But Arran’s eyes were still on Ciaran. “Aye,” he agreed. “Ye did. But it still strikes me as strange. I cannae see a pack of lowlifes felling Ciaran Gunn. Not without help.”
The words were level, but the implication in Arran’s words was clear.
Eilidh, his wee defender, stepped up next to Ciaran, a stubborn set to her jaw. “Ye will have to forgive my brother by marriage,” she said sourly, and Ciaran squirreled awaythatknowledge for later consideration.
The marriages of the four Donaghey sisters were an important factor in the war, and if Arran had married the third sister, that would mean that only Eilidh was still unwed; something that made her still a pawn in the game that was stretching across the country.
“He is suspicious by nature,” Eilidh continued, pinning Arran with a poisonous glance.
Arran was unmoved. “Aye, I will do what it takes to care for my people,” he said easily. “Which makes me ask again: how did mere bandits get the best of ye, Gunn?”
Eilidh spared one more scowl for McPherson, but then she, too, turned to look at Ciaran expectantly. He felt the uncommonly heavy weight of that expectation.
He opened his mouth to say something reasonable, but he was spared when the sound of carriage wheels rattling oncobblestones echoed across the courtyard, stealing everyone’s attention.
Ciaran might have ignored it, except a high flush rose on Eilidh’s cheeks, and she looked back at him with a guilty expression.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I meant to tell ye about our guest.” She paused, fidgeted. “Ye may wish to brace yourself, Ciaran Gunn.”
4
Eilidh could tell that Ciaran was growing weary as he walked out to the courtyard, his back stiff and his shoulders unyielding. She really hadn’t meant to take him on such a long excursion, nor had she intended to forget to mention their new arrival. But he’d been so stubborn about mistrusting the old Laird Buchanan, and that had irritated her. She’d wanted to show him how lovely Buchanan Keep was and how friendly all the people in it.
Except Arran had needed to be all protective andrude. Gosh, men were atrial.
And now things had gone very muchnotaccording to plan.
A mud-spattered carriage clattered to a halt in the center of the yard. No sooner had the big wheels stopped than the carriage door was thrown open with a great deal of force.
The figure that emerged was more like a hurricane than a mere woman. She had sharp eyes, a slightly hawkish nose, and wind-flushed cheeks. Her graying hair was pinned simply, and the flyaway pieces that fluttered in the breeze put even Eilidh’s perpetually unruly mane to shame.
“Bi crivvens,” Ciaran muttered under his breath. “Christ defend us.”
The woman might have been well into middle age, but that apparently hadn’t affected her hearing in the least, as she heard this little bit of blasphemy from across the expanse of yard. Her head whipped in Ciaran’s direction.
“Ciaran Gunn!” she cried, her voice echoing. She jumped down from the carriage with impressive nimbleness, given her age, and stalked directly toward the warrior. “Ye nasty numpty! Gallus mon! Riskin’ yer fool hide, as if ye had no sense at all!”
Eilidh laughed as the woman swore vociferously at Ciaran in old Scots, no matter that he towered a head taller than her. The woman raised her pointer right in his face.
“I ken ye were raised better than that, boyo. And we shall be having plenty of words regarding this latest bit of foolishness, never ye forget it!”
The muscles in Ciaran’s jaw flexed under his skin as he clearly fought a battle against his dark mood.
“Aunt Kirsty,” he said. “What are ye doing here?”
Kirsten Gunn, spinster sister to the previous Gunn Laird, raised her chin defiantly, proving that if she had never married, it was not because she had a lack of spirit.
“What the hell do ye think I’m doing here, laddie?” she demanded. “I’m here tae make certain that ye dinnae get yourself killed before ye manage to get back home, clear enough.”
Eilidh watched, phenomenally entertained, as Ciaran worked his jaw again.
“What I meant,” he clarified, “is how did ye ken I was here?”
Kirsty waved a hand, like this was a boring, insignificant detail.
“Graham Donaghey wrote to me, of course,” she said.
Ciaran’s head whipped around to look at Eilidh, who offered him a sympathetic wince. Shehadmeant to mention that Graham knew he was here, too. Though really, he should haveexpected it. But maybe he was just such a noble warrior that he never even considered the things that went on behind lines of battle in a war. He was probably too focused on honor and defending the innocent to even think about sending missives and information.
