A few twists of dried herring sweetened the offense.
Then Callum, pirate of the Skerries, occasional aid to the greater good, heir to Draugar Hall, and, if the truth be told, Seacliffe as well, made haste to leave Lady Alanna’s bedchamber.
And in his company, a round and foul-breathed cat.
A quick dash down the musty old hidden stair, a lever engaged on the rear side of the creaky stone door, and they were free of Seacliffe’s cloying grasp. Back out in the bitter cold of a frosty night, the ruined byre and Callum’s borrowed steed but a stealthy run along the base of the curtain wall.
And so Callum took off, the cat-in-its-sack clutched safely against his chest.
They were almost at the byre when a shadow pushed away from the ruin’s crumbling wall.
Grim.
* * *
“I knew you’d return,”came his cousin’s deep voice.
Callum scowled. “Did I have any choice?”
“Nae.” Grim, the ring-bearded fiend, strode forward, his gaze flicking to the rounded sack tucked protectively against Callum’s chest. “The lady’s aunt is beside herself, fussing that her niece will all but perish without her beloved pet.”
“There may well be some truth in that.” Callum shifted Gubbie, easing him deeper inside the warmth of his mantle. “Such measures willnae be necessary as I have the oversized beastie.”
“Then all is good.” Grim nodded.
“Humph.” Callum glanced round, sending his gaze along Seacliffe’s curtain walls, then up to the moon-silvered battlements before he surveyed the rolling, snow-covered moors. A vast and empty landscape he’d soon be riding across, taking Gubbie to his devoted mistress.
He hoped she’d be there.
Not wanting to think otherwise, he turned back to Grim. “How is Dunwhinnie?”
“That peacock?” Grim chuckled, his beard-rings clacking in the wind. “He’s fine. He’s been given the best quarters in the keep, the late laird’s rooms. His men guard the door, no’ letting anyone near him, claiming…” Grim tailed off and shook his head. “They’ve embellished our original plan, putting round that one of the earl’s retainers is a healer and surgeon. In truth, the man is Lovat’s champion knight, but he plays his part well.
“He ordered boiled water to clean Lovat’s wounds, but as you know…” Grim lowered his voice. “There isn’t a scratch. The water served to wash away all the chicken blood.”
Callum nodded. “No one suspects?”
“Gods, nae.” Grim tossed another glance toward the castle. “The earl moans and groans enough, lets it be known how glad he is to have worn his leather-lined mail, claiming its thickness spared him a killing blow from your sword, leaving him only with a slight, but bloody flesh wound.”
“Folk believe him?”
“So it seems.” Grim shrugged. “If they don’t, how many would call an earl a liar?”
Callum chuckled. “True enough.”
“Indeed.” Grim lifted a hand, brushed snow from his shoulders. “The King thought it through well. Nary a soul would dare lift Lovat’s shirt, so discovering the ploy.”
“And now?”
“His champion, the knight pretending to be a surgeon, will insist Dunwhinnie and all his men stay at the castle until the earl is fully recovered. He’ll demand hospitality until his lord is well enough rested to travel.”
“And when he is,” Callum mused, “he’ll be leaving with the fiend who’s been trying to kill Lady Alanna.”
“That’s the way of it.”
“What about you and your Mackintoshes?”
“We will do what we do best,” Grim said. “After we’ve seen you and the lady safely to the Skerries, she’ll remain secure in your trusted care, and we’ll return and do the darker work here. We’ll look in corners and under rocks, not giving an inch until we have the miscreant.”
