Page 42 of Awoken
The words were spoken with such venom—such naked hate—that whatever words Carr might have replied with died upon his lips.
“Why did ye not ride after them yerself?” he asked finally.
“I’m injured, ye lackwit,” MacKinnon snarled. “Although rest assured, as soon as I am well enough, I shall search every last corner of Skye till I find them.”
Carr observed MacKinnon keenly then, his gaze traveling over the man’s muscular form. Apart from the pallor and tension upon his face, MacKinnon didn’t appear injured. However, instinct told him it was wise not to question the clan-chief further. He was in an evil mood as it was.
“When will ye be ready to travel?” Carr asked finally.
“If the men don’t return with Campbell and Lady Leanna by tomorrow eve, we shall ride out in search of them.” The clan-chief paused there, his grey eyes narrowing into glittering slits as he glared at Carr. “Ye and Campbell are as thick as thieves … did ye know that he had sympathies for Lady Leanna?”
Carr started, taken aback by the question. Yet he did take a moment to consider it. He knew Ross had been unsettled by the events of late at Dunan, and Carr sensed he’d started to question his loyalty. But at the same time, Carr knew his friend was ambitious. He couldn’t imagine what had driven Ross to behave as he did. And so, he answered honestly, “No, this is as much of a shock to me as it is to ye.”
Craeg the Bastard’s hut was a humble dwelling. Low beams hung overhead, making it difficult for tall men like the outlaw leader or Ross to stand fully upright. Deerskins covered the floor, and a fur hanging divided the sleeping area at the back from the hearth. Craeg clearly often welcomed folk to his hearth, for half a dozen low stools sat around the fire, where a lump of peat glowed.
Taking a seat upon one of the stools, Craeg reached for a clay bottle and pulled out the wooden stopper. He then poured out three wooden cups and passed two of them to his companions.
Ross and Leanna had sat down opposite him.
Fingers tightening around his cup, Ross took a tentative sip. The ale was good, refreshing after a long, exhausting journey. Yet it didn’t relax him.
It was difficult to relax when Duncan MacKinnon’s double was sitting before him.
Cool moss-green eyes—refreshingly very different from the clan-chief’s—rested upon him, assessing him. Ross knew the outlaw leader was taking his measure and attempting to judge whether or not he could really trust him.
But Ross was doing the same.
He hadn’t wanted to come here, and yet this camp was probably the safest place upon the isle for them right now.
Guests of a man who’d long learned how to hide in plain sight.
Are we really guests?
The outlaw leader seemed friendly enough, although Ross had difficulty trusting his ready smile. Especially, since until a day ago, Ross’s life would have been forfeit if he’d wandered into this camp.
He’d seen the glares, the muttered comments, as they’d led their horse to the enclosure on the southern side of the village. Craeg might have welcomed them here, but others within the settlement didn’t.
“I get the sense that there is more to yer tale than ye have spoken of so far,” Craeg said finally, breaking the heavy silence.
Ross shared a look with Leanna then. Of course there was. The question was—how much did they share with this stranger?
“The first thing I’m curious to know, is how ye ended up at Dunan at all, Lady Leanna. Surely, yer father wouldn’t want ye wed to MacKinnon?”
Leanna inhaled slowly, her throat bobbing. “He didn’t … but then my father is dead now so he has little say on the matter.”
Craeg’s gaze widened. Of course, he was isolated here. He didn’t know.
“Niall MacDonald of Sleat died in a hunting accident a few days ago,” Ross said quietly. This wasn’t a pleasant tale, but since Craeg was likely to get the details out of them sooner or later, he decided the man might as well hear the story from him. “Ye are right … he denied MacKinnon when he asked for Lady Leanna’s hand years ago … and to make sure yer brother never got his hands on her, he put his daughter in Kilbride Abbey.”
Craeg took a gulp of ale and gave an incredulous shake of his head. “This tale gets more intriguing by the moment … go on.”
Ross did. He told the story plainly, baldly even—and he deliberately didn’t look Leanna’s way as he did so.
The facts didn’t make him look good at all.
The outlaw leader didn’t interrupt him, he merely listened, until the point when Ross described what had happened in the kirk—how MacKinnon had slain Father Athol.
Craeg sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes shadowing. “During my years in Dunan, Father Athol was one of the few who showed me any kindness,” he said, a rasp to his voice.
