idea?” Marcus looked at Patrick. “Ciaran rescuing the survivors, I mean.”
Patrick nodded. “He’ll be fine. The boy has a good head on his shoulders.”
Marcus knew that was true, but still he worried about the kid. Ciaran and Ramsey were the closest thing he and Patrick had to children. He became aware of Greer still standing there and looked up at him.
“What is it?” Patrick asked.
“Umm, Ciaran said tae tell ye that one of the survivors was dressed like him.” He nodded at Marcus.
Bloody hell. Could it be? Marcus glanced down at his waistcoat, where it peeked out of his cloak, and then at his trousers and boots. All things he’d had made with the hard-earned coin he’d made as the laird’s steward, to remind him of his home… of Regelence.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Medieval castles are as odorous as they are beautiful. Plant a rose garden because…. Damn. On second thought, make that two dozen rose gardens.”
—Timothy on historical architecture.
May 26, 4831: Lochwood Castle
Ciaran finally leaned back in his chair and threw his hands in the air, metaphorically speaking, at—he glanced at the mantel clock to his right—twenty-two after six. Truth be told, he felt like spearing the slate with a white flag. Running his hands down his face, he yawned, then glared at the offending object sitting so innocently on his desk.
It was time to face facts. He was not going to get the alien device to reveal its secrets. All he’d managed was to make it light up and display the words Hello, Percy. He assumed Percy was the owner. Then the smooth surface lit up with words urging him to give a voice command or type in the passcode. And no matter how many times he demanded that the thing show him information, or touched the letters and numbers, it did nothing but go blank again. He’d been able to get it to light up every time by pushing the button on the side, but it was always the same. Ciaran was really starting to hate this Percy fellow.
As he reached for the tablet to put it away in his drawer, the solar’s doorknob turned.
Shite. Ciaran grabbed some papers on his desk and dragged them over the slate.
The door opened, and the noise from the great hall assaulted his ears. Voices, laughter, clanks and clatters of the clan breaking their fast—which had only been a low droning hum behind the solid oak—were now quite loud. As if just clueing in to the time, his stomach growled.
“Ciaran?” Aunt Agatha appeared in the open doorway.
Ciaran couldn’t help but grin at the shining purple head of hair piled into an upswept braided coiffure. She was dressed in a less vibrant frock, several shades lighter than her hair, but she was the picture of elegance. A lilac color, he thought it was called. She looked rested and cheerful, but then she was a spry forty-three-year-old and quite beautiful.
It always surprised him that she’d never married. He still got offers for her hand, which he always sent to her to decide for herself. He wondered if her hair would put suitors off. Perhaps that was her intent all along? “Have I told ye I like ye hair?”
Agatha grinned and shut the door behind her. “Ian told me my hair looked like a jester hat.” She did not seem upset by the remark, but still, he would have a word with the lad. Hurting Agatha’s feelings was unacceptable.
“What does he ken? He’s a thirteen-year-old lad.”
“Now, Ciaran, he was teasing. Nae lecturing the lad.” Agatha came forward to stand next to his desk.
Ciaran raised a brow.
Agatha chuckled. “It was written all over ye face.”
This time he frowned, and his aunt chuckled harder.
“And now ye are thinking ye dinna like being predictable.”
He growled at her but couldn’t help grinning. Still, he was going to have to work at concealing his expressions better. “How did our guests sleep?”
Now Agatha frowned and seemed to study him a moment before she spoke. “Are they our guests?”
“Aye. Why do ye ask?”
“I noticed ye had guards stationed outside their rooms.”
“It was just a precaution. I dinna ken them. It was fer their protection as well as ours. Ye ken how the clan feels about outsiders, given what we have been through with the attacks.”
Her face relaxed. “Guid. I like them. They are kind and decent people.”
That was a relief to hear. Agatha was a good judge of character.
“A little frightened, I suspect, though ye’d never ken by talking tae them. They worry about