praying no one heard Brodie say her name. She gasped when he reached toward her face, but he eased the veil back so they could see one another clearly. “I didn’t ask any of them to come with me.”
“And why do I get the impression that’s not unusual for you? Does your brother ken you sneak out of the keep?” When Brodie watched Laurel’s gaze shutter, he wanted to kick himself for pressing too soon.
“My brother is rarely here. He knows little of what I do or where I go. Since he doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer, we’re both content,” Laurel said archly. “Thank you once more, Laird Campbell.”
“Laurel,” Brodie reached out but didn’t touch her arm when she cast a scathing glare at him.
“You may be a laird, but I didn’t give you leave to use my given name. I will scream the bricks down around your ears if you think to do more just because I let you walk with me,” Laurel warned.
“I apologize, Lady Laurel. And I didn’t mean to be rude or distress you,” Brodie replied.
“Distress me? You would have to matter enough for me to care aboot what you say or do for me to become distressed. Good day, my laird.” Laurel pulled away.
