it up and met Ciaran’s gaze. “Ye will answer fer this. I suggest ye straighten ye warrior”—her chin lifted toward Hamish—“regarding his place. Next time he will be hanged as a traitor.” With that she walked off.
The rest of the council followed her.
The men parted to let them out, then closed back in around Ciaran and Hamish. Once they were out of sight, the men put their swords up.
Hamish turned to him, looking like a whipped dog. His shoulders hunched in. “I’m sorry, Ciaran, but me sister…. Her husband, Grant, is one of the men missing. She’s expecting a wee one and—”
Ciaran held up a hand. “We’ll see tae her.”
Hamish nodded.
“My laird?” Greer asked.
“Aye?”
“The men and I are with ye. Unlike the council, we ken we need tae fight this enemy before they come fer us all, but the food….”
“Aye, the food…,” several other people echoed.
“I’ll see tae it.”
“Guid,” Greer said, and he and the warriors turned to leave.
Ram came forward, as did Patrick.
Ram slapped him on the back. “Ye have just made an enemy of the council. They are going tae be after ye now, cousin.”
Nodding, Patrick stopped in front of him. “Your men are with you for now, but it only takes a populace missing three meals before they revolt.”
Ciaran’s gut clenched at the warning, knowing what Patrick said was true.
§ § § §
Bannon opened the door to the solar. “Ciaran, I need to talk…. Oh!” He could only blink and gawk. For several seconds he stared at the wide expanse of Ciaran’s bare shoulders peeking over the edge of a tub, and then sense returned, and he immediately shut the door. Or rather he tried, but he was so discombobulated, he caught his foot in the door, and it vibrated only millimeters in front of his nose. Ouch! The soles of his brown-topped boots saved his foot from intense pain, but it still hurt. To make matters worse, his face was so hot, and no doubt red, that he felt as though he were having one of those hot flashes Louie’s mother always talked about. Blushes on redheads were not, in his opinion, very flattering.
Taking a deep breath, he slid his foot backward, wrinkled his nose to lose the tickle the graze from the door caused, and tried again.
“Red? Is that ye?”
Bannon stopped, and the heat traveled from his face to his neck.
Go in, you ninny!
Do shut up, Timothy. Have you forgotten all about propriety? Never mind. What am I saying? You’ve never cared for it anyway. Bannon peeked in the door again, being careful not to open it farther, and spotted Ciaran’s wide shoulders—wide, muscular, and wet shoulders. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Er, yes?” Dust! Squeaky voices were just as unflattering.
“Come in and close the door. Unless, of course, ye have Louisa with ye,” Ciaran said without turning.
“Um, no, it’s just me, but really, it can wait. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Ye arenae disturbing me.”
Torn between curiosity and propriety, Bannon bit his bottom lip. What now? Perhaps he could just stay where he was and talk.
“But do come in—ye are causing a draft.”
So much for staying at the door. Oh well, he’d never really paid attention to propriety anyway. And he had something on his mind he needed to get off his chest. After closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and took another deep breath. He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it closed.
Egads. Never had a bath looked so… enticing. The sight was so intimate, it made Bannon’s heart race.
Ciaran sat in a large hip tub—like Bannon had read about in history books—but rather than metal, it was made of wooden slats, like a bucket, only it was oblong rather than round. It must have held at least a hundred gallons, but even as big as it was, Ciaran was bigger. His wide shoulders barely fit in the confined space, and his knees stuck up out of the water like mountain peaks rising over the clouds. Both had a sheen of dampness covering them. Tanned skin hinted that he worked outside without a shirt at times, and galaxy, how Bannon wanted to see that. The ends of his black hair were damp, hanging down his back, and one rounded deltoid had a ragged angry red slash across the side of it.
That scar brought Bannon back to reality in a hurry. Feeling like a voyeur, he shook his head and glanced up at the ceiling.