Wager with a Warrior - Emma Prince Page 0,29

Gunn plaids. They were destroying a fence that enclosed a Morgan crofter’s herd of sheep.

Arran had called out to his fellow Morgan guards, then advanced on the Gunns to try to stop them. But the Gunns managed to thump him on the head before help came. They were long gone—along with the crofter’s sheep—by the time the others arrived.

Luckily, Arran was well, if achy and a bit foggy in the head. Word of the fresh attack had spread amongst those still keeping watch, drawing a dozen more men to the site, along with Lamond and Gregor. They’d managed to gather all but ten of the sheep, which were either still roaming about the hillsides, or else in the Gunns’ possession now.

As the others dispersed, Gregor mounted slowly, feeling as if he’d been the one drubbed over the head. He was well and truly baffled. What the hell did the Gunns want?

If they had a score to settle with the Morgans, why didn’t they mount an organized attack? In Gregor’s experience, when a clan’s pride was wounded, or some slight or injustice perceived, they usually wanted the matter settled. That meant drawing blood as retribution.

But besides haranguing the Morgan border with these petty strikes, they did not seem interested in revenge, nor in escalating to an all-out battle.

Clans didn’t always feud because of a dispute or wrongdoing, of course. If the Gunns were starving, they might steal a few sheep and cows from their neighbors. Yet what was the point in burning crofts and barns, then? It certainly wouldn’t put food in their bellies.

Their erratic actions made no sense—or none that Gregor could discern. Bewildered and frustrated, he’d asked Laird Morgan a few days past if he’d ever tried to address the matter directly with the Gunns.

Apparently the two Lairds’ relationship had cooled several years ago over the water rights in the spring Birdie had mentioned earlier to Gregor. While Laird Morgan considered that matter settled—and the attacks had no apparent connection to the spring—the Lairds hadn’t met or even spoken since then. That was nearly five years past.

When the raids had begun earlier that spring, Laird Morgan had sent a missive to Laird Gunn demanding answers. Laird Gunn had sent a terse response that what Laird Morgan said made little sense. Something about the pot calling the kettle black, and that Morgan had mud for brains if he thought the Gunns would simply cease their actions.

Though Clive Morgan seemed a fair man to Gregor, he was also proud. He’d refused to reach out again after the Gunn Laird’s slight, and both parties had remained silent despite the continuing raids.

Try as he might, Gregor could not puzzle through it. Of course, nuanced matters of peacekeeping were outside his realm of expertise. Gregor did better with open conflict. He knew how to meet force with force, how to fight and win. All the mind games and stealth attacks and fruitless waiting were maddening.

And like sand slipping through a clenched fist, the harder he tried to grasp the situation, the more it eluded him. A fortnight worth of poor sleep wasn’t helping his muddled thoughts any, but he’d spent plenty of nights keeping watch or snatching only a few hours’ rest on the hard, damp ground as a warrior.

Mayhap he couldn’t think straight because of a certain Laird’s daughter who’d once again left him stunned with a kiss—and damn near out of his mind with wanting more.

Gregor kicked his horse into motion, as if he could run away from such a reckless desire. Angling south, he spurred faster, letting the biting October air blast his senses into alertness, even if his wits remained woolly.

He slowed to give a quick word or two to each Morgan guard remaining along the border, then sent them on their way. He didn’t bother explaining the latest attack. No doubt news of their failure would spread quickly enough once they’d all returned to the castle.

When he reached Olney, the last Morgan guard stationed on the southerly border, he dismissed the grizzled old man with a curt word. Olney was all too eager to return to his bed, and rode out without further prodding or even a backward glance.

Gregor reined his horse around, pointing toward the castle, but then he hesitated.

Would Birdie be waiting for him again on the battlements? And if she was, could he resist the nigh overpowering urge to push her against the stones once more and sink into her sweet embrace?

It was madness, wanting her