on a cobblestone street. The soft thud of horse hooves was familiar, but….
There was another, quieter, clip-clop of hooves along with theirs. And what was that creaking?
The familiar groan of leather filled the air around them as they all turned to locate the other horse.
Ciaran hissed out, “Shite.”
Then Marcus spotted the old man.
He was in a one-horse wagon just turning onto the main road leading toward the castle. He’d come from between the blacksmith’s forge and seamstress’s cottage that they’d just passed. The man caught sight of them too and pulled up short. “Whoa.”
They stared at him, and he stared at them for several moments before the man resumed his pace. He pulled up to them and stopped again.
It was one of the council members. Marcus couldn’t remember his name, but he’d seen the old man before. His trim gray beard and shoulder-length silver hair with a braid started at his right temple. He’d once been a large man, but age had given him stooped shoulders that sort of rounded in, making him appear much smaller. He glanced at all of them, and then his gaze settled on Ciaran. “Ye werenae spying on the MacLeans, were ye?”
Ciaran shook his head.
The old man studied him for a moment, then looked around at the rest of them. Finally he said, “Guid. Then I dinna have tae mention it tae the rest of the council, and ye will nae mention me visiting the Widow Goodwin.” He nodded and clicked his tongue and shook his reins.
Marcus had to move his horse before getting run over by the clattering wagon. He stared at the old man’s retreating back with a smirk on his face, then turned back to Ciaran, who was clearly dumbfounded.
Ciaran shook his head. “What was that?”
Patrick started chuckling and clicked his tongue and heeled his horse, riding past all of them.
Bannon shrugged.
Grinning, Marcus wheeled his horse around to follow his consort but not before he said, “I think you have an ally in the council now.” Which would make their new plan to infiltrate the base so much easier.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Stepping on a ripe tomato is like stepping on a giant bug napping on top of a banana peel. Yuck! Sitting on a squished tomato? I don’t want to talk about it!”
—Timothy on gardening.
May 29, 4831: Lochwood Castle
Bannon looked up from loosening the dirt around a broken bean plant, rested his hands on the handle of the hoe, and marveled at the sun filtering through the gray clouds. The rays stretched through the treetops and reached for the ground. It made the morning appear mystical and fresh, but it was awfully warm out.
A gentle breeze did nothing but rattle the leaves in the trees. The woods seemed to soak up the sounds of clan life, like the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer and the thwack of the maids beating out the rushes, that Bannon had begun to associate with life here on Skye. It was peaceful. Too peaceful, and it made his mind whirl. Mindless work always did. At home he used to think of far-off places and adventures or iron out compositions, but here and now, he was worried about raiding the base.
Talk about irony. Timothy snorted. Shouldn’t we be worried about getting home?
Raiding the base might get us home.
Instead he wondered where Captain Kindros was. She would come back, he knew she would. He just needed a way to let her know where he was. Like a signal, because if they broke into the base, people were going to die. Ciaran could die. A pang of grief hit Bannon in the chest. He couldn’t let that happen.
Glancing up at the clouds, hoping to spot the Lady Anna, he wiped some sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and… ewww! He’d forgotten that he’d rolled up his sleeves. Leaning the hoe against his chest, he proceeded to wipe the back of his forearm on his shirt. Only there wasn’t any easy way to do that—a contortionist he wasn’t—so he ended up wiping it off under his armpit, which was also wet. Ugh!
Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Bannon flapped his arms to get them dry, which did not work that well. The only thing it accomplished was to make the hoe fall forward right toward the delicate bean plants he was trying to repair. He made a grab for the handle and missed. Big mistake! He’d committed to the reach and lost his balance. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”