The Bard (Highland Heroes #5) - Maeve Greyson Page 0,17

she turned and sashayed away, heading for the tower stairway.

“I have come to the conclusion that it’s high time for a thinning out of my advisors,” Greyloch said as he watched her go.

“Do ye truly have business to discuss, or were ye merely creating a farce to get rid of Lady Culane?” Sutherland asked with another glance in Sorcha’s direction. He yearned to join that group and do a bit of thinning out himself.

The chief gave him an unsettling look. He nodded toward the area that Sutherland and Lady Culane had just vacated. A bottle of whisky sat on the table along with a pair of glasses. “Let us sit by the fire and have a drink while we talk. Shall we?”

Instincts tingling, Sutherland joined the chieftain and returned to his seat at the table. He gladly accepted the generous glass of whisky the man poured and held it aloft. “Slàinte mhath!”

“Slàinte mhath!” Greyloch downed the contents of his glass as though it were water. He poured them both another, then leaned forward, propping his forearms on the table. His unsettling look of earlier returned. “A man, a good man anyway, is always verra protective of his child, ye ken?”

“Aye.” Sutherland risked a glance over at Sorcha, more than a little pleased when she hurriedly looked away. At least the lass was finally watching him, too. Even while she seemed to be talking with the others, she still had eyes for him.

“My daughter is my world, Master MacCoinnich. I would kill anyone who threatened her or her happiness.”

His attention jerked back to the chieftain. The man’s tone had changed, darkened to a dangerous rumble. “Aye, sir,” Sutherland politely agreed. “I would expect no less from a man such as yerself.” He hazarded a slow sip of his whisky. What was Robert Greyloch trying to tell him?

The chieftain’s eyes narrowed as he kept his unnerving glare locked on Sutherland. “I am aware of yer reputation, Master MacCoinnich.”

Sutherland downed another drink. He had already apologized for that damn bet and his foolishness of last summer. All had seemed good between them. What had caused the man’s sudden change of heart? “I would never dishonor yer daughter, sir, and I have already begged yer forgiveness for the ill-mannered behavior of my last visit.” He shifted in the chair, wishing he were anywhere but there. “Let me assure ye, I admire the Lady Sorcha and hold her in my highest esteem.”

“My daughter has no need of yer esteem. She needs yer name.” Greyloch downed his second whisky and poured them both another. “She’s turned down more suitors than I’ve got hairs on me arse. Good suitors.” The chieftain paused and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Well…they were more acceptable than good, actually.” The man’s calculating smile spread. “But she’s different whenever she’s around ye. I think she likes ye well enough and might even accept an offer from yerself.” He gave a curt nod. “I’ve watched ye close since yer arrival. I approve of such an offer.”

“An offer?” Sutherland’s last swallow of whisky went sideways and hit the wrong spot. He turned aside, coughing and wheezing for air. Lungs afire, tears in his eyes, he stole a glance back at the devious leader of Clan Greyloch. The damn man had a smile bigger than the Earl of Hell himself after claiming a soul. “I have made no offer, sir,” he forced out between wheezes.

“Well, ye should then.” Greyloch relaxed back in his chair, toying with his half-empty glass on the table. “Yer brother is chieftain of Clan MacCoinnich. Upon my death, my daughter and yerself could lead Clan Greyloch.” He lifted his drink with his self-satisfied look strengthening by the moment. “Quite the alliance that would be. Our prized cattle. Yer sought-after horses. Quite the alliance, indeed.”

“I am honored, Chieftain, but…” Sutherland suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He had never thought of marrying anyone. Not ever. He’d never been inclined to give up his freedom. But this was Sorcha they were talking about. Maybe for her. For the first time in his life, he actually considered it.

“Begging yer pardon, sir,” said a sweet but icy voice to his left. “I dinna mean to be rude and interrupt what I’m sure is an important conversation, but I need to speak with my father.”

He looked up, rendered speechless by Sorcha’s sudden appearance beside their table. How much had the lass overheard? At first, he wondered if this had all been a thinly veiled plot,