Page 14 of The Devil in Plaid
“Father,” she cried, throwing herself against his broad chest. Strong arms encircled her. “I’m all right, pet,” he crooned. Pulling back, he looked down at her and gently brushed at a tear streaming down her cheek that she had not known she’d shed. A smile tugged at his lip. “Ye’re my lioness with unfailing courage, but ye’re still my sweet, wee lass. Do not cry, Fiona. Yer da is fine.”
She swallowed back further tears. “Who were they? We could not make out their colors from the distance.”
Gordon’s nostrils flared. His lips pressed in a grim line. “It was the MacKenzie.”
Fiona sucked in a sharp breath. She backed away from him, shaking her head. “Ye’re mistaken, of course,” she began. “We’ve made an alliance with the MacKenzie. I am betrothed to Adam. What ye say is impossible.”
He reached for her hand. “I’m telling ye what I saw with my own eyes, Fiona. The men who just attacked us, who burned our fields, who lit those fires…” He pointed toward the smoke billowing high in the sky. “They wore colors of the MacKenzie.”
Fiona gripped her head between her hands, her mind racing.
But she had just visited the clan not a fortnight ago.
Adam had professed his love for her.
The MacKenzie, himself, had embraced her warmly and called her daughter as she bade him farewell.
“’Tis impossible,” she snapped once more before she turned on her heel and stormed back through the inner wall toward the keep.
Gordon followed quickly behind her. “I do not tell ye this to hurt ye,” he said, reaching her side.
She hurried through the courtyard and mounted the steps. Already the council was beginning to gather in the great hall. The murmur of their conversations reached her ears.
“Are ye certain is was the MacKenzie?” someone said.
“I’ve no doubt,” came the reply.
“Enough,” she shouted, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Everyone grew silent. All eyes were on her.
“I am telling ye—there is no way the MacKenzie is behind this attack.”
Graham, one of her father’s fiercest warriors, stepped forward. His skin was streaked with soot and blood. In his hand, he clasped a strip of torn plaid. The colors made her heart sink. “Forgive me, my lady, but ye’re mistaken.”
She shook her head. “But if itwasClan MacKenzie who attacked us, then why did they send a rider to warn us of their coming?”
No one replied. The men around her exchanged glances.
“Ye’re right, lass,” her father said. “None of this makes any sense.”
“Where is the rider?” Fiona demanded.
An elderly woman with a brown scarf covering her long, gray hair crossed to Fiona’s side. The healer rested her gnarled hand on Fiona’s arm. “He sleeps.”
“Well, wake him up,” Gordon MacDonnell growled.
