snorted, but he held his mount still as Rory approached the gate and assessed each gatekeeper. They gave no indication of their intentions to his presence. Their bodies tense, but no weapon in either hand. Of course, there was no welcoming greeting on their lips either. Just more of that unnatural stillness like the villagers.
So he passed through the gate on well-worn dirt beneath smaller buildings in different states of disrepair.
Once through to the other side, Rory could see two men above, but from the angle of the gate and the high walls, he knew there were hidden places where numerous men could walk the wall, aim their bow and arrow over the slats and pull the killing shot.
Just past the walls’ shadow and Rory spotted a lone man descending the keep’s steps. There were many steps, tightly terraced, yet he took them one at a time. He spotted no limp or deformity in the Scotsman. No, the McCrieff took the steps slowly and deliberately to waste time.
Another scan of his surroundings and Rory waited while the stranger strode towards them. He appeared the same age as his father, but that was the only certainty he could be Chief of Clan McCrieff.
He was tall, thick, his shoulders wide. Lochmore’s Chief was a scholar—this man led troops, fought in battles and had shed much blood. His father had said Hamish was large, but everything else didn’t fit. This man didn’t look as if he spoke to councils and negotiated.
A flash of movement at the top of the stairs and Rory glanced towards the new threat. It was a woman half in the shadows of the doorway, her white gown giving a shape and size to her. She appeared younger than the man striding towards him now.
None of her features were clear. But her unbound hair was a riveting flaming red. She could be across the moors in the furthest field and he’d see her.
He felt...he felt as if he knew her.
Disconcerted, Rory dismounted and took in the courtyard. As expected, the ramparts were full of men, arrows locked though the bows were not taut. Around the wall he saw more men standing. No swords drawn, but their stances were wide—they were ready to charge—and the man who had descended the stairs now stood in front of him.
‘You are not Lochmore’s Chief.’
‘You are not the McCrieffs’,’ Rory guessed.
The man gave a regal nod, but didn’t divulge any further information. So be it. Rory purposefully looked around them. ‘Is that why we face each other freely in this courtyard?’
‘You stand freely because I will it.’
‘You could not will it, if I did not freely stand here.’
The old warrior tilted his head, assessing Rory as a man, as a soldier, as an opponent. He’d been given the same look all his life from his own father. This time, however, there was humour in eyes framed by wrinkles and the slight curve lifted the harsh corners of his lips.
This McCrieff, warrior or not, wanted to smile at Rory’s words. Was the man humoured by his own words or was the joke finally on him?
‘I’ve come to address the King’s decree.’ Rory got to the point.
‘You intend to claim part of the McCrieff lands.’
Rory pulled out the royal scroll, certain the McCrieffs had received a copy as well. ‘They were no longer yours the moment Edward signed this parchment.’
The warrior didn’t glance at the seal. ‘Don’t want yours. Got one of our own.’
‘Then—’
‘I’ll ignore both.’
‘Where is your Chief?’
The man remained quiet, but he turned his gaze to men along the sides. Men who kept their weapons lowered, but who walked slowly towards them.
‘Are you or the Chief ignoring our missives as well?’ Months of preparation. Hours of manoeuvring and counselling for every circumstance. But there wasn’t a circumstance here. The sun was well risen, the day was warm, the armour was heavy and getting hot, and nothing...nothing was occurring. He wanted this done with and to return home. ‘Are you conceding the lands are ours without a fight?’
‘I’ll concede those lands will remain as they are, Rory, son of Finley and only heir.’
Rory didn’t let his gaze stray from the man in front of him, but he was acutely aware of the bowmen at the top of the gates and the men on the ground. Aware of the woman trying to hide in the door’s shadows and failing. She wore white, her hair like a bright flame, her hand now rested on her stomach as if she was holding herself in.
He knew how she felt. A trap he had stepped in and one that was unavoidable. He could take on one, maybe two of the men before him, but not all. ‘You know who I am and yet...’ Rory let the sentence drop, hoping the man in front of him would complete it.
The warrior shrugged. ‘Time would be better spent eating and drinking, no?’
‘You prepared a feast for our arrival?’
‘We knew you were coming. You wrote us a missive to that effect.’ The man turned slightly and indicated for Rory to follow him to the keep. ‘You haven’t broken your fast yet?’
Rory ate nothing other than was necessary for strength this morning. Any more and he couldn’t fight well. ‘Lochmores have never eaten at a McCrieff table.’
‘That is because you’ve never been invited before.’
This conversation was more along Paiden’s gift for circuitous conversation. What he wouldn’t give for his friend beside him to interpret. All Rory knew in this moment was if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Sparring with words wasn’t his way, being direct was. ‘Tell me what game this is and get on with it.’
‘Do you like games?’
‘I never played a game in my life.’ He’d been honed to be a weapon by his father and, when he could think or act for himself, he’d kept to the regime. Once the arrow was shot, it had no choice but to continue where it was aimed.
‘But this one you’ve entered into already. I know you see her.’
Anything of frustration in him left immediately and his focus remained locked on to the warrior before him. Older, but no less deadly. A worthy opponent by the way he held himself. Fearless since he had no weapon out in preparation to an attack.
His father was like this as well. But the man did keep his eyes on Rory their entire exchange. The woman, for she was the only woman visible in this courtyard, was still half-hidden. Yet this man knew she was there watching them.
‘She’s hiding from you.’
‘Little escapes my observations.’
‘Who are you?’ Rory said.
‘I’ll introduce myself and my daughter when you’ve entered the McCrieffs’ Hall, son of Lochmore.’
So be it. Rory turned to signal his men. A fatal mistake. A bite of steel against his side, a harsh grasp of one arm, then the other.
There was time to free himself, to fight, but Rory knew it would be brief. He could negotiate for his men better alive than dead. With a shove at the men holding him, he allowed the wrenching of his arms behind his back as he faced the McCrieff.
The warrior gave a knowing smile. ‘I said you’re invited, I didn’t say as a guest.’
Hurry, hurry, hurry. The mantra hurtled itself through Ailsa’s thoughts faster than her feet carried her to the safety of her rooms.
Lochmores on McCrieff land. Arrows and swords drawn, shields low, but ready, and one