Wager with a Warrior - Emma Prince Page 0,7
building an army to stand against Edward Balliol,” he replied at last.
Despite their proximity where they rode in a loose circle around Gregor and Lady Roberta, the guards had been pretending not to hear their conversation—until now. One coughed on his own spit, and another cast an awe-filled glance at Gregor.
For her part, Lady Roberta eyed him thoughtfully. “Hmm. News of the outcome of the Battle of Dupplin Moor and Balliol’s crowning at Scone reached us a month past. Ye truly think to stand against Balliol—and the might of the English backing him—with yer own army?”
“It willnae be my army,” Gregor said. “It will be the loyalist army. Someone needs to defend David’s claim to the throne from that thieving, traitorous bastard.”
At the unmistakable venom in Gregor’s voice, Lady Roberta remained quiet for a moment.
“And ye plan to build this army one man at a time?” she said once he’d regained control of his bitter ire.
“It seemed that was the only way.”
“Ye couldnae simply…ask?”
“I tried that,” he replied flatly. “As I told ye, diplomacy isnae my strong suit.” A surprising flicker of mirth rose up through the mire of frustration and anger knotting his insides. “Then again, I never tried kissing my opponents into submission. Mayhap I ought to have.”
To Gregor’s supreme pleasure, a pretty blush rose up Lady Roberta’s neck and into her cheeks. Yet she didn’t lower her chin at his prodding jest.
“Indeed,” she said, keeping her gaze straight ahead. Her features remained studiously smooth, except for a twitch at the corner of her full, lush lips. “Mayhap ye should have.”
Gregor couldn’t help himself. A rich chuckle rumbled through his chest.
She twisted in her saddle, her eyes narrowed in mock annoyance and her lips parting on some rejoinder, but before she could speak, one of the guards pointed straight ahead.
“Castle Bharraich, my lady.”
And just in time, for the overcast sky had begun to fade from heather gray to blue-tinged charcoal.
They urged their horses into a trot to cover the remaining short distance to the castle, cutting off any further chance for conversation. In the privacy of his own mind, however, Gregor was occupied with musings over just what the bonny, clever lass would have said next.
Chapter Four
Castle Bharraich was a dark silhouette rising up against the sky by the time they reined their horses in.
Dragging his thoughts from Lady Roberta, Gregor sharpened his attention on his surroundings. This would be his home for the foreseeable future, not to mention his headquarters for solving this clan feud.
The castle was perched on a hilltop, though it was too dark now to see what it overlooked on its far side. No curtain wall surrounded the single square tower, but its position on the hill would provide other obstacles for any would-be attacker.
Where they approached on the south, a cluster of buildings sat at the base of the hill. The guards and Lady Roberta dismounted and walked toward one of the wooden structures, so Gregor did the same. When a lad slid the wide door open, Gregor saw from the piles of hay and stalled animals inside that it was a stable.
Gregor handed his reins to the wide-eyed lad of mayhap ten summers who ran out to take their horses. Then their party trudged up the hill on foot.
They must have been spotted upon their approach earlier, for the iron portcullis and reinforced double doors at the base of the tower were already open when they reached the castle. Cheery yellow light spilled from the open doors and onto the grassy rise.
“Lady Roberta!” A stocky figure stood outlined in the doorway a moment before striding out hurriedly to meet them. “Are ye well? The Caithness Games werenae supposed to conclude for another sennight, and ye said—”
The man’s words halted abruptly when his gaze landed on Gregor. He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. To his credit, his stance shifted slightly, and his hand moved to hover closer to the sword hanging from his waist.
“Who is this?”
“Lamond, this is—” Lady Roberta suddenly cast Gregor an uncertain look. Belatedly, he realized he’d never told her his given name. She was likely pondering whether to introduce him by the ridiculous moniker that seemed to follow him around wherever he went.
“Gregor MacLeod,” he supplied, assessing the captain of the guard. The man looked to be in his fourth decade, well-built if a bit thick in the middle, with short-cropped sandy hair.
Apparently Gregor was known even in this remote corner of the Highlands, for Lamond’s eyes widened,