Plaid to the Bone (Bad in Plaid 1)

“It tells us to be wary of an entire clan,” Brodie pointed out. “We could interpret that as a warning to stay away from them.”

“We might, but McIlvain has gone missing, and the King is rightly concerned. Hell, I’m concerned, and I barely ken the man. Anytime a Hunter goes missing, we must assume the worst, and this is nae exception.”

Brodie grunted. “So if McIlvain is dead, then the Oliphants are likely suspects.”

“Beware the Oliphants.” Kenneth sighed. “They’ve done naught to anger His Majesty, but ‘tis possible they had a private feud with McIlvain and disposed of him.”

“Disposed of?” There was a hint of teasing in Brodie’s tone as he began to pull the meat from the spit and place it on a spread oilcloth to save for later. “Mayhap tossed in a midden?”

“Or locked in a dungeon,” Kenneth agreed, playing along.

“Mayhap Oliphant Castle is riddled with secret passages, and the puir man’s wandering through them, lost and starving.”

Kenneth nodded toward the oilcloth. “Then we’ll bring him some of yer remarkable roast for sustenance.”

Instead of continuing the teasing, Brodie sighed. “So ye’re intent on this course, eh? Boldly approach the Oliphant and demand he tell ye where McIlvain is?”

“Och, nay. I thought I’d mimic ye, with the quiet sulking. We can watch from afar, ask some subtle questions, without telling anyone our true purpose.”

“Or identifying ourselves?”

Kenneth nodded. “There’s nae reason to even meet with the Oliphant, if we can get the answers we need from the local innkeeper or tavern in town.”

“Ye think they have whores there?”

“If they do, let us hope they can use their lips for aught other than pleasure.”

Brodie sighed. “Leave it to ye, Laird, to put yer mission afore pleasure. I dinnae mind using a whore’s lips for two things at once.”

“Aye.” Winking, Kenneth wiped his dagger against his kilt and slid it back into the sheath. “But she cannae tell us if McIlvain’s been seen on Oliphant land if her mouth is full of yer cock.”

That earned a rare chuckle from his companion, and Brodie opened his mouth to respond. But both men’s sharp senses caught a distant sound—metal on metal—and Kenneth shot to his feet.

As he stood, listening, he was aware of Brodie shoving the wrapped roast into a leather bag and throwing dirt over the remains of their fire. He had the sense to know dumping water on it would’ve created smoke, which would reveal their presence.

In less than a minute, there was little sign the two men had spent a pleasant rest here in the glen, discussing their plans. Instead, like the Hunters they were, they were ready to ride.

Knowing his plan, to investigate if the Oliphants were complicit in McIlvain’s disappearance, required secrecy, Kenneth was particularly interested in discovering if they’d been seen. Did the sound of distant men represent a routine patrol from Oliphant Castle, or something more sinister?

Luckily, Brodie knew him well enough to understand his hand signals and nodded in agreement. They’d split up and ride in opposite directions, searching for the source of the sound. If one found something important, they’d communicate via their usual method.

Kenneth’s heart began to pound in excitement as he ducked an overhanging tree limb and rode away from the glen. Perhaps this was a clue he could use in unraveling this tangled knot. McIlvain’s disappearance, while on a mission for the King, had caused all the Hunters some consternation, but Kenneth was hoping to find some sign of the man before he officially retired from His Majesty’s service.

And after that cryptic clue—Beware the Oliphants—he knew exactly where he had to go.

But he was hoping to gather some intelligence before he blundered ignorantly into the belly of the beast.

Unfortunately, he was beginning to suspect the noise of distant warriors—if that’s what they’d heard, and not something innocent, like two sheep smashing metal pans against each other—wasn’t going to answer any of his questions. An hour after he’d snuck away from the glen on his black gelding, he was willing to admit he’d found no clue to the band of warriors or those possible violent sheep.

Stifling a sigh, Kenneth turned his horse toward the faint trickling sound of water. The animal would appreciate a drink, and he might find some sign of the locals. Or at least, some sign which might give him a clue of what to expect on Oliphant land.

Was the laird a murderous bastard who had killed McIlvain when the Hunter had gotten too close, or was he just a single thread in this snarled skein of a problem?

Ye’re back to the knitting metaphors. Can ye no’ find some new way to describe this hunt?

Mayhap he’d been away from civilization too long; he’d begun to argue with himself.

Where in damnation was this stream he could hear? The gentle sound had turned into something stronger, as if the water was falling some distance from above. And there was an echo to it, as if the water was hitting a deeper pool below and being absorbed.