Four

M airead jerked her arm away from her cousin, wishing she had the courage to use either a sharp knife or a sharper tongue on the fool. Unfortunately, she knew at least what the latter would earn her and that was only more abuse from her uncle's youngest son. He was ten-and-eight, surely old enough to know better.

"Kenneth, enough," one of the other lads there said, stepping in front of her. "Pick on a man, why don't you, instead of a gel?"

Kenneth bounced on the balls of his feet and glared at the Cameron clansman who dared voice such an invitation. "Who, you?"

Mairead would have pointed out to her cousin that Giles, eldest son of the Cameron himself, was not going to be an enjoyable sparring partner, but with any luck Kenneth would find that out for himself. Giles had not only the cheek to venture over the border that lay between Cameron soil and theirs often enough, but the swordplay to match his courage.

Then again, the reason Giles and his younger brother routinely came south was to catch a glimpse of any of the fairer daughters of Ranald MacLeod, so perhaps when romantic notions seeped into a lad's wee head, he did things he shouldn't have.

Whatever wits they might have lost to the cause of romance aside, those Cameron lads at least had decent manners, something she couldn't say for her own family. Kenneth shoved Giles aside and grabbed her arm again, fair wrenching it from its moorings. She jerked it away for the third time and wondered, for more than just the third time, if perhaps she should have snuck into her father's lists instead of shadowing his priests as they were about their scratching on parchment. It would have provided her with skills she most certainly didn't possess.

"Leave me be, Kenneth," she exclaimed. "Find someone else to vex with your vile self."

He swore at her, but that was nothing new. She was halfway to giving him a sharp shove when she enjoyed the same from him. She landed on her backside, which would have been less unpleasant if she hadn't landed on a rock. She winced, then crawled uncomfortably to her feet, fully prepared to give back as good as she'd had and the consequences be damned only to realize that the men around her had drawn their swords.

She was halfway to turning and bolting off back down the meadow when it occurred to her that they hadn't turned on her. She considered that for a moment and wondered if perhaps they would brawl with each other, leaving her free to stroll back down the meadow to the keep without any trouble. She rubbed her abused backside and looked at the lads to mark how the battle was proceeding so she might have that to mull over and enjoy as she limped back home.

They were all turned toward the east, toward the forest where she knew for a fact most of them never ventured. And why not? One never knew what magical thing it might spew out…

Apparently today that thing was a man.

She watched as the newcomer came to an easy, graceful halt, though he was breathing heavily, as if he'd run a long way. He held up his hands carefully, no doubt to show he had no weapon in them.

"Friend, not foe," he said clearly.

Mairead would have patted her surroundings for a chair or a stool, but she was outside and she'd already sat down quite heavily on the ground. She forced herself to keep her feet whilst she gaped at the man standing not twenty paces from her.

He was wearing a proper shirt as well as a plaid wrapped around him and a belt holding it there. She could see the hilts of dirks peeking up from the sides of his boots, though those boots looked to be much finer than any either her cousins or the Cameron lads owned. His Gaelic, all three words she'd heard from him, had a bit of an accent, but ‘twas intelligible enough.

And that was exactly where her common sense ended and her turn as a witless kitchen maid began.

Her cousins weren't altogether ugly. Giles, being a Cameron as he was, had a markedly handsome visage. All the lads standing nearby were strong and well-built, but that was also nothing out of the ordinary. When they weren't practicing with their swords, they were hunting or keeping themselves busy with some other noble labor. They were braw enough to turn the head of any lass with two good eyes.

But that man there, standing some twenty paces away from her, dressed in simple, unremarkable gear, outshone them all.

He was taller than any of the rest of the lads, which she appreciated, being rather tall herself. His shoulders were broad, the rest of him pleasingly fashioned, and his mien one of soberness and the careful noting of what was going on around him. She was, as she had reminded herself very recently, not unaccustomed to looking at handsome men. It had been a very poor preparation, however, for looking at that handsome man.

She could hardly do justice to his firm jaw, pale eyes, and a nose that was fine and almost straight. She imagined he'd likely broken it at some point, but since she'd been surrounded by that sort of thing the whole of her life, she didn't think anything of it. The rest of his face was a pleasing collection of the usual business which she would have lingered over but she couldn't stop looking at his hair which was longish, though not nearly as long as her relatives kept theirs.

And it was still the color of golden summer grasses in the meadow when the day was fine and the sun shining.

Kenneth gestured at him with his sword. "Who are ye?"

Mairead pulled herself back to the matter at hand which might very well include putting herself in harm's way to save that man standing there with his hands still in plain sight.

"I'm called Oliver," he said carefully. "I mean you no harm."

"Where's your gear?" Kenneth demanded. "And your horse?"

The golden-haired man winced. "It was taken from me."

"You were robbed?" Giles asked, resting his sword against his shoulder. "By whom? McKinnons?"

"I didn't stop to ask."

Kenneth made a sound of disbelief. "And you came here with no guard? No friends?"

"He's just been robbed," Mairead said pointedly. "Perhaps he needs something to eat and drink before he has the strength to tell—"

Kenneth whirled on her. She supposed it was nothing but the fact that she'd been avoiding him for so long that allowed her to move out of his way. It helped that Giles's brother had stepped in front of her and given her cousin the shove she hadn't dared to. She left them to sorting themselves and found herself joined by Giles who was shaking his head in disgust. He resheathed his sword, then nodded toward the stranger.

"Let's see if he needs aid."

Mairead thought that a very useful suggestion, so she avoided her cousin and Giles's brother who were still scrapping like hounds and stopped with Giles a few paces away from the man who had seemingly come straight out of the forest.

‘Twas a most providential happening, to be sure.

Giles held out his hand. "Giles Cameron," he said easily. "And your name again?"

The other man shook his hand without hesitation. "Oliver."

"And your clan?"

"That is a long tale."

Kenneth tried to shove Giles out of the way and earned a fist under his chin as a result. Mairead thought that one of the better events of the morning, so she let her cousin lie where he'd fallen and turned back to the man named Oliver.

"We've ready ears for a good tale," Giles said pleasantly.

"It might be difficult to believe."

Mairead had to bite her tongue not to agree that such was indeed the case, but she was nothing if not disciplined. That and she was so astonished by what she was seeing that she could only stand there, mute and overwhelmed, and contemplate the truth of what was staring her in the face.

She was looking at the Duke of Birmingham.

She wondered, now that she was closer and had a fuller view of his face that was so perfectly noble and handsome, how his portrait painter had dared even attempt his likeness. She had very little time to amuse herself by rendering things on parchment, but even had she been skilled in that art she would have hesitated to depict that man there.

She watched his mouth move and realized that aside from the perfection of it and his very fine jawline, he was speaking her tongue. That was unexpected, to be sure, but she knew him to be very well-educated and intelligent. He might have been wearing Highland dress, but obviously ‘twas as he'd said. If he'd been robbed of his sword somewhere along his road, he'd likely also bid a fond farewell to the rest of his dukely accoutrements . To be sure, she saw no fine contraption behind him, nor any guardsmen, and definitely no kitchen maid.

"You wear the plaid."

Mairead wrenched her thoughts away from problems that weren't hers and concentrated on what was before her. Giles had resheathed his sword before, which augured well for the peace and tranquility of the afternoon, but he was wickedly proficient with his knives, which might bode less well for that sort of thing. He'd also reached out and casually pulled her not so much fully behind him, but a pair of steps behind where he stood. She could still see their guest and his lack of servants, though, which she thought a decent piece of good fortune for herself.

"It was given to me by a MacLeod I met very far away," Oliver said carefully. "He's related to the current laird, surely."

Giles nodded thoughtfully. "No doubt. And why did he gift it to you?"

"Kindness," Oliver said. "In return, I agreed to tasks that included bringing greetings from the south."

"Where in the south?"

"I've been recently in Edinburgh, though London before that."

Mairead forced herself not to nod in agreement. At least that was something that sounded reasonable. It also explained why his Gaelic was decent but not perfect, though she likely would have listened to him babble in Latin all day and not complained.

"Are you English?" Giles asked in surprise.

Mairead managed to suppress her snort only because she did occasionally have a bit of self-control. Of course he was English.

"An accident of birth," Oliver said with a deprecating smile, "thanks to my sire. My mother is French."

Mairead thought she was far too old to be finding herself somewhat weak in the knees over a man's smile, but perhaps she should have had something a bit more substantial for breakfast. Her wits were suffering, to be sure.

"Then let's try that instead," Giles said in his own excellent French.

Mairead listened to them wander off together into that tongue and was grateful she'd made such a thorough study of it with various priests over the years as well as using Giles for practice. The Camerons were decent hosts, so perhaps he'd had the benefit of clergy as well. His Latin was better than hers, but she could read far better than he could, so perhaps the scales were balanced well enough there.

She was half tempted to point out that she could also read Lord Oliver's native tongue, but that would have given away more than she cared to. That, and she wasn't sure she was pronouncing things properly. Then again, whilst his Gaelic was serviceable enough, and his French quite obviously second nature to him, the latter was pronounced with a bit of an accent she couldn't place.

Birmingham, obviously.

She hardly had time to think that through properly before Kenneth had regained his feet and found not only his tongue and his sword. She moved well out of his way, half tempted to go hide behind the Duke, but found immediately that there was no need.

"Stop it, ye wee fools!" a voice thundered.

Mairead wasn't sure if she should have been relieved or concerned that her uncle had arrived, but she imagined her opinion wouldn't be asked on the matter. She took the opportunity to put a bit of distance between herself and Kenneth's sword, though not so far that she couldn't hear what was being said.

"And who would ye be?" Lachlan demanded.

"He's called Oliver," Giles said mildly. "An Englishman by birth, but his mother is French and he fostered with the king's household in Edinburgh."

Mairead would have added a few details from his history, but she thought that might be impertinent. Besides, she was fairly busy wondering how it was that out of all the souls she could have encountered—

She stopped herself before she went any further with that. Of course she would have encountered him. She had his book in the pocket of her apron. Well, not at the moment because it was safely tucked away in her tree, but given that he was currently in the area, she understood how he could have lost it nearby. Perhaps he had passed through their lands a year ago and no one had been the wiser.

There was a mystery there, to be sure.

"Weel, come on, lad," Lachlan said, gesturing expansively toward the keep. "Come inside out of the weather and leave these rambunctious pups to their scrapping. You'll need something to eat and a place for the night."

Mairead felt Giles take her arm and found, oddly enough, that it was somewhat reassuring. At the very least, it left her feeling as if she were still in her own skin, not lost in some magical realm where people simply stepped out of her uncle's most treasured fables.

"So, tell me of yourself, man," Lachlan said, clapping a hand companionably on Lord Oliver's shoulder.

Mairead found Giles pulling her along directly behind her uncle. He shot her a quick look.

"We'd best be here to translate," he said with wink. "I'm not sure Lord Oliver's equal to your uncle's chattering."

Mairead couldn't have agreed more. She was also rather more grateful than she likely should have been to find Giles's brother Dougan on her right, leaving Kenneth marching along behind them, grumbling loudly. The fact that she needed Cameron guardsmen in the company of her own kin was ridiculous, but there it was. She set that thought aside as something not to think about any longer and focused her attention on the conversation going on in front of her.

"So you've been in London, have you?" Lachlan said in surprise. "Quite a distance, that, or so I've heard."

"The journey here was very difficult," Oliver agreed.

"And why were you there, lad?"

Oliver smiled very faintly. "Just flattering important souls, as one does."

Mairead imagined that was indeed the case and she could only imagine the importance of the souls he flattered.

"I was fairly recently in Edinburgh—"

"Not in the gaol, eh?" Lachlan said, waggling his eyebrows and laughing a little.

"Fortunately not," Oliver agreed with a nod, "though I visited the castle and frequented many fine tradesmen on my way to Holyrood—"

"You didn't," Dougan said breathlessly, leaning up to look at him. "Did you see the king's magical beasts?"

"Later," Lachlan said, elbowing Dougan away. "Hobnobbing with King James, were you?"

"As close as one manages to get," Oliver agreed. He glanced over his shoulder at Dougan. "I'll tell you later of the fierce beasties I saw, if you like."

Mairead supposed Lord Oliver would understand that he'd just earned the undying loyalty of Giles's brother. If not, she imagined he would realize the same very quickly, indeed.

"I took up my travels in a hasty fashion," Oliver said easily, "then had my belongings purloined."

"McKinnons?"

"It was very dark."

"Terrible," Lachlan said.

Mairead thought it worse than that, but ‘twas no wonder he had no sword or carriage or matched set of white horses to pull that carriage. It said much about his resourcefulness, she supposed, to carry on without the trappings of his rank.

"And now that you've reached our beautiful land?"

Oliver stopped, then made Lachlan a small bow. "I will gladly carry back to those I know a fine report about the condition of a proud and noble people."

"Well," Lachlan said, puffing up a little, "not too long a report, eh? Don't want to be overrun by a flood of Englishmen."

"Nay," Oliver said seriously, "you wouldn't want that."

Lachlan clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's have a meal. Come inside the hall and we'll find you a proper seat by the fire."

Mairead realized the Duke had paused by the front door. He looked at her, then gestured for her to go inside first. She knew she shouldn't have been surprised. After all, the man had perfect manners when it came to kitchen maids.

She ignored Kenneth's snorts and walked inside, passing so close to Lord Oliver that she could have reached out and touched his arm if she'd cared to. She looked up at him on her way by and had the most ridiculous thought occur to her.

Had she seen him earlier that morning on her way back from secreting her book in its tree?

She put her head down and hurried into the hall. She hadn't slept enough, that was it. If she'd passed by a man that handsome, she surely would have remembered it.

Then again, perhaps he'd taken shelter in the healer's wee croft after having been chased by McKinnons. None of their ilk would dare set foot on MacLeod soil, though she had to admit the Camerons had more trouble with them than her family did. Lord Oliver was fortunate to have survived being hunted, if that were the case.

She stopped a few paces in and looked behind her. Her uncle still had Lord Oliver's ear, though he was soon swarmed by the rest of her clan. He was polite and grave and, she had to admit, fearless. She wasn't sure she would have walked into a strange hall without at least having a guard, but perhaps he had more confidence in his knives than she did in hers.

Her uncle shepherded him inside the hall and introduced him to her father. He obviously noticed her father's lack of response, but he did him the courtesy of a low bow and a freely proffered compliment on the sturdiness of the hall. He was equally polite to the endless number of people who wanted to make his acquaintance.

She noticed, though, that he marked where everyone was. Perhaps she wouldn't have realized what he was doing if she didn't do the same thing herself every time she came inside. And why not? Her brother and several of her cousins were unpredictable. Her sisters, on the other hand, were not, and she was half surprised they didn't immediately begin brawling with each other to determine which of them would sit next to their guest at table.

She rolled her eyes and turned to make her way to the kitchens. There were simply some things a woman shouldn't have to watch.

An hour later, she was waiting on the edge of the hall, watching as the tables were set up for supper. Lord Oliver was still standing by the fire, looking as if he might have preferred to blend into the wall. If the reports held true, he wasn't opposed to conversation, but preferred it to be short and to the point. That he was enduring it said much about his good manners.

She found herself pushed out of the way and realized that it had only been her brother's bairns to do the like. Ambrose threw her a smile over his shoulder, then ran after his siblings, though he arrived too late to save Lord Oliver from their attentions. She shook her head. The bairns were behaving as if they'd never seen a man before. Fiona actually threw herself into his arms and he picked her up with all the gentleness of a man who valued children.

He smiled.

Women—and a few men—swooned.

Mairead was tempted to tell them all to make another grab for their senses, but that was obviously a lost cause. That also might have been because she was close to swooning herself. The man had perfect teeth, not missing a one, and that quick, charming little smile he'd given to the bairns?

"Mistress Mairead, will you not serve the young gentleman?"

She looked over her shoulder to find one of the swooning kitchen maids there. She supposed it might be the only way the man would have anything land in his bowl, so perhaps she would do well to take on the task herself. She nodded, then waited until the company had taken places around the tables before she made her way over to where Lord Oliver sat to the right of her uncle, with Tasgall on his right.

She would have been fine, she supposed, if he hadn't looked up at her when she was attempting to ladle something into his bowl.

She imagined he would later think it a stroke of good fortune that she hadn't upended the entire pail of soup she'd been carrying onto his leg. For herself, she felt very fortunate that her uncle had jumped to his feet and taken her bucket out of her hands before her brother had leapt out of his chair, swearing, and turned to strike her. She turned away to save what she could of her visage and steeled herself for Tasgall's usual response to any mistake she made.

The sound of a slap echoed in the great hall, but she felt nothing.

She turned around and realized that Lord Oliver had stood, put himself directly behind her, and taken the blow himself.

She ducked out of the way and pushed herself back against the wall, fully prepared to watch bloodshed happen before the rest of the clan had managed to get their suppers pushed away from themselves and their swords into their hands.

Instead, Lord Oliver only put his hand on Tasgall's shoulder in a friendly fashion.

"You slipped on the floor," he said calmly. "I did as well. Let's sit back down comfortably and enjoy our meal, shall we?"

He shrugged aside her brother's blustering as if all the excuses were naught to fret over, then sat back down with him. She didn't argue with her uncle when he put her bucket back in her hands, then pulled his chair back from the table so she could serve Lord Oliver from his other side. She did manage to get food into his bowl that time, though she supposed someone else would need to feed the rest of the men at the high table.

Lord Oliver looked up at her gravely. "Thank you."

"Forgive me—"

"Nothing to forgive."

She nodded, then managed to hand her burdens off to one of the serving lads so she could retreat to the kitchens and calm her racing heart. She had no idea why she was trembling so badly, though she knew it had nothing to do with her brother.

She lingered at the edge of the hall for the rest of supper, wondering about Lord Oliver.

After supper, she found herself too busy with the usual tasks of putting the house to bed to consider what she might ask him did she have him cornered without anyone from her family gaping at him as if they'd never seen such a fine specimen of manhood in their lives.

She understood that last thing, actually.

In time, the hall settled down for the night. Lord Oliver had been offered a spot close to the fire, which spoke well of his comportment that evening. Her kin wouldn't have trusted him otherwise. There were a pair of cousins standing post by the front door, but that was nothing unusual, either.

She watched him sit down on a stool near her father, then listen politely to her uncle who sat down next to him and began filling his ears with the saints only knew what. Her uncle was obviously quite pleased with that, though Lord Oliver offered his own words now and again. Nobly, of course, and discreetly, but why would she have expected anything else?

She had one last look at him before she went to find her own spot in the kitchen. Perhaps there would be time in the morning to ask him her questions when he wasn't surrounded by her kin and could answer freely. She could speak French well enough—and his English with enough courage—so perhaps between the two of them, they would manage a bit of speech.

She drew her shawl around her, sat down in the corner of the kitchen nearest the fire, and closed her eyes. She was left with more questions than answers, to be sure, but she knew one thing.

The book she'd been reading was exactly what she'd thought it was, namely a bard's faithful recounting of his lord's travels through the world. And she had just met the Duke himself.

And if that were the case, he was the one person who could tell her how his tale with the kitchen maid had finished.

She could scarce wait to find out.