The Bard (Highland Heroes #5) - Maeve Greyson Page 0,3
Her contempt appeared tempered with the amusement of a spider toying with its prey. “I’m the fairest woman ye’ve ever met, ye say? And ye needed the bet to give ye the courage to try and seduce me?”
“Absolutely, m’lady. ’Tis the honest truth. I swear it.” Sutherland assumed the most woeful look he could manage. “I pray the angels are as lovely as yerself, m’lady. My death willna be so bad then, although, I’m certain, they willna be able to console me if ye dinna grant me yer forgiveness and maybe even a last kiss so I might find rest in the hereafter.”
Lady Sorcha blew out a very unladylike snort. “If our stables were filled with as much shite as ye just spewed, our livestock would drown in it. I shouldha worn my boots. Ye’ve piled it arse-high in here.”
“Daughter!” Chieftain Greyloch strode over and plucked the pistol out of her hand. “Such language! Enough of this foolishness now. Accept the man’s apology and be done with it. At least he asked yer forgiveness, and might I also add, he didna spread unseemly rumors about ye like some wouldha done once ye spurned them.”
“A man will apologize for anything when he’s facing the barrel of a gun.” Lady Sorcha lifted her chin and pinned a damning glare on Sutherland.
Even without the gun pointed at his chest, Sutherland remained on his knee. Timing was everything in battles such as these.
Magnus stepped forward. “I assure ye, m’lady, that is the most heartfelt apology from this man that I have ever witnessed.”
Sutherland kept his gaze locked on the lady, but the sound of liquid being poured told him Magnus had stepped forward to pour himself another drink—not swear to Sutherland’s character. Magnus then appeared at his side, whisky in hand.
“And gun or not, I swear Sutherland is far too short-sighted and too stubborn to say anything he doesna mean—well, for the most part.” Magnus lifted his glass in a toast, then downed it. “The man is honest to a fault. Most times. I swear it.”
“Ye are not helping,” Sutherland said, ready to knock Magnus on his arse. Raising his voice, he turned his attention back to Lady Sorcha, determined to win at least an amicable look from the lass and maybe even the hint of a smile. “All flowery words aside, m’lady, I am sorry for the bet. It was childish, pompous, and a poor choice indeed. My mam wouldha cuffed me hard were she still walking this earth. I do beg yer forgiveness—whether ye’re still intent on killing me or not.”
The lady rolled her eyes, gave the men a wide berth, and poured herself a glass of wine. “Why did Chieftain MacCoinnich send the two of ye rather than come here himself? Does he think so little of Clan Greyloch? It might be true we’re a small clan, but it’s apparent we have something he not only wants but needs. Would that not warrant a visit from the chieftain himself rather than a meeting with two of his lessers?”
“Sorcha Elaine! Where in heaven’s name are yer manners?” Greyloch pointed toward a sitting area in front of the windows. “Let us all sit and get to the meat of this matter. That is, if my sharp-tongued daughter hasna already dissuaded ye with her insults.”
Dissuaded? Nay. Intrigued? Aye, and for certain. Lady Sorcha possessed the sort of fire Sutherland admired. She always had. And if there was anything he loved more than the lasses, it was a challenge. He rose from his knee, poured himself another drink, and joined them. Raising his glass, he hid a smile as Chieftain Greyloch and Magnus seated themselves in the only pair of chairs available, leaving a small, two-person sofa as the only remaining place to sit.
“Da!” Lady Sorcha glared at her father.
Greyloch gave her a sharp look, then jerked a nod at the sofa. “Nay, daughter. Ye will sit beside the man and behave yerself. ’Tis yer penance for yer unladylike language and forgetting yer manners after Master MacCoinnich did his part by offering a heartfelt apology.”
“Heartfelt apology, my—”
“Sorcha!” Greyloch’s tone rang with parental warning.
“I shall be happy to stand,” Sutherland offered with a gallant bow. “Please, m’lady. Have the sofa all to yerself with my blessing.”
The lady bristled even more. She stomped over to the couch, dropped down with a huff, then smacked the cushion beside her. “By all means, Master MacCoinnich, please do sit beside me. I promise not to bite.”