Six

W hen a gel was off to engage in subterfuge, ‘twas best to get an early start.

Mairead walked quickly up the meadow, keeping to the eaves of the forest, and hoped none of her cousins would decide that following her would be good sport. She'd left her flock in the care of a younger cousin, made excuses to everyone else about needing to find the last of the year's plants for dyeing, then marched off with a purpose.

If she found herself roaming a bit further afield than usual or using her well-honed tracking skills to determine where a certain guest had wandered off to, who was to know? She had a knife down the back of her belt and her favorite shawl wrapped around her to not only keep her warm but allow her to blend into the landscape. She would be perfectly safe.

Safe, but perhaps a little more curious than was good for her. Then again, what else could she do? ‘Twas nothing more than a commitment to proper hospitality that demanded she make certain their guest hadn't inadvertently left anything behind: a belt buckle, a riding crop, or perhaps an extra ball from his pistol that she hadn't seen but was certain he'd had until he had been, as he'd said, robbed blind and abandoned by his friends.

And if he'd happened to leave behind any folios detailing more of his adventures, good manners behooved her to pick them up and keep them safe in case he returned for them.

She supposed it would have been easier to simply ask him about his adventures, but he'd left yesterday before sunrise whilst she'd been trapped in the kitchens, seeing to things that should have been seen to by Tasgall's wife. She might have considered a bit of a ramble later in the morning, but the scouts who had followed him had returned and reluctantly admitted that they had lost sight of him sooner than they'd cared to.

To her mind, that either meant he was a ghost, which she doubted, or he was highly skilled in keeping himself unobserved, which left her wondering how it was he'd been robbed.

Her uncle would have suggested that faeries were involved, she was sure, perhaps even those bold ones who had once upon a time made off with the Laird James and his lady wife. She, however, wasn't susceptible to that sort of foolish thinking. There was a reasonable explanation for everything and the first part of that included determining where Lord Oliver might have gone.

She stopped on a somewhat contested stretch of ground that marked the end of her clan's holdings and the beginnings of those belonging to the Camerons and studied the landscape. Lord Oliver couldn't have simply appeared from nowhere, surely. She looked around herself for clues, then reluctantly looked down at the ground under feet.

‘Twas an odd patch of earth, that smallish ring of plants there in the meadow. She had always used it as a way to mark the border given that it was either in bloom with flowers in the spring or still bearing leaves in the fall with the leavings of its stems always visible against the grasses that surrounded it no matter the time of year.

Her animals never stepped inside it, though she'd led them through that meadow countless times. The lads didn't either, though she couldn't credit either her cousins or those Cameron lads with any more sense than her sheep, so perhaps she was the only one who noticed.

She considered, then decided there was no point in not testing its magical properties for herself and putting the entire ridiculous piece of speculation to rest. She put her shoulders back, then deliberately stepped into the circle, then out of it again.

She looked over her shoulder and found the witch's forest lingering there to her right. Her own meadow lay directly behind her and Cameron lands still lay comfortably to the north in the valley that gave way eventually to a rather lovely stretch of meadow that led directly to Cameron Hall.

There were, however, no sprites dancing in the fall grasses, no fairies peeking out at her from behind trees in the forest, and nothing of an otherworldly and fantastical nature galloping across the meadow to sweep her up into a tale fit for a drunken bard's worst offering. Nothing had changed save perhaps her good sense which had obviously deserted her.

She looked up and was relieved to find not only that the sun was in its accustomed place in the sky, it had apparently decided to push aside a few clouds and pour down a good deal of unexpected warmth. That was an auspicious sign, to be sure, though she couldn't decide precisely why. She drew her shawl more tightly around her just the same, turned to the east, and carried on with what she had come to do.

She shivered as she walked under the eaves of the forest. The sun filtered down through the trees here and there, but it was hardly enough to keep her warm.

If she might have been slightly unnerved by the memory of seeing a man with fair hair out of the corner of her eye, then consigning the sight to her admittedly ungovernable imagination—the one that tended to stroll hand-in-hand with her insatiable curiosity—was perhaps understandable. She put that aside as something to tell her uncle when he exhausted his own stories of ridiculous happenings and carried on under the trees.

She paused several times to study the ground. There was something… She rolled her eyes and forced herself to simply walk on. Her imagination was truly demanding to be taken out and exercised, but she suspected she might do well to keep a tight rein on it. There was nothing unusual about the forest. The trees were simply trees, and the forest floor was disturbed either from the rain that had descended like the flood the day before or from the feet of those lads who had attempted to follow their guest. She had to admit she hadn't been completely unhappy the day before to remain in the hall where at least she'd been dry.

She wasn't one given to flights of imagination, but she was beginning to feel as though she'd wandered into a dream. The trees were the same, and yet somehow… not. Perhaps she hadn't paid enough heed during all the times she'd wandered through that forest, keeping a weather eye out for wild animals and unruly cousins.

She blew out of her eyes a few stray hairs she'd caught on branches she hadn't paid any heed to, then continued on her way. The first thing she would do once she returned to the hall was set herself on a stringent course of pretending to listen to her uncle whilst never hearing another word about magical creatures in the forest. She was fairly certain there had been more than one woman inhabiting the witch's croft she could see in the distance who might have agreed with her.

She continued toward it, somewhat relieved to find it in its usual condition. She stopped a few paces away from it, then frowned. Perhaps that wasn't as true as she would have preferred it to be. There was something about the rock that seemed more weathered, if that were possible—

The door to the croft opened suddenly and she jumped in spite of herself. She would have ducked behind the tree closest to her, but she found that her feet were rooted to the ground.

She looked down quickly to make certain there weren't tiny faeries holding her there, but she saw nothing but the usual foliage that covered the forest floor. Perhaps ‘twas just her surprise that left her unable to move. That and she didn't want to startle the creature exiting the house.

It was a man, obviously, though he was dressed in black from head to toe. Well, not his boots, which were a rich, dark brown, but he wore strange-looking trews that were black and an even stranger shirt—also black—that only came to his hips.

She looked heavenward to avoid seeing things she absolutely didn't want to, then decided that necessity dictated she venture another look.

The man wore a sword strapped to his back, that she could tell from the hilt that was visible to one side of his head. He held a book in his hands, which she didn't know how to interpret at all. The sunlight that had somehow found its way through the trees fell on his blond hair, turning it to spun gold, a heavenly sight which was at odds with the rest of his admittedly wonderfully fashioned self which she had the most unpleasant feeling had come from a different direction entirely.

He had also obviously caught sight of her poor self because he'd frozen in place, looking as if the slightest movement on her part might leave him bolting.

She couldn't stop herself from wondering if she'd wandered somewhere untoward and quite possibly perilous. She wanted to believe that she was looking at the man written about so capably in the pages of her book, but his garb indicated he might have sprung from a far different realm. It pained her to suspect she had misjudged him so thoroughly, but she hardly knew what else to think.

She considered her possible alternatives—run and hide or stride forth and conquer—and decided upon the latter. If she were going to be carried off to Hell, she would not go quietly.

She took her courage in hand and strode forward boldly, stopping a few paces away from him. "Are you a demon?" she demanded.

He looked at her blankly. "A what?"

She pointed her finger at him, just so he wouldn't think that he would escape her scrutiny so easily. "A demon," she repeated firmly.

He opened and closed his mouth several times without speaking. That could have been because he was choosing a charm to lay over her—if demons did such a thing, which she sincerely hoped wasn't the case. He looked a little baffled though, so perhaps she would manage to escape before he cast any sort of unholy bit of business over her like a net.

"Do I look like a demon?" he asked carefully.

She declined to answer, instead folding her arms over her chest and affecting her father's favorite expression of skepticism. At least that might give her time to decide just what sort of man she was looking at.

He was holding a book, true, which was a mark in his favor given that she was almost certain demons couldn't read. She'd seen several paintings of them leaning over monks diligently scribbling—the monks, not the demons—which had left her suspecting that only the lads manning the quills could read their own scratches. Indeed, from what she'd seen in those manuscripts, demons simply poked friars with their pointed tails, no doubt swearing quite lustily as they were about their terrible labors.

"You don't have a tail, do you?" she asked sharply.

He looked behind himself, then back at her and shook his head.

"And you are reading," she conceded, "which does you credit. I'm not sure if you've vexed any friars recently, but that might be something we can discuss in a moment. Your clothing, however, leaves a great deal to be desired not only in modesty but the inspiring of confidence that you aren't going to carry me off to Hell." She paused and looked at him sternly. "You aren't going to carry me off to Hell, are you?"

At the moment, he looked as if he might be asking her to carry him off somewhere so he might sit down. He was also holding up his hand in the same way she tended to when Ambrose and his wee siblings were bouncing around her skirts like a litter of pups, as if he strove to stop the madness long enough to make sense of it.

"Would you speak a bit more slowly?" he asked. "My Gaelic is poor."

She thought he spoke it very well, especially since she knew it wasn't his first language. If he was who she thought he was, of course.

"I think it is good enough," she said as casually as possible in his English.

He dropped his book, then gaped at her. She stepped forward and bent over to pick it up at the same time he did which left her running her forehead directly into the hilt of his sword. She straightened, holding her hand to her face and finding herself grateful she hadn't put her eye out.

"I'm so sorry," he said in Gaelic. "Here, come sit and I'll fetch you some water."

She had help sitting down upon a large stump that she was fairly certain had been a sapling the day before. It was such a ridiculous thought to entertain, she suspected she might do well to simply not think at all for a moment or two. She closed her eyes and put her hand against her forehead, though the pain wasn't terrible. It cleared her head a bit from her chaotically swirling thoughts, most having to do with what the Duke of Birmingham was doing half an hour's walk from her home, wearing clothing she wasn't entirely certain she also hadn't seen in some rendering of a hellish creature tormenting yet another poor monk.

She heard the door open and close and managed to squint at him as he squatted down in front of her. She took the cup, considered it, then looked at him. "Poisoned?"

He frowned. "Poisoned?"

"Poison," she said in his tongue. In his history, the Duke had been particularly vexed by enemies attempting the same in order to have his fine goods, so that word she was at least familiar with.

He shook his head slightly. "Nay, ‘tisn't."

She drank and found it to be just water, as he claimed. She looked at the small wooden cup, which seemed comfortingly familiar somehow, then at him. He was only watching her carefully, as if he expected her to draw his sword and use it on him herself.

"You changed your clothing from your demon garb," she noted.

"I'm not a demon." He knelt next to her and sat back on his heels, looking somehow both perilous and innocent at the same time. "Why don't we begin anew?"

"Aye, with where you left your demon garb," she muttered.

He smiled. "Perhaps not that far."

"What language?" she asked loftily. "Mine or your marginally passable French?"

"My very French mother would be insulted," he said with a faint smile, "but I'll claim all the flaws there. Gaelic, then, and French when needed?"

"Or we could speak in your English," she said casually, hoping this time it might startle him into a confession.

A confession about what, she certainly didn't know. That he was a man so famous that he had a scribe following him and jotting down his more noteworthy doings? He'd obviously lost at least the first half of that recounting, so he might not want to discuss it.

He had gone very still, but perhaps that was his way of assessing the battlefield before committing to a course of action.

"I learned your tongue from a book," she said when it looked as if he might never speak again. "A book about a duke. I may not be pronouncing the words properly."

"You're doing it wonderfully."

Which he said in Gaelic, which she supposed might be the best way to continue. She waited, but he only knelt there, silent and grave. His usual method of conducting his affairs, if his diary had told the tale true.

She handed him back his cup, then started to get to her feet. He leapt up and held out his hand to help her up, which she found to be slightly uncomfortable for some reason. She wasn't accustomed to any sort of courtesies from her kin, though young Ambrose had recently taken to exercising his manners enough to see her seated before he took a stool next to her and single-mindedly worked his way through his suppers.

"So," she said casually, "you said you were returning home."

"I'm trying," he agreed.

"You might have an easier time if you had your phaeton and matched ponies," she said in as offhand a manner as possible.

He looked at her as if he'd never heard of such a thing. "My what?"

She was beginning to wonder if he'd not only been robbed, but clunked on the head hard enough to lose a few of his memories. "Your conveyance," she said, trying to dredge up a bit of patience.

"My conveyance?"

"How you came here," she clarified. "Unless you simply rode a horse."

He only nodded.

That was hardly an answer. She was beginning to suspect that there were not just a few strange and mysterious things clustered around the man in front of her and she wasn't entirely certain those things weren't several otherworldly characters from her uncle's fevered imagination.

"Were you indeed robbed," she asked sternly, "or was that a falsehood?"

He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. She was tempted to try once more to startle him into blurting out details about himself that he seemed reluctant to reveal, but there was something that stopped her. She was accustomed to instantly judging men and situations in order to avoid trouble. The man in front of her still had his hands in plain sight, he had offered her water, and he had been polite and respectful to her kin when he'd been in their hall.

He had also taken a blow for her and not made any mention of the rather hot soup she'd poured on his leg, so perhaps he had his own reasons for keeping things to himself.

"I was left here by my friends," he said carefully.

"Here in the witch's croft?" she asked in surprise.

"Aye."

"And you cannot simply return home?"

"My friends asked me to wait for them here."

"But that seems strange," she said, which she thought was a truly unholy bit of understatement.

He smiled slightly. "I agree."

"Why don't you come wait back at the hall where you at least have a hot fire?"

He inclined his head politely. "The invitation is most welcome, but I must wait here. Many horses will be mine if I do as they've asked."

"How many?"

"Twelve hundred." He paused. "Possibly fewer, but I'm hoping for that many."

She caught her breath. She wasn't sure she had over the course of her entire life seen so many animals. "And what are their terms, these lads of yours?"

"I have tasks to accomplish."

"That sounds terrible."

He smiled faintly and she wanted to sit down. ‘Twas no wonder her sisters had been falling over themselves to get closer to him.

"I agree."

"Are these tasks things to increase character and stamina," she managed, "or simply foolish things with which to pass the time?"

He smiled again, as if he found something about that faintly amusing. "Simple things they no doubt thought would be amusing."

"Very well, then," she said, nodding firmly. "Let's hear a pair of them. I'll help you, then go home."

He hesitated. "I wouldn't want to be improper by accepting your aid."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I am honorable," he said carefully, "but you are a woman alone."

Mairead was heartily tempted to sit back down on the stump that hadn't been a stump a pair of days ago. The only thing she could say in her favor was that the Duke wasn't sending her any scorching looks, which she thought boded well for her virtue. Then again, he likely had serving maids who were far more handsome than she would ever be, so perhaps he wasn't at all affected by her. She was indeed safe.

She watched as he went back inside. Perhaps he'd changed his mind and gone to fetch his list of tasks, though she had to wonder how his gear had found itself inside the croft to begin with. Perhaps he'd considered it a handy place to hide things before he'd continued on to the meadow, searching for aid.

He emerged once more with his sword again on his back, pulled the door shut behind him, then stopped in front of her and made her a slight bow.

"I would be honored to walk you back toward the meadow and keep watch as you return to the keep. I don't want your master to think I've been keeping you here improperly in the forest."

"My master?" she managed, then it occurred to her what he was thinking. She decided that perhaps, given his honorable conduct with all the kitchen maids he no doubt knew, there was no slur in those words. She nodded. "Very well spoken on your part."

He nodded, but he was studying her as if things were occurring to him that hadn't before.

She wasn't quite sure how she felt about that, so she nodded briskly at him, then turned and marched off through the forest toward the meadow. She didn't last ten paces before she had to look over her shoulder and make certain he was still there.

He was simply walking behind her, his hands clasped behind his back, watching her with a grave expression on his face.

By the time they'd reached the northern edge of the forest, she wasn't quite sure what to think about him.

She realized he was looking up and down the meadow in the same way she did, as if he made certain there were no souls there to cause trouble. Then again, he was who he was and that was how he conducted his affairs. She continued along the border with him until they stood on the edge of that unsettling ring in the grass. She was very surprised to hear her hounds baying in the distance, though she wondered why. Of course she would hear things of a normal and unremarkable nature.

She turned to look at her companion only to watch him make her a slight bow.

"Safely delivered."

She reconsidered her assumptions. She suspected that if she'd been a man about some sort of vexatious business, it would have been very unwise to provoke that man there. But a woman?

What a fortunate, blessed gel it was who had attracted his eye and claimed his affection.

"Thank you," she managed.

He held out his hand. "Oliver."

She put her hand in his, watched him bend over it as if she'd been a fine lady and he the duke of some fine place she'd never been, then watched him step back and nod politely.

She nodded in return, then turned and walked away because she could think of nothing else to do. The sounds of sheep and goats and hounds was louder than it had been before, but she was also walking down the meadow toward them, so that was to be expected. She forced herself to continue on until she thought a reasonable amount of time had passed, then looked over her shoulder to have a final look at a man who couldn't possibly be what she thought him.

He was gone.

She felt her hound bump her hand with his chilly nose, which startled her slightly. She took a moment for a bit of scratching him behind his ears, then sent him back off to watch over her sheep whilst she considered things she likely should have left alone.

It was possible she'd simply been walking in the forest near her home and everything Lord Oliver had said was true. He could have taken shelter in the witch's croft whilst he awaited his friends to come and rescue him.

But that didn't explain a stump she'd sat on that she was almost positive was currently a sapling five paces from the door of the healer's croft.

It wasn't possible—and she could almost not entertain the thought—that she had stepped into the Duke of Birmingham's tale.

Was it?

She hardly knew what to think, so she decided to put it off as something to consider later. First things first, as her father had said to her endlessly in her youth. His list had usually included food, shelter, then long winter evenings devoted to listening to their bard recite tales of glorious battles won and innumerable cattle successfully raided. Her list had always been simpler and included nothing past avoiding those who vexed her and keeping her sheep safe.

And then she'd found the Duke's faithful history and everything had changed for her. Her list that she couldn't quite bring herself to make included things that she knew were so far out of her reach as to be impossible.

A man who would love her, give her children, keep her safe, and, heaven pity her for the most foolish of gels, think she was pretty. In perhaps a very dim light, but there it was.

She pulled herself back to the present moment and continued to walk home. She was obviously going to be seeing to her usual tasks for the rest of the day, but tomorrow was another day with ample time to investigate things that perplexed her.

Because no matter how he was styling himself, the Duke of Birmingham was not a demon. No demon could possibly have been so tall, well-fashioned, and polite. Plus, the Duke had fair hair and a pair of absolutely bewitching pale blue eyes.

She paused. Bewitching was a problem, to be sure, but perhaps that could be addressed later when next they met. He'd denied being any sort of foul creature from the nether regions, so she would take him at his word.

The fact that stepping into what she could safely say had been some sort of strange ring of what had been flowers at some point had given her pause, but again, she was no coward.

The odd thing was, though, that when she'd stepped out of that ring, it was as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.

The thing she couldn't simply let lie was the fact that she'd actually had a glimpse inside the healer's house as Lord Oliver had exited it, and it hadn't looked at all like the empty croft she was accustomed to. Then again, the outside didn't look much like it, either.

There were strange and mysterious things happening on MacLeod soil. Her uncle might have called them magical . She wasn't quite sure what to call them, but she knew one thing beyond any doubt.

She was going to find out.