Page 11 of Highlander’s Wrath

7

Arrival at Barclay Castle

Coira had spent a wretched night trying to sleep on the truckle bed with Miriam. Her maid, although competent enough when it came to dressing her hair and tying her stockings, was a heavy sleeper who snored fit to burst the rafters. And when the maid’s snores had finally grown quieter, Coira found the banging of tankards and shouting of drunken men coming up from the taproom was just as repugnant.

When she heard the church bell tolling four hours past midnight, Coira gave up on sleep and decided to venture down to the alehouse kitchen to see if there was any bread or milk left out. The innkeeper and his wife had been kept so busy with arrivals last night, the only food served had been reserved for patrons of the taproom.

After she pushed the folding screen back against the landing wall and slipped her stockinged feet into her shoes and tightened her stays, she lighted her candle to show her the way downstairs; the sleet-weighted clouds had made the inn as dark as pitch.

The sound of slumbering travelers greeted her when she stepped into the hallway. Many men had been caught unawares by the sudden cold weather, and their damp cloaks and battered saddlebags littered the entrance.

“Did our genial host also forget to bring ye soup last night?” a deep voice said behind her in an amused tone.

Coira whirled around, but she was not frightened. She recognized that voice. It had been her constant companion every evening for the last sennight.

“Laird Barclay! What are you doing down here so early in the morn?”

“Is it early?” he responded with a small laugh. “I thought it was rather late. I have no’ been to sleep yet, ye ken.”

Hamish moved out from the dark shadows where he had been keeping watch on who went up the stairs toward the landing. He did not trust the light screen the innkeeper’s wife had placed in front of the truckle bed last night to keep Coira safe.

“Why did you not sleep with your men in the stables?” Coira inquired. “The innkeeper’s wife assured me last night that a considerable amount of warmth and comfort could be found in the hay.”

Laird Barclay did not have the heart to tell her he had stood guard at the stairs to watch over her. He replied lightly, “Never ye mind that. I ken where the kitchen is. Follow me down there and let’s see what food lies unattended.”

The previous evening, Laird Barclay had been asked by every kitchen maid and serving wench if he wished to spend time in one of their beds, each one telling him that he was so handsome, he would not even have to give them a shilling if he so chose not to; his charming face lying beside them on the pillow was all the reward a woman could desire.

But Hamish had steadfastly refused every offer the women made to him, and his black looks and scowls soon made the servants leave him alone. His blood was still boiling after his outbreak of rage earlier on in the day, and he found it easier to let his bad mood play out when he was alone. When Hamish had held his hand out in front of him after the skirmish with Laird MacDougal’s soldiers, he found it was still shaking from the action he had been forced to suppress. As negligent as his father had been, the man had still made sure to teach his son to never sheath his sword until his enemy lay dead at his feet. However, yesterday Laird Barclay had managed to hold on to his sanity long enough to understand that harming Laird MacDougal’s men on the man’s own land would be a sure way to start a clan war. Even so, his body had found his mind’s decision to throw down his sword a hard one to bear, and his muscles had flexed and strained from enforced restraint for a long time afterward.

The dawning of the new day had brought a better mood with it. Hamish lifted the lantern the innkeeper had left with him in the early hours of the morning and escorted Coira to the kitchens. There they sat in companionable silence together—his lairdship supping ale and Coira dipping slices of stale bread into milk to eat—until they heard the rooster’s crow and servants began to enter the kitchens to light fires and boil water.

Laird Barclay got up and stretched.

“Hey ho, ‘tis time for me to mount Lancer one more time,” He went to the window shutters and opened one side. “The clouds are breaking red in the sky. That means the sun will show itself today. Let’s hope it’s in time for me hands no’ to freeze themselves to the harness.”

Coira made up her mind then and there.

“Tush! Sir, you must travel the last stage of our journey with me in the coach. I won’t have it being said that I was so selfish as to have my new guardian chilled to the bone. We will not bother one another. We can sleep.”

Laird Barclay was not shy to take her up on her offer. He knew he would be no good if he arrived at the castle too tired to think straight. And when Miriam the maid rolled down the stairs later on that morning, she looked so well rested that neither Coira nor Hamish felt the least guilt at ordering her to ride up on top of the coach for the last stage of the journey.

“But..but, your virtue, my lady!” the maid had whispered urgently to her mistress. “You cannot sleep with a man in a closed coach!”

Coira had laughed at this. “Oh, so it’s all right for me to play chess and cards with him, but not acceptable for us to sleep together! Really, Miriam, show more sense.”

Laird Barclay gave the maid his blandest smile when he helped her mount onto the perch next to the coachman, saying in the thickest Highland brogue he knew, “Dinnae fash, wummin. I’ll try to restrain meself. And I’ll have ye ken that a bouncin’ coach is the very divil of a place to set up a ravishin’—I ken from experience, of course.”

“What did he just say?” the maid asked the coachman when Laird Barclay had mounted the steps leading up to the coach, but the man had simply grinned and whipped up the horses into a fast trot.

Coira was relieved to see the inn disappear into the distance. She was beginning to suspect that Laird Barclay was not the most even-tempered of gentlemen, and she wanted him as far away as possible from the local laird’s soldiers before they woke up and he could cause more trouble with them.

Laird Barclay hid his mouth behind his hand to stifle his yawns. He looked at her with drooping eyelids, his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile at Coira’s straight-backed posture.

“If it’s all the same to ye, lass, I’ll prop meself up against this cushion and sleep. I suggest ye do the same. Colban is likely to be jumpin’ around like a flea on an angry bull when we get back to the castle. Take yer rest whilst ye’re able.”

Coira nodded and returned his smile but did not immediately take his advice. After staring at the changing scenery outside for a few moments, she turned her attention inside. His lairdship was already peacefully asleep, his eyelids showing faintly mauve with fatigue. As she watched, Coira noticed the man’s expression lighten and grow more content. Even when his eyes were closed and his mind slumbering, it seemed as though the laird could feel the home of his ancestors getting closer.

The coach wheel foundered in a pothole for one perilous moment, and when the coach lurched from side to side, his eyebrows drew together into a black, frowning line as his brow creased. It seemed for a while as if he would wake up, but when the coach wheels righted themselves again, he fell even deeper into dreaming.