“What are the two of you whispering about?” Alaric demanded irritably.
She glanced over to see the warrior watching her, his eyes narrow with suspicion.
“If I wanted you to know, I’d have spoken louder,” she said calmly.
He turned away muttering what she was sure were more blasphemies about annoying females.
“You must make the priest weary with the length of your confessions,” she said.
He raised one eyebrow. “Who says I confess anything?”
She shook her head. The arrogant man probably thought his path to heaven was already assured, and that he acted in accordance to God’s will just by breathing.
“Look, there it is!” Crispen shouted as he pointed eagerly ahead.
They topped the hill and looked down at the stone keep nestled into the side of the next hill.
The skirt was crumbled in several places, and there was a detail of men working steadily, replacing the stones at the wall. What she could see of the keep above the outer walls looked blackened by an old fire.
The loch spread out to the right of the keep, the water glistening in the sunlight. One of the fingers meandered around the front of the keep, providing a natural barrier to the front gate. The bridge across it, however, sagged precariously in the middle. A temporary, narrow path over the water had been fashioned to the side, and it would only allow one horse at a time into the keep.
Despite the obvious state of disrepair to the keep, the land was beautiful. Scattered across the valley to the left of the keep, sheep grazed, herded by an older man flanked by two dogs. Occasionally one of the dogs raced out to herd the sheep back into the imaginary boundary, and then he’d return to his master to receive an approving pat on the head.
She turned to Alaric, who’d pulled to a stop beside her. “What happened here?”
But he didn’t answer. A deep scowl creased his face, and his eyes went nearly black. She gripped the reins a little tighter and shivered under the intensity of his hatred. Aye, hatred. There could be no other term for what she saw in his eyes.
Alaric spurred his horse, and hers followed automatically, leaving her to grab onto Crispen to make sure neither of them fell.
Down the hill they rode, Alaric’s men flanking her protectively on all sides. Crispen fidgeted so hard in the saddle that she had to grip hisarm so he wouldn’t jump out of his skin.
When they reached the temporary crossing, Alaric halted to wait on her.
“I’ll go in first. You follow directly behind me.”
She nodded her understanding. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be the first into the keep anyway. In some ways, this was more frightening to her than arriving at Duncan Cameron’s keep because she didn’t know her fate here. She certainly knew what Cameron had in mind for her.
They rode over the bridge and through the wide, arched entryway into the courtyard. A great shout went up, and it took her a moment to realize that it was Alaric who’d made the sound. She looked over to see him still astride his horse, his fist held high in the air.
All around her, soldiers—and there were hundreds—thrust their swords skyward and took up the cry, raising and lowering their blades in celebration.
A man entered the courtyard at a dead run, his hair flying behind him as his stride ate up the ground below him.
“Papa!” Crispen cried, and scrambled out of the saddle before she could prevent him.
He hit the ground running, and Mairin stared in fascination at the man she assumed was Crispen’s father. Her stomach knotted, and she swallowed, trying not to allow herself to panic all over again.
The man was huge, and just as mean looking as Alaric, and she didn’t know how she could think it, when there was so much joy on his face as he swung Crispen into his arms, but he frightened her in a way that Alaric did not.
The brothers were very similar in build and stature. Both had dark hair that fell below their shoulders, and both wore braids. As she looked around, though, it became apparent that all his men wore their hair the same way. Long, wild, and savage looking.
“I’m so glad to see you, lad,” his father choked out.
Crispen clung to the laird with his small arms, reminding Mairin of a burr stubbornly clinging to her skirts.
Over Crispen’s head, his gaze met Mairin’s, and his eyes immediately hardened. He took in every detail about her, she was sure, and she twisted uncomfortably, feeling horribly picked apart under his scrutiny.
She started to get down from her horse because she felt a little silly when everyone around her was dismounting, but Alaric was there, his hands reaching up to effortlessly pluck her from the horse and set her down on the ground.
“Easy, lass,” he cautioned. “You’re healing well, but you need to take care.”
He sounded almost concerned, but when she looked up at him, he wore the same scowl he always wore when he looked at her. Irritated, she scowled right back. He blinked in surprise, then pushed her toward the waiting laird.
Ewan McCabe looked a lot more threatening now that Crispen was out of his arms and back on the ground. She found herself backing up a step only to collide with the mountain that was Alaric.
Ewan looked first at Alaric, bypassing her as if she were invisible, which was just fine with her.
“You have my thanks for bringing my son home. I had every confidence in you and Caelen.”
Alaric cleared his throat and nudged Mairin forward.
“You have the lass to thank for Crispen’s return. I merely provided the escort.”
Ewan’s eyes narrowed as he studied her further. To her astonishment, his eyes weren’t the dark, fierce orbs she’d thought, but rather they were an odd pale green. When he scowled, though, his face darkened to a thundercloud, and who could possibly think his eyes were anything but a matching black?