day’s march from Edinburgh without alarming the countryside and rousing the clans.”
“Another pass? Mayhap we could get in easier that way.”
“’Tis a secret, known only to the laird. I searched the hills for months looking for a way in, but couldn’t find it.”
“How do you know it exists, then?”
“I came close to being that laird,” the Scot muttered.
Henry scowled. “Why have I not heard of this place before?”
“I told ye the MacLellans keep to themselves like a clan of hermits. They raise most of what they need in the valley. They’ve a mill to grind their grain, trees hanging ripe with fruit, game aplenty in the forests. For salt, spices and such, Duncan goes once each spring and fall to trade at the market in Kindo.”
Which was how the Scot had waylaid the old man...with the aid of Henry’s troops. But so many of Henry’s men had been wounded in the skirmish that the Scot had not had the troops to press on and capture Edin Tower. Especially since the cursed MacLellans had vigorously patrolled the entrance to the valley.
Henry scanned the quiet landscape. Thankfully no one outside Edin was aware of the ambush. Stealth was critical to his plans, and Edin Valley was just what he’d been looking for. A place where he might mass his forces in secrecy, then launch his attack on Scotland before the alarm could be raised. By the time old Robert roused the clans, Henry would be sitting on the throne.
Still there was the problem of getting into the valley without causing a stir. “Mayhap I should have approached Duncan and paid him for the right to pass through his lands.”
“He wouldn’t have agreed.” The spy slanted Henry a sly glance. “Duncan doesn’t hold with outsiders, claims they’ve been left alone because he doesn’t meddle in politics or other people’s affairs. And, too, he’s a Scot through and through. He’d rather die than help an Englishman conquer his country.”
“Half English.” Henry’s mother had been a Percy, seduced by the old Scots king. For years Henry had suffered the shame of bastardy and the sting of not belonging on either side of the Border. Now he’d found a way to turn his Scots’ blood to his advantage. “You do not share Duncan’s loyalties?”
The Scot’s smile was as dark and menacing as the austere mountains. “All I want is what ye promised me—lairdship of Edin Valley and free rein to do as I will with its inhabitants”
Pity for the MacLellans stirred in Henry’s chest. He suppressed it. Conquerors couldn’t afford consciences. “How do you suggest we get inside?”
“I’m going to sneak across to the river, hide in yon trees and see if I can make out the strength of their guard.”
“I’m with you.” He wasn’t letting the Scot out of his sight till this campaign was over.
Chapter Four
By the time the scouting party from Edin neared the pass, the sun had been blotted out by a ridge of clouds. The threat of impending rain seemed small compared with the storm brewing among the members of Clan MacLellan. ’Twas all Kieran’s fault, Laurel thought, for he’d done naught but criticize. First because she’d insisted on leaving Collie behind, then about things in general.
“’Tis a mistake to rely solely on Edin’s natural defenses,” he’d growled when the hapless Ellis had tried to explain. “Guarding the entrance to the pass isn’t enough. They can lay siege to it, wear you down with repeated forays. Though you haven’t lost many men yet, the raiders have robbed you of sleep and taxed your resolve. Tired, frightened men make mistakes. The reivers need only wait, picking you off at their leisure.”
Grudgingly Laurel had admitted he had a point, but ’twas the way he made it that rubbed them all raw till even the easygoing Ellis had fallen back, leaving her to ride alone with the surly mercenary. Kieran had no tact, no care for others’ feelings. Why did he act so, she wondered, glancing sidelong at him. He’d removed his helmet the better to study the valley. Seen in profile, his handsome features were as harsh and unrelenting as the surrounding mountains. What forces had so cruelly shaped him?
Beneath that prickly hide of his, she’d glimpsed another man. A man who’d administered a lashing on principle yet had been more hurt by it than his victim. A man who could have crushed Collie with one blow but hadn’t raised his hand to the lad.
In fact, when Collie had entered the master chamber with her medicine chest, he’d immediately sought out Kieran and announced he was going to ask his grandfather for a sword.
Kieran had quietly said he’d had a wooden sword when he was seven and suggested Collie ask for one instead.
“I want a real sword. I want to kill like ye do.”
Kieran had shaken his head. “No man enjoys killing, but if your grandsire approves, I’ll teach you to wield a wooden sword.”
Collie had accepted this with a sigh and gone off to corner Duncan, but Laurel had watched Kieran. Did he dislike killing? If so, why did he make his living with a sword? What sort of man was he? The urge to find out was more compelling than it should have been, given her horrible marriage and Kieran’s harshness.
Nay, she wasn’t doing this for herself; ‘twas for her kin. The MacLellans needed Kieran if they were to survive, and the way things stood, her people would not willingly follow him. “’Twould salve Ellis’s pride did you suggest instead of demand and find fault,” she said, testing the waters.
He snorted. “I’m here to save his hide, not his pride.”
“Prettily said. Are you a poet?”
He looked appalled. “Nay. I’m a mercenary.”
“A knight may be both warrior and poet.”
Another snort. “Not me.”
“Why did you become a mercenary?”
“Because I’m good at killing people. I enjoy it.”
Liar. “Have you been doing it long?” she asked as sweetly as though he’d said he was a wood-carver or a blacksmith.
“Since I was five and ten.”
Young. Too young to embark on such a hard life. “Was your sire a mercenary, too?”
“Nay.” He snarled and turned away, but Laurel wasn’t done with him. It took her several minutes and dozens of questions—most answered by a grunt or a single word—to pry loose the facts that he had no siblings, his father had been the eldest son of a noble house, his mother a Highland lady. Both were dead.
“My parents are dead, too,” Laurel said softly. He didn’t ask for details, but she supplied them anyway, ending with how she and Malcolm had been raised by Duncan and Nesta. “Who had the raising of you?” she innocently inquired.
He started so violently that his stallion balked and pranced forward. “Easy, Rath.” Kieran’s tone as he quieted the horse was so gentle and patient he seemed like another man. So, he could be kind when it suited him. Talk of his upbringing was painful and she wondered
