Page 12 of Scandalous Scot
They started back toward the castle, Màiri’s thoughts racing. She had never, ever, behaved in such a way before. The kiss with Ambrose had been chaste in comparison, and the only people who knew it had happened were Màiri herself, Ambrose, and Alana. Her deeply religious father would be mortified, or worse, if he learned of her dalliance with the stranger. Certainly he’d not learn of it from her. Would any of the MacKinnish men tell him?
Likely not, she reasoned. They’d spent the past month attempting to convince her father to realign with his former allies. Surely they’d not risk angering him.
They rode in silence, Màiri stealing glances at the handsome man, Ian, when no one else was looking.
Just as they reached the gatehouse, she caught his eye once more. Unlike her, he looked neither ashamed nor apologetic. In fact, he smiled so broadly his dimples appeared again. If she wasn’t careful, Màiri would find herself smiling back, which would simply not do.
She would have to ignore him, to pretend she’d not allowed herself to be kissed for the second time in her life. This time, by a man she did not know.
But one who had awoken something inside of her Màiri was afraid would not retreat quietly, even if she willed it so.
6
This is exactlywhy he hadn’t applied to Yale like his brothers, choosing instead to stay in his home state for college. When he was fifty years old, he would still be the little brother. The look Grey gave him now, as they were escorted into the keep, was one he’d seen hundreds of times before. It didn’t help that he still lived at home and not across the river with Reik and Grey, but someone needed to keep an eye on dad.
Rhys. Greyson. Reik. His father. They all had one thing in common. That look. He was twenty-seven, but they still treated him as if he were fifteen. And that was being generous.
Grey had only said one thing to him on the ride over—a hissed “keep your mouth shut.”
Maybe he had a right to be pissed. After all, Ian was the one who’d insisted he wanted a role in what Grey calledclan politics. He hadn’t liked the thought of sitting around and twiddling his thumbs while his brother and Ross did everything.
And so Grey had given him a job.
“Use your silver tongue to convince the surly laird of Clan Kelbrue to come back to Bruce’s side,” Grey had said.
Except he’d used his tongue in a very different way, and now the laird might not be inclined to be charmed by him. Which could very well prove to be a problem, if Mom was to be believed.
Mom had passed quite a bit of information along to her brothers before leaving for Lochlavine, including their neighbor’s role in the upcoming Wars of Independence. Apparently the laird’s son was to become a senior general in the younger Bruce’s army, and he would be instrumental in the Scottish victory in the Battle of Bannockburn many years from now. Only problem? The elder Bruce had pissed off the cranky old laird—Grey’s words—and their clan was no longer allied with the Bruce family.
Oh, and the fact that Màiri didn’t have a brother. Another minor sticking point.
Ian had argued that perhaps their intervention wasn’t needed. Wouldn’t the future work itself out? Maybe the nonexistent son would join Bruce on his own, despite his father’s allegiances? Who were they to interfere?
Ross and Grey had argued they had no way of knowing how time travel worked. Perhaps the McCaim brothers were the ones who’d convinced the laird to realign himself with the Bruces. Or perhaps their very presence would change history.
Ian had argued that point—he’d made the journey last, and his knowledge of events matched up with his brother’s, although he’d never paid too much attention to the fine points of history.
Truthfully, he could not give a fuck about any of it. His objectives were simple: reunite with Rhys, Reik, and Mom, use the cross, and get the hell home.
But the same could not be said of Grey. He’d drunk the Kool-Aid, lots of it, and he was clearly not happy. But Christ, this woman. Ian wasn’t used to losing control like that, but he was pretty used to taking what he wanted, and he wanted Màiri in the worst way. Too bad he had momentarily forgotten about the whole time travel thing.
“Until later, my boy,” he said to his horse. Reikart had always been very insistent they talk to them in order to forge a bond. “My brother would think highly of you for sure.”
He stopped, noticing the looks of exasperation directed his way.
A stable boy took their horses, and Màiri led them into the great hall. Although it was approximately the same size as the great hall at Hightower, it was nearly empty. Except for the man sitting in a chair that might have been called a throne if it were more ornate. The simple wooden high-back chair sat on top of the dais. But there were no tables set up for meals. Just the chair. And the man. Others stood off to the side, but one was clearly in charge.
A grizzled-looking, frowning man. He might have been called amountain manback home. With a brown-grey beard and hair to match, he wore one of the belted plaids Grey had told him would someday turn into a kilt. He was nearly as terrifying as some of the MacKinnish uncles, Ross included.
Actually, maybe more. Because for some reason, his brother was nervous. No one else could likely tell, but Ian knew the signs. He watched as Grey flicked his thumb off his forefinger. What the hell was that all about?
His gaze shifted to Màiri as she pulled down her hood. Ian actually stumbled. Like a prepubescent teen. Her hair, nearly black, tumbled around her shoulders in waves. Was she even real?
From the look in her eyes, she was also nervous—even more so than when they’d first met—and she was looking at this man, who had to be her father, as if he were God. Huh. Why was everyone so skittish?
“MacKinnish,” the man grumbled at Ross.
“Kelbrue,” Ross grumbled back. “My nephews and I came upon your daughter and escorted her home.”
