by her father and his men as they saw the horses to the stable and climbed the hill.
At the castle doors, the guards fell away, but her father wasn’t through with them quite yet.
He marched across the great hall toward his solar, calling for ale, bread, and a basin to wash the grime of travel from his hands and face. When she and Gregor lagged behind, he turned a sharp eye on them and beckoned them wordlessly to follow him.
Once the food, drink, and wash basin had been delivered and the solar door thudded closed, her father fixed a scrutinizing frown on Gregor.
“My daughter may have enlisted yer services, MacLeod,” he said, lowering himself behind his heavy oak desk, “but as Laird, it is up to me if ye stay or go.”
Birdie sank into one of the two chairs before the desk. Gregor continued to stand, waiting for her father’s invitation to sit, which remained conspicuously absent. But when Birdie gave him a nod, he eased into the other chair.
All the while, her father eyed Gregor silently from the other side of the desk, his arms crossed. He left the tray of ale and mugs, along with a loaf of bread, untouched. Birdie’s hands tightened in her lap. The Laird’s refusal to perform the hospitality ritual of pouring drink and breaking bread certainly indicated a less than auspicious start.
Gregor held her father’s gaze, his voice surprisingly easy despite the tension hanging thick as a Highland mist in the solar.
“What do ye wish to ken?”
“Who are ye?”
“Gregor MacLeod, Laird.”
“The guards whispered the name ‘Black MacLeod’ on our way inside. Is that ye?”
Gregor rolled one heavily muscled shoulder. “Some call me that, aye. Something to do with my hair.” He lifted a dark brow. “Or mayhap my heart.”
“Dinnae play games with me, man.”
“I am a warrior, Laird,” Gregor replied evenly. “I am good at fighting. And winning. I dinnae pay much heed to what people call me or say behind my back, only that I give my all to whatever task is before me.”
“And what task is that?”
When Birdie opened her mouth to explain again how she’d encountered Gregor and sought his help, her father held up a staying hand.
“Nay, I dinnae mean my daughter roping ye into our clan business,” he said. “What are ye about, MacLeod? If ye are a truly naught more than a warrior, whom do ye fight for?”
Gregor seemed to weigh his next words for a moment. But when he spoke, there was no hesitation in his voice.
“I fight for David’s right to the Scottish throne, and against the Pretender, Balliol.”
Her father’s gaze flickered with surprise at the direct answer. He leaned back in his chair, giving Gregor a slow nod.
“I supported the Bruce even before he crowned himself King,” he said. “He earned the right to put his heir on the throne behind him. David is the true King of Scotland, bairn or nay. And Edward Balliol can eat shite.”
Birdie coughed at her father’s blunt words. He cast her a contrite look, but didn’t apologize. For his part, Gregor grunted in agreement. For the first time since her father’s sudden arrival, some of the hostility between the two men eased.
“Yet Birdie found ye at the Caithness Games,” her father continued. “That is a long way from Balliol, whom I hear is playing at King in Scone.”
“I was building an army to stand against Balliol when yer daughter found me,” Gregor replied.
He’d said the same to Birdie on their ride to Castle Bharraich, yet the boldness of the declaration mixed with the calm conviction in Gregor’s voice struck her once again.
Apparently, it caught her father off-guard as well. His brows shot up and he propped his elbows on the desk.
“An army? Who has joined?”
Gregor worked his jaw for a moment. “No’ many.”
“Truly? But the Highlands stand behind the Bruce’s heir, do they no’?”
“Aye, they do, but ever since the loyalists were trounced at Dupplin Moor, many are hesitant to stick their necks out again, even in a cause as just as ousting Balliol.”
“Word of the loyalists’ defeat at Dupplin Moor reached us a month past,” her father said grimly. “It didnae sound pretty.”
“Whatever ye heard, it was tenfold worse. I was there.”
Birdie’s gaze snapped to Gregor. He hadn’t mentioned he’d been there for the Scots’ worst defeat in at least a decade. From the flat line of his mouth and the shadow behind his eyes, the memories were all too fresh.
Her father clasped his hands on top