Lion's Legacy. Suzanne Barclay

way to turn his Scots’ blood to his advantage. “You do not share Duncan’s loyalties?”

      The Scot’s smile was as dark and menacing as the austere mountains. “All I want is what ye promised me—lairdship of Edin Valley and free rein to do as I will with its inhabitants”

      Pity for the MacLellans stirred in Henry’s chest. He suppressed it. Conquerors couldn’t afford consciences. “How do you suggest we get inside?”

      “I’m going to sneak across to the river, hide in yon trees and see if I can make out the strength of their guard.”

      “I’m with you.” He wasn’t letting the Scot out of his sight till this campaign was over.

      Chapter Four

      By the time the scouting party from Edin neared the pass, the sun had been blotted out by a ridge of clouds. The threat of impending rain seemed small compared with the storm brewing among the members of Clan MacLellan. ’Twas all Kieran’s fault, Laurel thought, for he’d done naught but criticize. First because she’d insisted on leaving Collie behind, then about things in general.

      “’Tis a mistake to rely solely on Edin’s natural defenses,” he’d growled when the hapless Ellis had tried to explain. “Guarding the entrance to the pass isn’t enough. They can lay siege to it, wear you down with repeated forays. Though you haven’t lost many men yet, the raiders have robbed you of sleep and taxed your resolve. Tired, frightened men make mistakes. The reivers need only wait, picking you off at their leisure.”

      Grudgingly Laurel had admitted he had a point, but ’twas the way he made it that rubbed them all raw till even the easygoing Ellis had fallen back, leaving her to ride alone with the surly mercenary. Kieran had no tact, no care for others’ feelings. Why did he act so, she wondered, glancing sidelong at him. He’d removed his helmet the better to study the valley. Seen in profile, his handsome features were as harsh and unrelenting as the surrounding mountains. What forces had so cruelly shaped him?

      Beneath that prickly hide of his, she’d glimpsed another man. A man who’d administered a lashing on principle yet had been more hurt by it than his victim. A man who could have crushed Collie with one blow but hadn’t raised his hand to the lad.

      In fact, when Collie had entered the master chamber with her medicine chest, he’d immediately sought out Kieran and announced he was going to ask his grandfather for a sword.

      Kieran had quietly said he’d had a wooden sword when he was seven and suggested Collie ask for one instead.

      “I want a real sword. I want to kill like ye do.”

      Kieran had shaken his head. “No man enjoys killing, but if your grandsire approves, I’ll teach you to wield a wooden sword.”

      Collie had accepted this with a sigh and gone off to corner Duncan, but Laurel had watched Kieran. Did he dislike killing? If so, why did he make his living with a sword? What sort of man was he? The urge to find out was more compelling than it should have been, given her horrible marriage and Kieran’s harshness.

      Nay, she wasn’t doing this for herself; ‘twas for her kin. The MacLellans needed Kieran if they were to survive, and the way things stood, her people would not willingly follow him. “’Twould salve Ellis’s pride did you suggest instead of demand and find fault,” she said, testing the waters.

      He snorted. “I’m here to save his hide, not his pride.”

      “Prettily said. Are you a poet?”

      He looked appalled. “Nay. I’m a mercenary.”

      “A knight may be both warrior and poet.”

      Another snort. “Not me.”

      “Why did you become a mercenary?”

      “Because I’m good at killing people. I enjoy it.”

      Liar. “Have you been doing it long?” she asked as sweetly as though he’d said he was a wood-carver or a blacksmith.

      “Since I was five and ten.”

      Young. Too young to embark on such a hard life. “Was your sire a mercenary, too?”

      “Nay.” He snarled and turned away, but Laurel wasn’t done with him. It took her several minutes and dozens of questions—most answered by a grunt or a single word—to pry loose the facts that he had no siblings, his father had been the eldest son of a noble house, his mother a Highland lady. Both were dead.

      “My parents are dead, too,” Laurel said softly. He didn’t ask for details, but she supplied them anyway, ending with how she and Malcolm had been raised by Duncan and Nesta. “Who had the raising of you?” she innocently inquired.

      He started so violently that his stallion balked and pranced forward. “Easy, Rath.” Kieran’s tone as he quieted the horse was so gentle and patient he seemed like another man. So, he could be kind when it suited him. Talk of his upbringing was painful and she wondered why he was estranged from his family. By the time he had Rath calmed, Laurel had decided on a new line of questioning.

      “He’s a fine beast. I’ve never seen so large a horse. He makes three of our shaggy little ponies,” she said.

      Kieran’s lips twitched in what for him must be a smile, and he leaned forward to pat the stallion’s glossy black neck. “My English cousins, the Sommervilles, have been raising such horses for years. When I could afford to, I bought Rath from them.”

      Laurel stored away the information. “Wrath as in anger?”

      “Nay.” Another twitch. So, he had a sense of humor under all that surliness. “Rathadack. ’Tis Gaelic for—”

      “‘Lucky omen.’ How come you to speak the ‘old tongue.’ ”

      “I fostered in the Highlands with Lucais Sutherland, the husband of my Aunt Elspeth. How come you to speak the Gaelic?”

      Laurel was delighted he’d asked a question. “We MacLellans keep many of the old ways.” She’d learned Gaelic from Nesta as preparation for the day when she’d be seeress of the MacLellans, but unless her gift improved, that day would never come.

      What pained her? Kieran was concerned to see her lovely mouth turn down. What is it, he longed to ask, but keeping his distance was too ingrained. Already he knew too much about her for his own peace of mind.

      Suddenly she straightened and shook off her sorrow with a force of will he admired, for he knew what strength it took. Her too-bright smile touched him even more. “I inherited my mother’s knack at weaving,” she said. “Though I haven’t her skill with details. Actually—” she leaned close, tone low and confiding “—my deer look like pigs, my people like sticks with hair, but I’ve a good eye for color.”

      Kieran tried to close his ears but her clear, sweet voice slipped between the chinks in the wall he’d built around his heart, beguiling him with her mix of wit and self-deprecation. “And what did you inherit from your sire’s family?” he found himself asking.

      “Naught I’ve the skill to use.” She turned away, but not before he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes.

      “What is it?” he asked, he who’d steeled himself not to care for another’s feeling—except mayhap Rhys’s.

      “’T-tis naught. I—I have something in my eye.”

      “Let me see.” He angled closer. She pulled her mount away.

      “Nay. I can look to myself.” Aye, so she could. She had as much pride and courage as most men. Her strength of character impressed him against his will.

      “Will ye go up onto the rocks and get the lay of the land?” Rhys asked, reining in beside them.

      Kieran scowled, conscious of how perilously close he’d come to opening himself up to Laurel. A serious mistake. Furious, he growled,