Beside the door, a long row of horses had been tied. The place was lit by torches, not a lightbulb in sight.
The house itself looked like a historic relic, a smaller version of the castle she’d just come from.
Inside was a surreal sight. It had to be a group of historical re-enactors. That was the only possible explanation. The place looked like a movie set. If Merida’s mom had appeared in full bear get up, she wouldn’t have been that surprised.
The food was laid out on trestle tables, roast meats and mountains of boiled vegetables. At the far end of the room was a minstrel’s gallery, a band playing up there on lutes, one man singing in Latin or perhaps Gaelic.
People were dancing, talking, sitting, drinking. Ale was in tankards, not glasses. A roaring fire warmed the space, the flickering orange glow enough to illuminate the place as well as the torches upon the walls.
“Where are we?” Daisy asked as Jock led her through the throng. “What kind of party is this?”
“Robin,” Jock called out, ignoring her and waving a man over.
Daisy saw where he was looking. The man coming over looked pale despite the heat. “You came, my laird,” he said when he reached them. “And you brought a guest, I see.”
“I thought you had no money to finish the stonework,” Jock said, his voice jovial though Daisy thought she could hear ice behind it.
“I came into some at the right moment.”
“How fortunate for you.”
“Well, I must mingle. Get a drink, won’t you?”
The man was gone. In his place another man appeared, almost as tall as Jock though at least twenty years older than him.
“Lachlan,” Jock said. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for your orders. Have you seen enough profligacy?” Lachlan asked, lowering his voice. “Should I grab him?”
“I have seen plenty. Let him have his feast. I will see you back at the castle. Speak of this to no one.”
He turned to Daisy. “We are leaving.”
“But we’ve only just got here.”
He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the door. “Alan is over there with the priest. Stay any longer and their tongues might slip too far.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
He got her outside, pulling her away from the revellers and not speaking until he was sure they were alone. “He thinks you are a witch. Speak your strange words in such a place and you might not make it out alive.”
“But I’m not a witch.”
“I ken you’re not but I also ken what you really are.”
“And what am I?”
“Do you trust me?” He looked into her eyes without blinking, a fierce gaze that burned her more than the fireplace ever could. As he stared he undid her coif, letting her hair fall free. He tucked a stray lock behind her ear.
“Yes,” she said, falling back under that gaze. “I trust you but you’re frightening me.”
“Then trust me and return to Castle MacGregor with me. There is something we must do at once.”
“What?”
“Come.” He again helped her onto the horse, climbing up behind her and riding fast into the night.
“Why were you so angry with that man?” she asked as they rode.
