Bride For A Knight Page 0,51

of warmed, spiced wine.

Jamie nodded to her, gladly accepting the cup she offered him. He also tried not to frown again. But it proved difficult for her presence made him keenly aware of the loss of his brothers.

His reason for visiting Alan Mor.

Taking a sip of the wine, he turned back to his host. "After what I've told you, surely you must see that someone is responsible?"

"So it would seem," Alan Mor agreed after a few moments of brow-furrowing.

"But" - he whipped out his dirk and thrust it at Jamie, hilt first - "I'd sooner have you ram my own blade into my heart if you think my hands are stained with your brothers' blood."

Jamie took the dirk and tucked it carefully back beneath the older man's thick leather belt. "I can see it was not your doing," he said, meaning it. But the matter remained unresolved.

He slid an uncomfortable glance at Sorcha, not wanting to besmirch her father's house and his associations in her presence. But she didn't seem to be paying them any heed.

She was seeing to the fire, jabbing a long iron poker into the flames, and he couldn't help thinking of the hearth fires at Baldreagan, each grate well laid with smoldering pieces of the footbridge.

The notion called his brothers' nine faces to mind and he could almost feel their stares. They wanted and deserved their deaths avenged. Something he'd never see accomplished if he fretted about offending those who might have answers.

So he took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Your men," he began, watching Alan Mor closely, "can there be one amongst them who'd carry such hatred against my clan?"

"My men of Pabay? The reformed cutthroats as the glen wives call them?" Alan Mor waved a dismissing hand. "There's not a one o' them I'd trust to commit such a barbarous act."

"But they wouldn't have come to you from Pabay - the robbers' isle - if they didn't carry a good share of dark deeds on their shoulders."

"Dark deeds, aye. But there are degrees of villainy."

Jamie cocked a brow. "I've ne'er heard the like."

To his surprise, Alan Mor grinned and thwacked him on the shoulder. "Lad, now you see why I've trusted my wee lassie to your care. One look at you and a man knows you'd ne'er do ought to hurt her."

Jamie almost choked on his wine. "To be sure I'd ne'er harm her. I'd kill any man who tried."

"Well, now! Isn't that what I just meant?" Alan Mor grinned at him. "And, aye, there are degrees of villainy, but my Pabay men have put their days of thieving and deceit behind them. Though a few are scoundrels. I willna deny that."

He paused and jerked his head meaningfully at his daughter, waiting until she left the solar and the door closed softly behind her.

"Nevertheless, there isn't a murderer amongst my men," he continued, folding his arms. "That's always been a line I refused to cross. If you knew aught about such men as call Fairmaiden their home, you'd know they'd ne'er do aught to lose their welcome here."

He fixed Jamie with a piercing stare. "See you, I give them a chance to make a new life. They'd be fools to vex me."

Jamie returned the stare. "There's something you aren't telling me," he said, certain of it.

Alan Mor blew out a breath. "Only that there are some in these parts who do bear grievances against your da."

"Who?" Jamie took a step forward. "Name them if you know."

"Ach, laddie, would that I could," Alan Mor returned. "But doing so would mean naming every laird and chieftain e'er to purchase cattle from your father."

Jamie stared at him. "You mean men vexed o'er his cattle prices."

Alan Mor nodded and poured them both new cups of wine. "Munro's haggling and scheming to squeeze the last coin out of his buyers has earned bad blood," he said, handing Jamie one of the replenished cups. "Likewise his gloating when he succeeds. If you'd e'er seen him preen and squawk as he tucks away his money pouches, you'd understand."

"Och, I understand," Jamie assured him.

His da was filled with wind and bluster. And he did relish trumpeting his own horn.

"I'm glad you do understand," Alan Mor said. "Though I still canna see one of those up-backed cattle lairds going to such extremes to vent their spleen. Highland honor forbids such low-stooping, whether a man is rightly grieved or no."

He paused for a sip of wine, then dragged his sleeve across his