“Ever vigilant, eh, Dall?” Creighton observed. “Do ye ever step away from the councilor’s table, even in yer mind?”
He was rewarded with a faint chuckle.
“Nay,” Dallas admitted. “I daenae. Nay more than ye can ever stop bein’ laird.”
Creighton rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to smooth out his expression. Dallas was right. He often was. Peoplewerewatching. There was no anonymity in any crowd for a laird.
His hair tickled the back of his neck, and he shifted position, trying to nudge it out of his collar. He needed a haircut. He needed a shave. He needed another drink.
“More wine,” Creighton said to no one in particular, holding up his goblet.
Beside him, Skye clicked her tongue.
“Cousin,” she chided. “Another goblet? We’ve nae met with the Brydens yet. Shouldnae ye stay cool-headed?”
“Why would I need to do that? Ye are sober enough for the two of us.”
Skye rolled her eyes. She was three-and-twenty, but appeared a few years younger with her small frame, large doll-like blue eyes, and clouds of dark hair. He was frankly surprised that her brother, Laird MacCrimmon, had spared her to come today. But then, Hunter was a dutiful young man with a mind as sharp as a sharpened blade. He loved his sister, but he would never let something as foolish as love blur his focus and allow him to make an incorrect choice. Nor would his sister, for that matter.
The same sister who stood beside Creighton now, scanning the crowd with a steely glare. A tug of unease pulled at his insides.
“I hope ye arenae goin’ to make a scene,” he said at last. “It’s nae this Laird MacColl which killed yer da. It was the last one. We want peace with this one, eh?”
Skye said nothing, only pursed her lips together. “I just want to see him. And aye, aye, I ken that it wasnaehim, but it was his father.”
Creighton pursed his lips, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. Skye was to return to Laird Bryden’s Keep. The man was supposed to be a model of old chivalry and virtue—a sharp contrast to his father—and so he wasn’t worried about Skye’s safety. His concern was for Laird Bryden’s.
Worry about yerself now,he thought, as a cluster of people in Bryden tartan began forcing their way through the crowd, heading for their tent.This is it.
“Remember,” he murmured urgently to his cousin. “This is about peace. About mutual trust. Ye have to remember that. It’s an exchange of hostages, so tread carefully. And ye can change yer mind, even now.”
“I daenae mind,” Skye responded, her gaze landing on the men coming toward them. “I think it will be nice to stay by the ocean for a while. I’ve heard that Bryden land is lovely at this time of year.”
Creighton opened his mouth to say that wasn’t the point, that she had better meant it when she said that she wasn’t here for vengeance, that all of thismattered, but then the Bryden men were clambering onto the podium, and there was no time.
Really, they should have waited, hanging back respectfully until he summoned them forward. This had to be Laird Bryden’s attempt at putting them on an equal footing, making himself firm as alaird. Despite the fact that he’d only been laird since his father died, and that Creighton had treaties with half of the clans here, while Bryden hadnone.
The rudeness notwithstanding, Creighton got to his feet, handing the goblet off to somebody, and spread his arms wide.
“Welcome,” he called, taking a moment to revel in the fact that he was a few inches taller than Laird Bryden. Not by much, andthe man had a lithe strength to him that would be difficult to take in a fight. But still, height meantsomething. “Laird Bryden, how good to see ye.”
“Call me Evander,” the other man said firmly, extending a hand.
“Then ye must call me Creighton,” he responded, taking his hand. “We’re all friends here, aye?”
“I hope so,” Evander responded easily enough. His eyes were sharp, chips of green glass darting around as if he anticipated a trick.
“Me cousin, Skye,” Creighton added, gesturing to her. “She’s the sister of Laird MacCrimmon, as I’m sure ye ken. She’s agreed to enter into a betrothal with ye, but the choice will be hers as to whether she’ll wed ye or nae.”
“Understood,” Evander answered, offering her a nod. She didn’t return it, glancing away instead. No doubt Evander thought she was simply shy, and didn’t press for any sort of greeting. “Now, I suppose ye want to meet me peace offerin’.”
Peace offering? Curious choice of words.Creighton said nothing, only lifted his eyebrows expectantly, waiting. Evander stood aside, gesturing to a young woman hovering on the edge of the podium.
Creighton’s gaze slid over to her and stayed there.
She was taller than he’d expected. He’d assumed that Evander would bring some flimsy waif of a girl, but this woman was only about a head shorter than him. It was hard to tell under that cloak, but he guessed she was thin, though not scrawny. The cloak itself was an absolute disaster, made of coarse, unattractive green wool with about six inches of mud at the hem. Ugh.
His gaze travelled upward, skipping over the shapeless cloak and concentrating on the part of her that hecouldsee.
