Three days into the visit, and he still hadn’t been shot. Considering the intensity of Lady Sorcha’s threat, Sutherland MacCoinnich considered his lack of injury nothing less than miraculous.
He shifted in the sumptuous depths of a leather armchair. “Quite the library, eh? Rivals Tor Ruadh’s even.” The only space in the enormous room not covered with manuscripts was the entrance and an array of tall windows overlooking a dreary garden struggling to recover from winter.
Magnus de Gray, Sutherland’s long-time friend and brother in arms, slowly nodded while drumming his fingers on the armrests of a matching chair. “That it is,” he said as he looked around. The leather of his seat squeaked in protest as he leaned toward Sutherland and lowered his voice. “Ye’ve still not seen her or heard anything, yet?” He cast a glance at the door. “I havena been able to glean a single hint of her whereabouts from any of the servants. Never have I seen such loyalty.” He shot another look at the entrance, then shook his head. “I dinna think she’s even here. Has Greyloch still said nothing? The man has to know what happened between the two of ye.”
“Not a bloody word about her gracing us with her presence nor last summer’s damned bet, no matter how many hints I place in every conversation.” Sutherland rose, angled his chair to better face the entry to the library, then sat back down. “And that is why I willna be exposing my back to any door until this feud between the lovely Lady Sorcha and myself is settled.”
The chieftain of Clan Greyloch had been agreeable enough at the prospect of a meeting to discuss business between the two clans. The congenial man had even welcomed them as though no undercurrent of hostility existed. Still, the first three days at Castle Greyloch had been strange. The chief had seemed too busy for them at every turn, barely sparing a moment long enough for a few words even during oddly rushed meals. Sutherland had mixed feelings about this visit that his brother, Chieftain MacCoinnich, had insisted upon.
Of course, he had wondered if he would survive another encounter with Lady Sorcha. The thought of her triggered a wicked smile. He had to admit he looked forward to a fresh duel with the fiery lass. After all, she was one of very few women he had never been able to charm.
In all honesty, he truly regretted his badly handled visit the past summer. His careless wager had somehow reached the lady’s ears and did not set well with her. It hadn’t set well with him, either, when it ended up costing him a barrel of whisky. Lady Sorcha’s promise to shoot him if he so much as rode past Castle Greyloch’s gates again was disappointing, as well. He couldn’t believe the woman had gotten so angry about his betting he would have her bedded on his first night at their keep. Could she not see it as a compliment to her loveliness?
A narrow section of bookshelves behind the massive mahogany desk in front of them shifted with a low, groaning creak like the opening of a tomb. It slowly swung open.
He took to his feet and stepped behind the broad back of his chair but stopped at drawing a weapon. Instinct bade him wait until he knew who approached, while at the same time, his mercenary readiness tensed him tighter than a bowstring.
Magnus remained seated, giving him a side-eyed look as though he thought him mad. “Ye look a fool, ye ken?”
Sutherland ignored him, keeping his focus locked on the slowly opening panel.
Chieftain Robert Greyloch sidled his hulking frame into the room, giving the bookcase a critical up and down scowl as he shoved it back in place. “Damn thing. Sticking again.” His irritation disappeared as he turned and lumbered over to a chair large enough for three men. As he pulled it back from the desk, he gave an apologetic nod. “Forgive the delay in our sitting down to discuss business, gentlemen. It’s calving time. A verra busy season for our clan to ensure the continued success and growth of our prized cattle.” His apologetic look shifted to Magnus, then returned to Sutherland. “Since the MacCoinnichs are curators of the finest breed of horses in all of Scotland, I’m sure ye understand.” He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat and chuckled at Sutherland. “Ye’d do better to face the