single combat had to agree to join my cause.”
Her father guffawed, but Gregor only shrugged. “The challenge seemed to draw men out. They wanted to test themselves against the Black MacLeod, prove something to their friends or mayhap impress their fathers or Lairds or sweethearts. And it suited me just fine. Diplomacy isnae exactly my strong suit.”
As he spoke, his gaze slid to Birdie once more, and she felt a blush climb into her cheeks. He claimed to be no more than a brute, but he’d certainly managed to beguile her.
And her father, apparently. “And this has worked?” he asked, leaning forward with interest.
“I’ve gathered nigh on three hundred men so far. Mind ye, I havenae bested all of them myself. When I truly trounce a man, especially one who claims to be his clan’s best warrior, I encourage him to recruit a few of his friends to fight Balliol with me.”
“Encourage,” her father said with a snort. “Aye, I can imagine.”
In response, Gregor flashed a wolfish smile.
“Ye are clearly a determined man, MacLeod. And yer cause is certainly worthy. Tell me, why are ye here, then? What on earth did my daughter do to convince ye to entangle yerself in our feud with the Gunns?”
The answer that echoed in Birdie’s head made her wince. I challenged him to a fight, then attacked him with a kiss so shocking that it brought him to his knees. She opened her mouth, groping for an explanation that wouldn’t send her father into another apoplexy, but none arose.
Thankfully, Gregor came to her rescue.
“When she explained yer situation, I thought I could help. I’m no’ normally one for strategizing and plans, but if it’s a show of strength ye need against the Gunns, I’m yer man. Besides, yer daughter can be verra…persuasive.”
Heaven help her, she was going to incinerate on the spot. Still, she was grateful he’d managed to leave out the brazen kiss for her father’s sake. She couldn’t quite lift her eyes to him, but she could feel his gaze on her as surely as a skimming touch.
“Ye dinnae have to tell me,” her father said with a wry chuckle. It pleased her to hear the note of pride in his voice.
“I hope to have an army ready to stand against Balliol before autumn’s end,” Gregor went on. “Which means we need to handle this problem with the Gunns swiftly and decisively.”
“Agreed,” her father said. He passed a hand over his graying beard, assessing Gregor in silence. This time, however, his hazel eyes were filled with grudging respect instead of open suspicion.
“Verra well, MacLeod,” he said at last. “Ye can stay.” He reached out and tore the loaf of bread in half. The air in the solar noticeably lightened then. Gregor eased back in his chair, the tension loosening from his broad shoulders. Birdie let a quiet exhalation slip past her lips.
“This doesnae mean I am pleased with ye going to the Games and enlisting a strange man’s services, Birdie,” her father said, shooting her a frown as he poured three mugs of ale. “That was dangerous and rash, a bhobain, and ye are lucky MacLeod here is apparently a man of honor.”
In response, Birdie flashed her father a repentant smile, hoping he didn’t notice her blush.
He moved around the desk with a mug in his good hand, offering it to Gregor. Once Gregor had taken it, her father extended his arm.
“Laird Clive Morgan,” he said as Gregor clasped forearms with him. “Glad to have ye with us, MacLeod.”
Chapter Nine
“I told ye that wasnae going to work.”
Gregor shot Lamond a withering glare, but the captain merely stared back, his shoulders slumped and his body swaying with his horse’s slow gait.
Damn Lamond, damn the Gunns, and damn a wasted sennight.
After getting Laird Morgan’s approval, Gregor had spent the last several days poring over a rough map of Morgan lands. With Lamond’s grudging help, they’d marked every known site of a Gunn attack, from the smallest provocation to Old Ruddy’s burnt croft.
Just as Gregor had suspected when Birdie had given him a tour of the border, there was no obvious pattern to the attacks. Yet Gregor felt sure there was a logical connection between the locations, even if the Gunns wanted to make them appear random.
Lamond had claimed—stridently—that he’d already looked for a pattern in an effort to preempt the Gunns’ next strike.
“I’m no’ an idiot, MacLeod,” he’d groused when Gregor had first suggested such an approach. “I’ve already done that.”
“And yet here I