He turned to Daphne, who held her son in her arms. The babe was quiet now, watching events around him with great interest.
Magnus’s gaze fell on the little face looking up at him, and a strained, yawning sense of loss engulfed him for a moment.
He bowed low, shaking off the feeling as best he could. “Thank ye, M’Lady. I wish ye every happiness.”
“Please, call me Daphne,” she replied warmly. “We are neighbors now, but I would like us to be friends someday.”
He glanced down at the baby. “Thank ye for the honor of celebrating with ye, Daphne. I am most grateful. He has the face of a warrior, make nay mistake.”
Laird and Lady MacIrvin exchanged a secretive look that he could not quite decipher before he turned to go.
“Laird MacWatt!” MacIrvin called, breaking from the group and following him with his arm outstretched to hail a manservant who hurried across the corridor. “Let me provide ye with a carriage at least. I cannae allow a fellow laird to walk home in the rain. It is miles to the shoreline.”
Magnus opened his mouth to protest. He loved walking in the rain, especially at night, but he did not wish to offend.
With an inward sigh, he nodded. “Aye, that is a kind offer. I believe ye may be right, a storm is brewin’.”
MacIrvin nodded at the servant, who extended an arm to show Magnus the way.
As they walked back through the main hall and weaved through the crowd, Magnus could not help allowing himself one last look at the side of the room, but the phoenix had seemingly flown the nest. There was no sign of the beautiful red-haired girl anywhere.
He did not understand what had caused him to feel such a connection to her in so short a time.
There was a fire in her eyes, to be sure, and she was a bonnie wee thing, but it was something more than that. There was a longing in her gaze that spoke to something deep inside him.
I have nay business looking at a lass that way,it can only end in disaster.
He followed the manservant out of the room through endless torch-lit corridors, the shadows flickering around them, as lively as the dancers at the ceilidh.
Magnus’s castle was a little larger than MacIrvin’s, with wider corridors and lighter halls. He did not mind the dark in the wildernesses of the world. After all, there could be no day without the night. But he hated the shadows in his home. There was enough darkness in his past without creating more of it in his everyday world.
As they rounded a corner, the servant pushed through a heavy oak door, and they entered a courtyard where a magnificent carriage with four black stallions was waiting for him.
He looked at it in astonishment, realizing that MacIrvin had offered his own carriage to take him home. He was touched and surprised by the gesture.
As the servants busied themselves with the final arrangements for the horses, Magnus walked to the carriage door and pulled it open. It had a magnificent interior, far too fine for him, but he would not decline a comfortable journey home.
He stepped inside, feeling the soft velvet of the seats as he sat in the semi-darkness. A servant slammed the door shut behind him, and no sooner had he rested his back against the seat than they were moving.
He closed his eye, enjoying the motion of the carriage. Accustomed to walking everywhere, this was luxury indeed. As his head reclined against the soft cushion behind him, however, he felt a tingle run up his spine. It was a familiar feeling he had always experienced when danger was near.
He opened his eye immediately, scanning the small space around him for any sign of a hidden spy or ambush.
Have I let me guard down too soon? Has Laird MacIrvin arranged for someone to lie in wait to slit me throat?
Magnus sat forward abruptly, and as he did so, a strange bulge formed in the seat beneath him. Cursing, he bent forward, reaching an arm underneath the bench as his fingers closed around fabric where empty air should have been.
He gripped firmly, hearing a stifled cry below him as he dragged the assailant out from under the seat without mercy. In an instant, he had pulled the dirk from the sheath at his waist, and as he shoved the other occupant of the carriage firmly against the opposite seat, he dragged the knife up to their throat.
Magnus froze. It was no man. It was not a spy, an assassin, or anything of that nature.
It appeared that he had caught a phoenix.
CHAPTER 4
“Let me go, you barbarian!”
In a split second, Magnus pulled the blade from that milky white neck and leaned back in his seat as he contemplated the stowaway.
