He was a man of his word, not some weak-willed bampot who would drip false flattery into a pretty girl’s ear. She waswrong, and thinking that the world was full of kindness for kindness’ sake would get her into trouble.
But that wasn’t his business.
“I would like to see my horse,” he said, his voice tight against all the things he wasn’t saying. “If ye please.”
“Verra well,” she said, guiding them down another corridor and out into the bustling yard that surrounded the main Keep. He tried to ignore the curious looks of any passersby, even though he wished to snap at them to keep their eyes to themselves. He didn't like feeling soobserved.
But he didn’t dare lose Eilidh’s goodwill, as it was apparently the only thing that could get him out from under the tyrannical rule of the old healer. And he needed to see Shadowbane to confirm that his mount was unharmed after their latest misadventure.
To his surprise and displeasure, there were two men standing in Shadowbane’s stall when Ciaran and Eilidh entered the stable; one leaning with a causal grace against a post, belyingwhat was clearly a warrior’s form, the other carefully rubbing a curry comb along Shadow’s flank.
At the sight of his master, however, Shadowbane let out a ringing neigh and stomped his foreleg hard enough to shake the boards of the floor—and to nearly smash the foot of the man who was combing him.
Ciaran bit back a snicker—Shadow had always had a temper—but the man was unimpressed.
“I have a devil mount of my own,” he told Shadowbane calmly. “Ye’ll nae be getting any kind of reaction out of me.”
“He’ll bite ye next if ye try to keep him from me,” Ciaran called, causing both men to turn.
One of them he recognized from the rotating shift of guards who had been posted to watch over Ciaran. This was James McGregor, the Captain of the Guard for Clan Buchanan. He had fair hair and light eyes, like a piece of green sea glass, but one glance at the stern planes of his face and the rangy readiness in his muscles would disabuse anyone of the notion that such a man might be considered soft or sweet.
He gave Ciaran one nod of recognition that wasn’t quite friendly but wasn’t quite hostile, either. Ciaran supposed that this was the best that he could expect from such a man as McGregor.
The other man had dark hair, a wide build, and a guarded expression. He set aside the curry comb and extended a hand to Ciaran.
“I’m Arran McPherson,” he introduced.
Ciaran hesitated before cautiously extending his own arm to shake.
“McPherson,” he said in acknowledgement.
Clan McPherson was one of the unknowns in the war that had gripped the Highlands this past year. Initially, Laird McPherson had allied himself with the Donagheys, but recentreports had suggested that he had transferred his allegiance to Finlay Gordon. It was a kind of uncertainty that Ciaran despised, and that was before he even considered his own precarious position at the Keep.
Before he could consider this further, Shadowbane stomped his foot again, this time in fury that he had not yet been appropriately greeted by his rider. Ciaran carefully disentangled himself from Eilidh’s support, grateful that he didn’t stumble as he took the few steps between where she stood and where he could caress Shadow’s dark coat.
He couldn’t afford to look weak in front of these warriors. He would rather not look weak in front of Eilidh, either.
“The horse has been well minded,” James commented.
He was pleased to see that the captain was correct; Shadowbane was in as good condition as he would have been if Ciaran himself had been administering care.
“Shadowbane and Ciaran Gunn—the two of ye are legends of the battlefield. We wouldnae neglect any horse, let alone one such as he.”
“Your care is appreciated,” Ciaran muttered.
It was ungracious, but he didn’t want these men to think that he considered himself in their debt. This war was more complex than the ones Ciaran had fought before, and fighting began long before anyone lifted a weapon. He couldn’t afford to forget that.
The nod from James was infinitesimally friendlier this time, but Arran did not seem as easy to convince.
“Tell me,” he said with a casual air that was not convincing in the least. “How did ye end up on our borders, beaten half to death?”
Thatourdidn’t escape Ciaran’s notice, nor did the way neither James nor Eilidh reacted to Arran referring to the Buchanan lands thusly. Whatever was going on with ClanMcPherson at large, this McPherson, at least, was clearly loyal to the Donagheys.
Ciaran kept his voice level as he repeated the same lie he’d told Eilidh—and that he’d told the dozen or more guards who had asked him ever since.
“I was riding when Shadow and I were beset by bandits,” he said. “I managed to get back to my mount after they attacked, and we got away, but not before they got some blows in.”
“I already told ye that, Arran,” Eilidh said, exasperated.
