The Bard (Highland Heroes #5) - Maeve Greyson Page 0,105

keep. He just stops in every so often to play with the wee ones.”

“I havena seen Jenny and Lachlan’s son yet.” Magnus joined Sutherland at the desk, sorting through thin packets, thick bundles, and long narrow envelopes. “With their son and yer’s just a few weeks apart, those lads will be more like brothers than cousins.”

“That they will,” Sutherland said as he scooped up an armload of papers and dumped it on the couch in the corner. “I dinna ken how anyone keeps up with all this foolishness. How’s a chief supposed to protect his clan when he’s drowning in shite like this?”

“Ye best learn how to handle this mess if ye mean to be chieftain someday.” Magnus raked another pile off into a basket, glancing at the notations on the packets as he sorted. “Ye wish Greyson to have a clan to inherit, do ye not?”

“Ye sound like Sorcha.” Sutherland spotted the worn, water-stained envelope with the faded ink and snatched it up before Magnus swept it into the basket. “Here!” He held it out to his friend and pointed at the window. “Sunshine might help with the reading of it. Especially if it’s as faded on the inside as it is on the outside.”

Now that Magnus had finally shown up, Sutherland hated giving him the missive, knowing it risked sending him on his way again before they had fully enjoyed their visit. He hoped it wasn’t anything dire, but didn’t know how it could be. The MacCoinnichs were the only family Magnus had left, and all of them were fine.

Magnus flipped over the envelope and froze, with an unblinking stare locked on the chipped and dented wax seal. His jaw flexed as he turned it over and studied the handwriting again. After a deep breath, he slid a finger under the flap, broke the wax, and opened the yellowed parchment. His lips moved as he read, then he slowly lowered himself into a nearby chair.

“What is it?” Sutherland wished he would say something. The man had gone pale. His hands shook until the paper crackled. “Magnus?”

“She is dead,” he whispered without looking up from the missive. He let it fall to the floor and scrubbed his face as though trying to wake from a bad dream.

“Who is dead?” Sutherland refrained from snatching up the letter and reading it himself. Magnus would tell him in his own good time.

“Bree.” Magnus turned and stared out the window. “Bree Maxwell.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “A bonnie lass as sweet as heather after a gentle rain.” With the toe of his boot, he nudged the tattered parchment toward Sutherland, then raised his head and locked eyes with him. “My beloved Bree died while bringing my son into this world.”

“Ye have a woman? A son?” Sutherland tried to focus on the good. Bringing forth bairns had sent many a woman to her grave. Sutherland had decided long ago that a wartime battlefield was safer than attempting to bring forth life. “Fetch the babe. Bring him here. Our sons can grow together.” He’d do anything to help his friend. “Where is he now? Does the letter say?”

Magnus scooped it up and squinted at the faded script. “Whoever wrote this signed it for Bree. She sent this from her deathbed.”

“God rest her soul.” Sutherland crossed himself, then flinched. Magnus and God weren’t exactly on speaking terms, and this revelation wouldn’t change that. “I can come with ye if ye like. We can bring along a wet nurse to help with the babe. I know Sorcha would help ye choose a fine one.”

“What?” Sutherland grabbed hold of his shoulder. What else could be worse? The woman who had borne him a son had died and left the child alone in the world. He prayed the bairn hadn’t died, too.

Magnus looked up and shoved the letter back at Sutherland. “Look at the year. This letter is five years old.”

Read on for an excerpt from The Ghost – Highland Heroes Book 6

Chapter One

Northeastern Scotland

July 1705

“Ye ken I dinna like this any more than ye do. I know I said it before, but it bears sayin’ again. When Mama says go, I must go. And maybe she’s right. She usually is. Besides, I didna hear ye arguing with her nor telling her nay.”

Magnus de Gray cut a dark look over at the entirely too talkative fifteen-year-old he had been saddled with ever since leaving Tor Ruadh. For the past four days, he had kept his