“Who sent you the message?” He couldn’t believe his grandsire still had any friends left at his age. To live seven decades was quite rare.
“The stablemaster.”
“But Grandpapa, how can you trust something a stablemaster sends you? Don’t you need a warrior’s opinion?”
“Always trust a stablemaster’s opinion. They know everything that takes place in the clan. It was a stablemaster who sent me a message about the mistreatment your grandmother was suffering. I have him to thank for all of this and all of you. He brought me to Maddie, bless her sweet soul.”
His grandsire stopped speaking and looked down at his lap for a moment. Alasdair did not need to ask why. Alex Grant missed his wife every day, even though she’d been gone around five years.
But when he lifted his gaze again, he gave Alasdair the look of a fearless leader, a strong fighter.
Of a fierce Highlander who you would never dare question.
His long peppered gray locks blew in the wind, but he never touched them, and his gray eyes settled on Alasdair’s matching eyes.
“Her name is Emmalin MacLintock and you must save her.”
Alasdair nearly fell over the parapets in shock.
“That’s the lass’s name, Grandsire. Sheisin trouble. I knew it.”
Chapter Four
Alex’s physical weakness shows his age, but he’s still Alexander Grant.
The door opened at the end of the hall, and their grandfather made his way through the door, slowly as if his legs pained him this morn. “We’ll not speak of any of the details we heard in front of Grandsire,” Alasdair said in an undertone. “He’ll only get upset.”
In a louder voice, he said, “Good morn to you, Grandsire.” He saw a look of pain cross the man’s face just before he crashed to the ground, his stick unable to hold his weight.
“Grandsire!” The cousins’ voices rang out together as they raced to his side, joined by anyone else within hearing distance.
“Grandpapa, are you hale? Don’t try to get up. We’ll help you,” Alasdair said, his stomach twisting in a way that made him wish to vomit. He’d already lost so much—he couldn’t lose his grandfather.
Not yet—not ever!
Aunt Kyla and Uncle Finlay appeared on the balcony above. His aunt looked stricken when she saw her father on the floor. “What happened?” she shouted. “Papa!”
Alasdair scooped his grandsire up and headed back toward his bedchamber, which had been moved down to the lower floor some years ago. He stopped when the old man grabbed his wrist. “Nay, I’ll not go back in there to stare at the four walls. Move my bed into the hall,” he said, his eyes fluttering closed.
Alasdair gave instructions to his cousins, who’d followed him. “Els, you and Alick move the bed out here while I hold him. Aunt Kyla, go for Aunt Gracie.” His aunt had become the healer for their clan, though she did not yet have much experience.
Once they had him settled in his bed, arranged at the end of the hall, Aunt Gracie came in and hustled over to see to him. Sheassessed Grandsire’s leg, which seemed to have buckled under him, but he couldn’t seem to stay awake either.
Anxious to do something to help, Alasdair found a partition and moved it over to the bed to give the poor man some privacy.
He paced and paced, praying furiously, and scratched his head as though he had one thousand bugs in his hair.
“Stop scratching,” Aunt Kyla said. “He’ll be fine.”
“Will he?” he asked, staring at his aunt as if she’d just kicked him in the belly.
She patted his shoulder, a movement he knew was an attempt to soothe him, but it wasn’t working. He welcomed any words she would offer him.
“My father is the strongest man I know. This won’t stop him.” Aunt Kyla was the spitting image of his grandfather, except she had the piercing blue eyes of her mother. The years had done nothing to dim her beauty, but only a fool would underestimate her.
She was as tough as any man.
Aunt Gracie stepped out from behind the partition. She was shaking her head, a sight that instantly alarmed him.
