Good thing they were well beyond the hearing of the rest of his men as they stripped off armor and cleaned themselves a bit before taking to the road again.
“Aye. At least better than yer own introduction to the wee hellcat.” As Tearloch pulled his glove back on, he noticed Duncan’s wet tunic. The man had tried to wash.
“She told ye?” Duncan could not hide his embarrassment.
“I saw the pot. But tell me, Duncan. Ye dinnae smell like shite. Could it be she got ye with somethin’ worse?”
“Aye. And it was still warm. A charmin’ thing ye’ll be taken for wife, Tearloch. If ye ever turn yer back, they’ll be callin’ for tanistry and a new laird for Lochahearn.”
Tearloch threw a stirrup over his horse’s back and pretended to be tightening the saddle. If he tried to stand still, the rest of his men would know how rattled he was by his first encounter with the woman they were to escort to the king. They didn’t knowshe was to become Tearloch’s wife. Only Duncan knew. And it should be no problem keeping that secret until King Malcolm could inform her himself, as he insisted on doing. Keeping the other secret, that Malcolm is her brother she thought long dead, should be even easier.
Getting Malcolm to his rightful place as King of Scotland had been Tearloch’s only duty since before he could remember, and now he was reduced to keeping the king’s confidence. He only hoped that when his mind turned to knotted wool in front of his bride-to-be, that he wouldn’t reveal any hints as to who either of them really were.
“I’ve been thinking that once ye’re settled, son, I might go back to the Keiths. Check on things.”
“Oh? Life too tame now that Malcolm’s on the throne where he belongs?”
“Aye. He’s been sittin’ pretty for a year, now. And since Macbeth was so thorough disposing of anyone else with MacAlpin blood, there are none to challenge our new king. We shall have peace.”
“Peace in Scotland? Not for long.”
“Ye hope it won’t last long. If ye’re out of enemies ye won’t know what to do with yerself. Get it into yer skull, boy. It’s time for all of us to go home. Go mourn yer father, as ye’ve never had time to do. Mourn with yer people. They are yers now.”
“Lochahearn is naught but a keep full of soldiers, not a clan of women weepin’ in their skirts.”
“Nay, Tearloch. It’s been years since ye were there. ‘Tis no longer just a training camp. Ye have a whole and hearty clan awaitin’ their rightful laird and champion of their new king. I hear they are toutin’ their own cleverness at having raised up Malcolm under Macbeth’s very nose.”
“Well, much toutin’ and we’ll be at war again in no time,” Tearloch grinned at the prospect, then lowered his voice. “Fornow, I’ll do my duty. I’ll guard the king’s wee secrets. I’ll go home and I’ll marry where I’m told. But Scotland willnae disappoint me. We’ll have bigger fights than today’s wee skirmish. So ye’d best skip on over to the Keiths and heigh back to my side else I’ll have my sport without ye.”
Go home and marry.God’s teeth but the next two battles had already begun—battles with his nerves. Perhaps he should erect a barred cage in which to transport her, to remind him she was just a prisoner. The role of captor kept him from making a fool of himself, and if he had to maintain such a farce during his short visits between wars, he would. Thankfully, peace only lasted long enough to rest men and horses, remind women what their husbands looked like, and insure the population of his dear country increased.
And now it was his turn to contribute to the numbers. If he were not required to speak much, he would excel. Nowhere else could a man like himself find a war to join every nine months or so.
God’s teeth, how he loved Scotland.
The second battle would be much harder. Like a coward he had stayed by Malcolm’s side after Macbeth’s defeat. Oh, he had wept over his father’s corpse before sending it home for his clan to bury, but he’d not gone along. So caught up in the turn of a crown, he’d sailed through the fanfare like a hero, pushing aside his sorrow for another day. Waiting for a quiet moment to return to his clan and his mourning.
But the proper moment never came. Now, after a good year of moments, Malcolm had taken the choice from him. He was headed home…to lead a clan that would never forgive him for his disrespect.
“So, what did ye say to her, man? Ye didnae let on she’s to be your bride, the new Lady Mac?—?”
“Wheesht! Ye ken we cannae let her ken our clan. Surely, she’ll remember who took her brother from her. Malcolm wants to tell her everything himself. I can but say she is now the ward of the King of Scotland and fetch her to him.”
“Did ye tell her that?”
“I don’t remember. I believe I did.”
“What do yecmean, ye don’t remember?”
“I mean, I don’t remember what I said. I remember what she looks like. I remember that I want her. I think I called her daft.” Not good. “No, that one I only thought to myself. I remember that she asked my name, and I told her to call me herLaird and Master.” He smiled at the clear memory of her reaction.
“Keep the piss pots away from her, son. Considering yer winnin’ ways, she’s probably savin’ up a bit of somethin’ special for ye.”
“I remember she doesnae want to come along. She thought I had come to free her.”
“You mean ‘rescue’ her.”
“Nay. She meant ‘free’.”
