It would, however, be a bit more difficult if Iris wasn’t settled here. Her letter had stated that the Macgregor clan chief was willing to meet with Ian and strengthen a bond between the two clans. Stephan hadn’t considered it to be a threat and neither did Ian. Iris wouldn’t betray her own family.
He sniffed, eyeing them. “Och, well come this way.”
“I dinna trust him,” Dalziel growled as he came to his place by Ian as captain of the guard.
“Ye dinna trust anyone,” Ian reminded him as the warrior turned his horse back to the others waiting. “We would be the same way they are. Tis all new tae us, this alliance.”
Dalziel snorted but Ian moved forward, falling behind the warriors and getting his first view of the Macgregor village. The huts were not much different than theirs, with children’s laughter drifting from places unseen while others called out greetings as they passed.
Some did stop and stare as they rode past and while Ian didn’t wear any sort of crown marking him laird, he knew that his likeness had made it back to the surrounding clans. That and seeing his warriors crowd around him likely didn’t hide the fact at all.
When the keep came into view, Ian gave a small sigh of relief, feeling the weariness in his bones. He longed for a warm fire and some whiskey, perhaps somewhere he could prop up his feet for a spell.
They passed by a few more cottages before reaching the outskirts of the walled courtyard. “The horses can be put there,” the warrior that had greeted them stated, pointing at the stables just outside the wall.
Ian followed his gaze and noted a young lass watching them with interest from the doorway, wiping her hands on a rag. The cottage was in good condition, likely due to the fact that the occupants maintained the stables next to it, though the lass looked a bit young to have such a lofty position. Ian’s own stablemaster was in his fiftieth year alone.
“Ida!” the warrior barked at the lass. “Where is the old man? He’s keeping us from a dram of whiskey, he is!”
“Hold yer horses,” came a grumble as the old man in question moved himself into view. He was stooped, his clothing grimy and his gray beard nearly touching the middle of his chest. This was the stablemaster? He looked as if he had one foot in the grave already the way he was shuffling around.
Still, Ian dismounted, sliding his reins over his horse’s head and stepped forward. “I am laird Wallace. Thank ye for keeping mah horses.”
The old man’s eyes widened for half a second and a sneer came across his wrinkled face before he was charging Ian with a bellow, his fist coming out of nowhere. Before his warriors could reach him, Ian felt the crunch of the old man’s bony knuckles on his nose, the force causing him to stumble along the cobblestone until he could get his feet under him.
“Uncle!”
The man started charging again, but this time, Ian was ready for the assault. The pain in his nose barely registered as Ian’s training kicked in and he grabbed the old man’s fist, wrenching his arm behind his back. The old man cried out, the smell of whiskey and unwashed body engulfing Ian as he held the man close, waiting for another threat. “Careful old man,” he warned his attacker, his voice low where no one else could hear. “I’ve a mind tae show ye wot happens when someone takes a shot at mah.”
“Go on then!” the old man shouted, feebly struggling against Ian’s grip. “Yer nothing more than a lowly Wallace! No good for nothing but killing innocents!”
Ian was surprised by his outburst but then again, they were still enemies. He didn’t expect them to all let go of the past that quickly. “I donna wish tae hurt ye.”
The old man scoffed, struggling more. “Ye lie. All ye Wallaces lie!”
The MacGregor warriors made no move to help Ian and he sighed inwardly, the pain in his nose increasing. They would probably like to see the old man run a sword through him and none would lift a finger to help him.
“Are ye alright?” Remy asked, eyeing the old man as he struggled in Ian’s grip, spewing all sorts of curses Ian’s way.
“I’m fine,” Ian replied, feeling the blood starting to run out of his nose as he thrust the man toward Remy carefully. “Take him.”
Remy did as he asked and Ian wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic, feeling the eyes on him as he did so. They were waiting to see how he would react, he realized, to the blatant attack on a visiting laird. He could easily kill the old Scot and no one would dare say anything.
That would be what was expected of a Wallace.
“Uncle! Wot were ye thinking?”
Ian turned to see the young woman grabbing the old man’s arm and wrenching him away from Remy, her hair the color of wheat covering most of her face. “Tis a Wallace,” the old man mumbled as she ran her hands over him, looking for injuries. Ian imagined it wasn’t the first time she had done so. “They destroy anything they touch.”
It also wasn’t the first time Ian had heard such a tale and likely not the last, but it still stung that people thought of them as lowly Scots that cared naught for what they did. He enjoyed a good fight as much as the next Scot but he didn’t slaughter innocents. Every Scot that had stepped in his path over the years was looking for his blood as well and taking their lives had meant he stayed alive just a little longer.
“Do ye wish tae take him into our custody?” Dalziel asked, his sword in his hand and a gleam in his eye. “Or do ye want mah tae gut him right here?”
“Nay,” Ian said immediately, the thought churning his stomach. “He’s nothing but a drunken old man. He meant nothing by it.”
“He struck a laird!” Dalziel pushed, anger contorting his face. “He deserves punishment and as yer captain, I will be the one tae deliver it.”
“I said nay,” Ian growled, his nose starting to throb. It likely needed to be reset and bloody hell, he needed a drink. “Put away yer sword. That is yer command.”
