Page 66 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“And us with them.”

“Christ, quit talking circles about me. It’s noble of ye, sister, to try to see the best in him. Ye try to see the best in everyone. Love so easily. But MacLeod was reared with a sword in his fist and speaks only that language.”

“He was raised in France in a monastery with a quill in his fingers. Studied abroad the continent. Owen was a painter. They were destined for university. It wasna until they were of an age that most squires envision earning their spurs that they picked up their first swords, upon escaping attacks on their abbey with their mither, who then threw herself into the sea in front of them to evade her attackers. Did ye ken?”

James stood silent. Then shook his head. “Nay, I did no’. I knew his family was tied to France, but so is every noble family.”

“I do, because I’ve listened to him. Look at his verra skin, and ye’ll see the abuse he suffered when he was a mere laddie. And from that ye’ll see the man I’ve come to ken is no warlord. Nay by choice. He’s a man ye’d break bread with. Hunt with. Laugh with. If ye’d give him that chance. If ye’d only come to the table and invite him to it, too.”

Silence.

“He saved me from falling off my horse,” she pressed further, taking his hand in hers. “He was about to take the blame for cheating. Has allowed his name to be damned time and again. He is noble and good. And Owen and Marjorie were en route to the king. Together. For some important reason, when she was nabbed. Owen searched for nigh a month, going mad with worry, and when the MacLeods tried to come to us for help, we attacked them.”

“Bullshite. Utter bullsh—”

“The first Owen heard of Marjorie’s death was from ye, Jamie. Have ye wondered why he sank to his knees and surrendered? ’Twas nay because he was outmanned.”

“How would ye ken he did that?” James sounded alarmed.

“He did, did he nay? Surrender to his knees?”

More silence. As her brother sorted through her pleading. It was all the proof Brighde needed that Tormund had spoken the truth, for James corroborated it right now by not refuting it.

“Those men are descended from Norsemen and nay comprehend such a paltry word as surrender. It’s because he could nay longer stand without her…” At this, she shook her head and jumped on her horse. Warriors and their retaliations! “Let the wrong which is done by man stay there where the wrong was done,” she quoted Aurelius to herself. She’d read it enough to have it memorized while she’d fretted all night.

She looked down.

“Brother, at some point, the fighting must cease. At some point, we must all start listening. Or else there will no longer be anyone standing on this bonny land.”

Chapter Nineteen

The journey overland was swift as Brighde followed the old Roman high road, the travelers growing from sparse to plenty as she neared the sounds of a city. And with each length gained, the tension in Brighde’s belly eased, replaced with excitement to have a purpose on this secret adventure.

Then the proud Inverness Castle loomed upon the craig, its corbeled corner towers upon which flew the Gordon pennant reaching toward the clouds.

She fished coins from her purse and called to a cluster of lasses combing wool beneath an awning and spinning it onto spools. “Good morn, good women. Can ye tell me the way to St. Bartholomew’s?”

“Aye, milady. ’Tis past the castle and past yonder bridge upriver.”

She passed them each a coin. “Harvest blessings to ye. My thanks.”

“Blessings to ye, milady.” They grinned.

By the time she trotted Sunshine along the northern bank of the River Ness through hamlets and rows of shops, her body was sore and ready for refreshment. Travelers paid the toll to cross the long bridge. A noblewoman traveling unescorted, she ignored their stares, fascinated instead by the smithy shops and taverns she passed, by the fishery piled with traps and crates, and peasants who bowed to her from beneath their broad-brimmed hats as they hauled carts.

The monastery sat along the riverbank as the girls had said, its bell tower proud against the clouds, its gate open in welcome, and its plastered stone walls climbing with idyllic ivy. She nudged Sunshine into a canter and didn’t stop until she reached it.

Soft chants filtered out onto the greens to mingle with the sounds of birdsong and the rushing of the river as she trotted Sunshine to a halt at the gate. A stooped friar in a cassock, shoulders draped in a black mantle and hair tonsured, came forth from a central herb garden surrounded by willow fences. The ward was filled with the scents of parsley, thyme, and rosemary. The walls climbed with ivy. Wildflowers found berth along the edges, and bees flitted pleasantly from the monastery’s nearby apiary. The fields surrounding them were freshly reaped, and stacks of grain dotted the landscape.

She dismounted, her gaze traveling all around. What a paradise. Had Tormund known a place like this in his youth?

The ache over his unexplained absence intensified.

“My lady.” The friar nodded.

She smiled. “Good day, good friar.”

“Need ye refreshments for yerself and yer horse?”