Andrew began thinking about what had just happened. He couldn’t understand it. The MacLeishes had never done something so heinous before. Skirmishes maybe but there hadn’t been war for fifteen years. Why provoke it after so long?
He glanced at the fair lass sitting in front of him on the horse. Maybe she’d be able to give him some answers.
Why would her people want to provoke a war they were sure to lose? There was no point asking Derek. He hadn’t been back to MacLeish castle for years.
Did she not know provoking war was madness? MacLeish held lands half the acreage of the MacIntyres and their armed forces were outnumbered three to one. They would be slaughtered in a straight fight. He just couldn’t fathom why they’d do it.
Could it possibly have been anyone else?
No, they’d all been wearing the MacLeish tartan. All apart from her.
What was she wearing anyway? He examined her attire more closely. She had on a skirt that exposed her knees like she was working the fields but with no hose underneath to hide her skin. And yet her shoes were intricate enough to look like she’d come from the very top of a Saracen court.
Her top was stranger still, a mixture of colors, blue and white with flowers sewn into the fabric and yet there was no sign of stitching of the emblems. Was she a jongleur perhaps? They often wore outlandish attire, brought back from their travels across Europe and the East.
He took a deep breath and as he did so, he caught the scent of her hair. Behind the lingering smell of smoke was something else, something much softer. What was that? He leaned toward her and sniffed. Lavender and heather in flower.
His horse tripped over a stone and almost stumbled. He admonished himself to concentrate on riding, not on what his captive smelled like. Why did he even care?
They made it to the castle by late afternoon. Once inside the courtyard he lifted the woman off the horse, setting her on her feet. “Hold there,” he said to her before waving Gillis across. “Have her to change into attire more befitting a lady.”
“I’ll take her,” Derek said. “I mean, you too have much to do to prepare for the wounded.”
Gillis looked to Andrew. He nodded. “Very well. Gillis find Rory for me.”
He watched the lass go, Derek shoving her hard whenever she slowed to look about her. He would have a word with him later, remind him that being rough with captives was not the MacIntyre way.
Turning, he saw his steward rushing over from the stables, doing his best to run. “I am glad to see you, Rory,” Andrew said. “I will be brief as there is much to be done. The old hall has been burned as has half of Pluscarden.”
“How bad is the damage?” That was Rory all over. Straight down to business every time, no room for sentimentality. That was why he made such a good steward.
“The hall is ruined as is half the village. I believe the rest would have gone up too if I was not there to scare them off.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“The MacLeishes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Most of them escaped but we caught one of the villains. The wee lass should be able to prove it was them but we can discuss that later. For now, I need you to warn the infirmary and then the kitchens. We will have the entire village here by nightfall and many wounded among them. Have we enough food in the stores?”
“Aye, depending how long our guests will be staying.”
“That I cannot answer.”
“Should I send word to MacLeish that you would parley with him?”
“Not yet.”
“A bath perhaps to remove all that soot from you?”
“Later. First I must speak to the apothecary. We will have need of many herbs before the day is out.”
“Very good, my laird.”
Rory scuttled off across the courtyard toward the infirmary. Andrew watched him go before heading for the keep.
She was up there waiting to be questioned. He thought of the scent of her hair and the feel of her skin as he’d lifted her from the horse. It had felt soft, softer than anything he’d ever known.
