“I dinna’ know, cousin.” Darach sat up again and glared at him through his swelling eye. “Ye interrupted us. As usual, yer presence is a blight on m’ otherwise cheerful life. And just so ye know, I won.”
Malcolm smiled. “I had nae doubt of that.” He sat on the edge of the bed and looked over his cousin’s face. “Regardless of the poetry I found in yer room back home, I know the ferocity fer fightin’ that flows through yer veins. ’Tis why I wantyeto go settle things at my castle.”
Darach wanted to kick him across the room for going through his belongings to find his writings. The lads at home never let him forget that he was the son of a master bard and storytelling and song writing ran through his veins, just as much as fighting did. His father, Finlay Grant, sang of love and heroic deeds while the other men taught their sons how to fight.
So what if Finn’s son liked dabbling with poetry now and then?
Darach’s cousins took him under their wings early and fired up his love of battle. They riled him up with their banter about his tender side, but he was grateful to them for teaching him how to do the most damage with his hands. But he still wasn’t here to do their bidding.
“I’m no’ goin’ to Ravenglade,” Darach told him, falling back on the mattress, clutching his side. “’Tis yer castle, given to ye by yer faither. Ye go protect it… or send yer brother, Cailean.”
“Neither of us can go, Darach. M’ sister has been kidnapped by a pirate. We’re goin’ to get her. Practically everyone in the clan is goin’.”
“Pirates?” Darach looked up. “Now, there’s something I’d enjoy. I’ll be goin’ home tonight.”
“Nae.” Malcolm shook his head, refusing to be moved. “I need yer aid. I must retrieve m’ sister. Cailean isna’ prepared to handle the Menzies. I need ye to quell this disturbance in Perth fer me.”
Hell, Darach didn’t want to oblige him, and it had nothing to do with the Menzies. He didn’t care how ruthless they were. He just didn’t want to see her again. Janet Buchanan rattled him. She made him ache… and feel, well, a bit damned helpless. Women never rattled him and sure as hell, none ever made him ache or feel helpless. He liked it that way. He didn’t want to pen songs about love and puppies. Love and the dreadful way it made a grown man pine didn’t interest him. Pleasure’s what held his attention. It was bad enough he wrote letters to himself about the beauty of the Cuillins silhouetted against the azure backdrop of Heaven. He wasn’t some softly spun dolt who could be led around by a particular arse. There were too many arses out there.
“Just so ye dinna’ think me a cad,” Malcolm said, his dimple at its deepest, “I do understand why ye dinna’ want to go to Ravenglade, cousin. The dozens of poems ye penned about the Buchanan lass bear witness to—”
“Cal,” Darach warned. “No’ only will I no’ go to Ravenglade if ye mention that again, but I vow on m’ sword that I’ll scar yer pretty face ferever. Dinna’ doubt me.”
Malcolm held up his palms but did nothing to conceal his amusement. “Easy, cousin, I meant nae offense. Losin’ yer heart to a lass, even a Buchanan, and pennin’ flowery words aboot it isna’ a sign of weakness.”
Darach eyed his sword in the corner of his room and cursed his injuries. He wouldn’t be able to take Malcolm in a fight today. He would do best to ignore his gibes and push Janet from his thoughts.
“Did yer opponent kick ye in the mouth wi’ a boot?”
“Nae.” Darach sighed, thankful that his cousin had finally changed the topic. “But his hands are like hammers.”
“Anything broken?”
“A rib or two, I suspect. M’ jaw miraculously held up.”
Malcolm rose and went toward the door. “Ye’ll need to be bandaged and sewn before yer journey. I’ll go bring back yer maid.”
“Cal,” Darach called, pausing his cousin’s steps. He didn’t want to do this. His cousin would need to find someone else. “In earnest, I dinna’ want to—”
“I need to go bring home m’ sister, Darach,” Malcolm told him earnestly before he could finish. “I’m trustin’ ye with m’ land.”
Damn it to hell. “All right.” Darach relented with a frustrated sigh and held up his hands to ward off further entreaty. “I’ll go.” He ignored his cousin’s wide grin. “But if I strangle any Buchanans while I’m there, dinna’ blame me.”
Chapter Two
“I do not care what he promised. I will not wed him!” Janet Buchanan balled her small hands into fists at her sides. She stared her brother’s glare down with frosty determination. If he wanted a fight, a fight she would give him. A breeze in the garden swept a golden curl across her face. She blew it away and braced herself to go toe-to-toe. “Roddie Menzie is a mindless goat who goes around bleating about his strength and power until he has all the lambs around him shaking in the grass.”
The glint of anger sparking her brother’s eyes belied his calm tone and appearance. “Are ye calling me a lamb, Janet?”
She shrugged her shoulders and arched a scornful brow. “I’ll tell ye what I see, William. Ye allow the goat a union between us rather than give up a castle that isn’t even ours.”
“Once, it was ours,” he reminded her blandly.
“’Twas never ours,” she corrected him.
“We held it in fief fer King Charles.”
“Aye,” she agreed, “along with Connor Stuart, the king’s cousin, who James Buchanan, our late great-uncle, tried to kill. When the king regained the throne, he gave the castle and these lands over to the Stuarts. Ravenglade is not ours.”
