Page 83 of The Guardian
“I hear Donald Gallda ousted the royal garrison and took Urquhart Castle,” Ian said.
“Ach, they’re devils,” the man said. “Starting this fight on the heels of our bloody losses to the English.”
“I’ve a new bride, so the rebellion doesn’t concern me much one way or the other today,” Ian said, putting his arm around Sìleas. Would the man never leave?
“We share enemies,” the Douglas man said.
That was true, though a man would need a chart like Sìleas kept for the sheep and cows to keep track of the shifting alliances among the clans. The Macleods of Harris and Dunvegan, however, were long-standing rivals of the MacDonalds of Sleat, and they were supporting the rebellion. Lachlan Cattanach Maclean of Duart, otherwise known as Shaggy Maclean, had taken the rebel side as well—and Ian had a personal grudge against Shaggy, having spent time in his dungeon.
“If the Douglas could be certain your cousin would support the Crown,” the man said, “he could be convinced to lend a hand when Connor is ready to take the chieftainship from his uncle.”
“I’ll be sure to give Connor my best advice,” Ian said.
When the man finally got up and left, Ian blew out his breath. “I can see that taking the chieftainship from Hugh Dubh will just be the start of Connor’s troubles.”
“Aye,” Sìleas said. “But the sooner he is chieftain the better.”
“My wife is a wise woman,” Ian said, lifting her chin with his finger. “What do ye say to going back to our room?”
Ahh, her eyes were so green. And, better yet, they were telling him just what he wanted.
He was halfway off the bench when a heavy hand rested on his shoulder. Who now? Brushing the hand off, he turned to find a wild-haired man who smelled as if he’d been living rough far too long.
“I saw ye talking to one of the Douglases,” the man said, in a voice so deep the bench vibrated when he spoke.
“He was giving me a wedding gift,” Ian said, losing patience. “And if ye don’t mind, I’m taking my bride back to bed now.”
“A moment, friend,” the man said, not sounding friendly at all. “Go home and tell your chieftain that we’re counting on the MacDonalds of Sleat to fight with us against the Crown.”
God’s beard, how many men must he argue with before he could take his bride back upstairs?
“Ye don’t think the English killed enough Scots at Flodden that we must kill each other now?” Ian took a long drink of his ale and slammed his empty cup down. “All in all, your timing seems verra poor to me.”
“We must strike now, while there is no king to fight us,” the man said. “Even Lowlanders won’t follow an English woman into battle.”
“I suspect it will not be the queen, but Archibald Douglas, who will be leading them,” Ian said. “I don’t like the man, but I wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him. The Douglas has iron in his eyes.”
When the second man finally left them, Ian took Sìleas’s hand. “We’d best hurry.”
“Ach, they’ve come for us,” she said.
Ian turned to see Connor and the others entering the tavern. He heaved a sigh, knowing his friends had already given him more time than they ought. They could not afford to delay their departure longer. It was, however, a small comfort to see the disappointment on Sìleas’s face.
•••
Sìleas fought to keep her eyes open as they sat around the campfire. Niall had lost the fight and was snoring with his head against a log while the others talked. The only thing that kept Sìleas awake was her rumbling stomach—and her sore behind. After one day, it felt as if she had been on that damned horse a week.
Although the men attempted to restrain their pace out of consideration for her, Sìleas felt their urgency. Samhain—and the gathering to select the new chieftain—was less than a week away. They could ill afford the days lost fetching her from Stirling. And yet, none of them uttered one word of complaint against her.
Nor would they.
Because Ian had claimed her as his wife, the others simply accepted her. She could almost feel the tight bond that connected the four men wrap around her and encompass her within their protection. It was unspoken and subtle, but she knew with utter certainty that any one of them would die to protect her.
Although she had known Connor, Alex, and Duncan when they were lads, she was coming to know them as men now. She let her gaze rest on each of them as they talked, starting with Alex, who looked like one of his marauding Viking ancestors—until he laughed, which was often. Then there was Duncan, a huge man, who could play the sweetest music you’d ever want to hear, but had a shadow of sadness in his eyes. When she asked, Ian told her Duncan had been in love with Connor’s sister, who was wed to the son of an Irish chieftain.
Finally, she turned her gaze to Connor, who looked so much like Ian they could be mistaken for each other by someone who didn’t know them well. If the men made him chieftain, it would be because he was a strong warrior and very clever. But Sìleas believed Connor would be a great chieftain because he also had the humility to listen to the wise counsel of others and felt compassion for even the lowliest members of his clan.
“I had as many men taking my measure in Stirling as I do at home on Skye,” Connor said as he turned the spit with the rabbits over the fire.
