Page 55 of Scandalous Scot
Could he really settle down with one woman for the rest of his life? If he took Màiri to New Orleans, he would be solely responsible for her happiness. Was he ready for that?
“Ian?”
His brother.
Ian went to the door, stepping outside.
“You’re making a bad habit of fetching me when I don’t want to be fetched.”
He noticed his brother’s outfit then. “Is that”—he poked his chest—“armor?”
“We have to go. Marian will be up any minute to sit with her.”
“What the hell?”
Grey didn’t pull any punches. “There’s been an attack on Clan Dern. Someone set fire to the blacksmith’s forge in the village. It’s our job as their allies to step up.”
“Are they sure the blacksmith didn’t start his own fire? Seems like a pretty dangerous job.”
His brother didn’t answer—he just held the door and waited and, like always, Ian followed him. By the time they made their way to the hall, all hell had broken loose. If this was a call to arms, Ian would gladly be a part of it. The energy here was like nothing he’d ever experienced, even before one of his games.
“This way.”
Grey had seen a lot more action than he had in this time, so Ian didn’t question his brother—he just followed him out into the courtyard. “Hurry to the armorer.”
It looked like everyone else was ready. Dozens of men were mounted, including his uncle and grandfather, all carrying weapons. Not everyone wore a plaid draped around them, but some did. Others, like his brother, wore thick leather, not the kind of armor he associated with medieval knights.
But they weren’t in England. This was the Highlands. Known to locals as the mountains. Even without plated armor, or maybe because of its absence, they looked beyond fierce.
Badasses, for sure.
And for the time being, he was one of them.
“Hurry,” the armorer called to him, gesturing him toward the same building he walked into every morning before training. Before long, he looked just like Grey, the only difference being that he was packing a sword rather than Grey’s bow and arrow. At least he’d become slightly proficient with it. Although it was much lighter than he’d expected, it was the real deal. No blunted tip here.
Of course, if a trained knight got a hold of him, Ian would be toast. He’d have to rely on speed instead. But strangely, he wasn’t afraid. Once mounted, he asked Grey if that was normal.
“No. It’s not. Unless you have a death wish.”
He denied it. “I’m not Reik.”
“Wait until you see some real action. Talk to me then.”
But there was no real action to see.
By the time they rode to Dern’s village, there was no rival clan waiting for them. Just a bunch of angry men shouting about the cowards who had started a fire and fled.
Ian watched as his grandfather dismounted and walked toward another man, who stood in front of what was apparently the forge. Smoke rose up, the smell more acrid than a garderobe, which was truly saying something. They’d taken only forty or so men with them, but to Ian it seemed like an army.
He marveled at how quickly Clan MacKinnish had come to the aid of their allies.
“Who is that?” he asked Grey, who’d reined his horse up next to him.
“Dunno. Maybe Clan Dern’s laird?”
Most likely. He was much younger than their grandfather, but Grey was probably right. Then Ian saw the person standing behind him. “Yeah. That’s their laird.”
“How do you know?”
