Page 10 of Highlander’s Wrath
His voice rang out so loud, several footmen and farmers came into the entrance hall to see what all the fuss was about. It also happened to bring Laird MacDougal’s steward and soldiers out of their bedchambers.
“What’s to do?” the men inquired.
The innkeeper made the mistake of shrugging his shoulders and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Losh, Carnavon, ‘tis only that this fine gentleman—Laird Barclay from up north—wants yer bedchambers for his very own and bids me turf ye out—”
He did not get to finish what he was about to say. Laird Barclay had hauled the innkeeper up by the sides of his coat flaps, and his grip was tightening around the man’s neckerchief.
“What. Did. Ye. Say?”
The laird had lifted the poor innkeeper so high, the man’s face was parallel to his own while the toes of his shoes hardly touched the ground. The quaking man was given every opportunity to stare into Laird Barclay’s steely grey eyes and see the unbridled wrath in them.
Instinctively, Laird MacDougal’s soldiers stepped forward. One man foolishly drew his sword.
In one fluid motion, Laird Barclay swung the innkeeper around and flung him at the soldier with the sword. Both men collapsed in a heap on the floor, and Hamish used this chance to bend down and pick up the soldier’s sword. He held it in front of him, saying, “Right, who’s next?”
All the men cowered backward. They might not know the exact location of Barclay Castle, but its owner’s reputation as a dangerous swordsman preceded him.
Coira, who had been watching the events unfold from the stairs, shouted, “That’s enough!” She came down the steps, her body rigid with disapproval. “Leave these poor men alone, sir! They came before us, fair and square, and have every right to sleep the night in their bedchambers. Can you not see they have no wish to fight?”
Laird Barclay gave her a glance but did not lower the sword in his hand. “I don’ care who was first. I want a bed.”
Coira snorted with derision. “Then have mine! All this fuss over somewhere to sleep! I will be just as comfortable resting in the alehouse on a pallet. And I suppose you have not even bothered to consider where your own men will be spending such a cold night?”
At these words, Laird Barclay hesitated and then, finally, lowered his sword. He placed the blade point in his left hand and threw the sword hilt first toward the fallen soldier and innkeeper. “They are nae my men, ye realize,” he said, turning to Coira. “I hired them to bring ye back here…” He saw her start to frown. “But, I will go and find them somewhere to sleep first, so dinnae fret.”
As he left the hallway, a collective groan of relief was given by all the men.
“Ye should watch what ye say, Barstow,” Carnavon, the MacDougal steward, said to the innkeeper after wiping the sweat off his forehead. “That ‘fine’ gentleman’s kind facade crumbles whenever he does nae get what he wants. Do ye no’ ken who that is? That’s Blackheart Barclay ye’re messing with!”
