Ewan’s gaze was as incisive as a blade. “But that doesnae mean that we give up hope,” he said.
It felt like a command.
Ciaran nodded, though inwardly he felt such an ache in his chest that it took concentrated effort not to reach up and rub it away. It was impossible not to look around at this place and remember that he was the one who had been sent here to destroy it—that, as he’d said, Gordon wanted to destroy the Buchanan legacy, and that he had forced Ciaran to become his left hand in doing so.
The role had been wretched enough when Ciaran was just playing the snake amongst these honorable people. But now, looking at the barrels, the copper stills—the tools of the craft that had once been his birthright?
It was unbearable. But he had to bear it. Because there was nobody else left to fight for the Gunns. He had to do it. Even if it killed him.
Ciaran was trying to ignore the itch in his fingers that urged him to plunge into the distilling work alongside the Buchanan clansmen when a cry split the air. Ciaran—along with half the assembled men—jerked around to see one of the younger lads frantically slapping at a fire that threatened to spark a nearby pile of wood.
What in the hell? Why was there a fire in the new distillery?
Ciaran scarcely had time to formulate the thought before the rest of the flaming arrows plunged down from atop a hill in the distance.
Ewan cursed in the old language, dropping the empty barrel he’d been hauling to lunge for his sword. James, a grim set to his mouth, began barking orders, and the men all seized whatever they could grab in terms of weapons and began charging for the line of archers perched upon the hill, fury in their gazes. These men were not about to let Gordon destroy their hard work and livelihoods—not again.
Ciaran searched frantically around for anything he could use to fight. He was still the unknown element in Buchanan Keep, so, of course, nobody had given him any proper weapons. But he could bludgeon a man perfectly well with one of the long-handled rakes used to turn the mash as it fermented, so he seized one and followed the other men up the hill.
He’d nearly made it to where the quick and bloody skirmish was taking place, the unprepared and underarmed Buchanan men far outnumbering the archers, when a blade thudded to the ground mere inches from Ciaran’s feet. He stumbled back, catching himself before he could lose his balance, and looked up at his assailant.
It was the same man who had held a knife to his throat in the armory, the same mercenary who worked for Ruairidh Black. He raised his sword at Ciaran in a kind of mocking salute, thenturned and fled with the rest of the cowards who had attacked from afar.
A spear of ice went through Ciaran when he looked down at the blade embedded in the dirt and saw that the mercenary had tied a scrap of Gunn tartan, crusted with blood, around the hilt.
A message. A warning. Ciaran would need to produce something that Gordon could use quickly, or else his people would be the ones to pay the price.
He snatched up the blade and its gory promise, hiding it in the folds of his borrowed plaid before anyone else could see it. He didn’t need any of the Buchanans asking questions about why he was receiving personal messages from Gordon’s soldiers.
The fight was over as quickly as it started, and by the time Ciaran resumed his progress up the hill, the last of the enemies were gone. None of the Buchanan men had been killed, to Ciaran’s relief, though one man limped heavily from a slash he’d taken to the thigh.
Ciaran forced himself to approach Ewan, James, and Arran where they stood over the body of one of the archers. Ciaran knew without looking that nothing in the man’s possession would give any clue to his identity; the black garb he wore said everything that needed to be said. He had come here because Gordon had paid him to do so.
“They’re playing with us,” Ewan said, sounding as furious as Ciaran had ever heard him. “These bloodygames. First they attack my wife, then this?” He spat into the dirt. “Cowardice. Dishonor. Like a cat playing with a mouse.”
James McGregor looked just as angry as his friend. There was a streak of blood on his shirt, but it didn’t appear to be his own.
“We are no helpless wee mice, though,” he said fiercely.
“Nay,” Ewan agreed. “We are not. It is time that we strike back.”
10
The Great Hall was crowded the night after the attack on the distillery, the atmosphere was hushed. As if all the clansfolk felt they needed to gather to remind themselves that they were still here, still unharmed.
Ciaran couldn’t blame any of them for feeling the weight of the day so heavily. He felt it, too. He had felt this way for the past months.
“The distillery itself is undamaged?” Ailsa asked her husband—for the benefit of those gathered, Ciaran surmised, as it seemed unlikely that the laird and lady of the keep had not already conferred on this matter.
Ewan nodded, but his frown lingered.
“Aye. The structure is secure. Our work will be able to continue.” He paused, as though uncertain that he wanted to speak more. “But I dislike the breach of our borders. It discomfits me that these men got so close to our keep, to our women and children. It does not sit easy to ken that treachery is so close.”
Closer than ye ken, Buchanan, Ciaran thought bitterly, stabbing a boiled potato so fiercely that it split in two. The soundof his fork against his plate made an unpleasant clang in the anxious hush of the hall, and when Ciaran glanced up, Ailsa was giving him a curious look.
He didn’t dare look over at Eilidh. He still had that scrap of bloody Gunn tartan to remind him of the dangers of getting too close to her.
“Well.” Kirsty’s voice was too loud for the atmosphere of the room, and Ciaran hid a wince. “I think that ye are all forgetting something verra important.”
