him onto the mattress.
“Easy, lass,” he chuckled. “I’ve got the grime of the road on me, and probably the smell of horses as well.”
“I dinnae care.”
Nor did he, in truth. He buried his hand in the silken cascade of her hair and drew her mouth to his, kissing her long and deep.
He’d hungered for that kiss since the moment he’d ridden south. Though she sagged against him, yielding like honey under his lips, he pulled back reluctantly.
“Grant me at least a few moments to clean up before I join ye in bed?”
She clucked her tongue in disappointment, dragging her hand through his hair before releasing him.
He moved to the wash basin on the dressing table, letting his cloak drop and stripping off his tunic.
“What news?” she said, her gaze tracing over him with interest as he set about filling the basin with water.
“Domnall MacAyre has been to the stone,” he replied, wringing out a cloth and setting to work scrubbing his torso. “Andrew Murray, the traitor who helped Balliol attack the loyalist army under cover of night, is apparently in the custody of the Guardian of Scotland, Archibald Douglas. It seems Douglas will be a powerful ally to the loyalists.”
“My father met him once, at a gathering of Highland and Lowland Lairds many years ago,” she commented. “He spoke highly of the man.”
Gregor nodded. “As does MacAyre, and I trust his judgement. Artair MacKinnon is lying low in the east, though he mentioned in one of his missives that he has a distant connection to Douglas—one that he is about to test, for Balliol has finally left Scone.”
“Oh? Where is he headed?”
“South, to the Lowlands, in hopes of drumming up more support, though…”
“What?”
Gregor frowned. “When I was riding through the Midlands, there was talk about Balliol’s army razing towns and villages before turning south. They say he longs to hunt down all those who stood against him—including the four of us who escaped his noose.”
Birdie hugged the covers to her chest, her brows pinching together. “Are we safe?”
“Aye, aye,” he replied quickly. “Balliol would never venture so far north—especially because he kens he willnae find verra many friendly faces or willing allies in the Highlands. It was likely more a show of force than a targeted attack, though that is little comfort to those whose towns were burned.”
While Birdie fell silent, Gregor poured fresh water over his hands.
“No word from Tavish MacNeal,” he remarked, his frown returning. “I cannae help but wonder…”
“Ye dinnae think something has happened to him, do ye?” Birdie asked.
“Nay, probably no’.” Still, Tavish’s silence made Gregor uneasy.
Domnall had left one missive at Old Blair’s Stone, where they’d agreed to hide their communications. Gregor had delivered his first when he’d run into trouble getting any Lairds to commit men to his army, and had just left his second a few days past. Artair, too, had left two missives on his status.
And from Tavish—naught.
Tavish was sparing with his words, to be sure, but some instinct told Gregor this wasn’t merely a matter of the man’s usual reserve.
There was naught Gregor could do about it, though. When they’d split up after their miraculous escape and ridden to the four corners of Scotland, Tavish had headed south. He was likely somewhere in the Lowlands now, but Gregor had no idea exactly where. Only time would tell what had become of the man.
But time was running short.
“Artair wrote that he thinks we should make our move before year’s end.”
“Ye mean in the next month?” Birdie exclaimed.
“Aye. Balliol willnae expect a counterstrike in winter. And if he can drum up support in the Lowlands, it would be better to attack before he can amass a larger army.” He softened his voice, casting her a reassuring look. “I ken it is soon, but we’ll be ready.”
It still made Gregor’s chest swell with pride to have been able to write in his missive to the other Horsemen just how ready they would be when it was time for the loyalists to call on their own army.
To show their appreciation for all Gregor’s efforts toward peace, and for all he’d done for both their clans, Lairds Morgan and Gunn had pledged all their fighting men to Gregor’s cause—which was over two hundred warriors.
Laird MacWray had followed suit in a show of unity. Once the ground froze and the ore could no longer be extracted from the bog for the rest of the season, the MacWray men whom Laird Morgan had taken on as laborers would