Page 11 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

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T he giant of a man holding her on his hard, muscled lap claimed to be a Sinclair.

If only she could remember what the Sinclairs looked like. But she'd been six the last time she'd seen them, and this one would have been a lad.

Alistair Sinclair, if that's who he was, had shoulders wide enough she could fit two of herself standing between them. Even from here, with the moon glinting on his dark hair, she wondered at the softness and the contrast it made to the rough stubble lining his masculine, square jaw. There appeared to be a permanent frown on his face. Brows drawn together, eyes squinted, mouth turned down.

Calliope wondered if he'd been frowning so long that he forgot what it was like to smile.

Whether or not he was handsome, she'd not fully made a judgment. It was too dark after all, plus all his frowns, to come to any sort of realistic conclusion on the matter. What she was more concerned about was that her bottom rested on his very hard thighs in a most unladylike manner. Worse still, her skirts were soaked, and she was surely soaking the warrior as well. If he wasn't already annoyed at having to chase her through the woods, being soaked by her muddy gown would be enough to keep the frown frozen on his face longer.

How he'd spoken to her and gestured at her made her think he believed her to be weak. Perhaps even addled. And aye, she certainly felt addled. Who wouldn't if they'd been torn out of the only life they could rightly remember and tossed into a new life that was swiftly cut down? The father she'd hardly known murdered.

Tears stung her eyes, but Calliope blinked them away, not wanting to have to wipe them away and solidify this man's opinion of her.

There was one thing Calliope was not, and that was weak.

But, given she didn't know this alleged Alistair Sinclair who held her on his horse, nor was she familiar with the very land they rode over, she thought it best to keep to herself just how capable and fearless she was. Men were content to believe a woman was dim-witted and feeble; perhaps she could use that to her advantage now. She had yet to decide if she could trust Alistair Sinclair, and she might need to escape him.

Better he continue thinking her addled, and she could have the upper hand.

Besides, she had more important matters to worry over at the present moment, even more pressing than the inappropriateness of her bottom on his thighs. And that was that this warrior was returning her to the keep where she'd just been witness to death.

Except, she hadn't really, had she? She'd only heard what sounded like her father's murder. Then she'd escaped.

What if, when they arrived, they found out that her father was alive? What if it had all been some sort of elaborate joke? A prank played on the Englishwoman who'd arrived just that evening and been dropped nearly on their doorstep.

But to fake an attack. To fake a death… She shook her head. If that was what had happened, she'd kill her father herself.

"Are ye all right, lass?" Sinclair spoke in her ear in a low whisper, the bristles on his jaw brushing against her as he spoke. Concern edged his tone, but she was working hard not to shiver from the brush of his chin, the breath of air, which made focusing on what he said more difficult. How was so small an act causing her mind to forget how it worked?

Calliope leaned forward, away from his warm chest and his hot breath. "I'm fine."

"But ye're shuddering. Are ye cold?"

Blast it, but he'd noticed. "Aye," Calliope said tightly.

The word was no sooner out of her mouth than she found herself wrapped in a cocoon of warmth as he swathed a blanket over her shoulders and promptly hauled her back against him.

"Often, there is a coldness that comes from terror," he explained as if that were the reason for her shivers. "And I should think doubly so with your wet clothes."

At least Calliope could be grateful for his ignorance of the actual reason, but then she realized what he'd just said. "I'll not remove my gown. I hardly notice it's wet at all." She stiffened, sitting forward again to lean over his horse's neck and as far away from him as she could get.

"I've no' asked ye too, but when we get to the castle and get it all sorted out, ye might well get a change of clothes." He tugged her back again. "And if ye keep leaning over like that, ye're likely to topple right off the damn horse. And trust me when I say my mount willna stop but trample over ye."

She scowled into the darkness but nodded, remaining where he pulled her against him. But only because he was exceedingly warm, and now that he'd pointed out her clothes were wet and it was cold out, she was suddenly feeling quite chilled.

Since they were headed back to Ramsey Castle, and her trunks were in her bedchamber, with plenty of clothing to choose from, it would be quite nice to get dry. But in order to get to her bedchamber, she'd have to walk through the great hall to the stairs, and then when she did that, she would see the body of her father on the floor. And before even getting into the castle, they'd have to ensure the enemy was no longer occupying the walls.

Oh, heavens… what if the enemy had already gone and had taken her father's body with them? She shook her head, realizing that was nonsense. Why would they take him?

Why would they leave?

As they drew closer to the keep, Calliope noted that the torches that had been lit on the battlements prior to her arrival were smothered. The entire stone fortress was dark as if to say that the light had been extinguished not only from her father but also from the clan.

"Do ye smell that?" From behind her, Alistair lifted his nose in the air and sniffed.

Calliope mimicked him, drawing in a deep, earthly—and distinct scent of smoke filtering in the air. Where could it be coming from? The castle itself was dark, and there didn't appear to be any smoke coming from there.

"A fire?" one of his men asked.

"Aye, a big one from what I can gather." Alistair's tone sounded dull and even bored. How could he not care about a big fire?

Her immediate thought went to the villagers. If someone was willing to walk into the keep and kill her father, surely they were capable of destroying the village, too. Isn't that what conquerors did? They burned out the villages, pillaged their stores and their livestock, and laid ruin to everything and everyone they could get their greedy hands on.

Calliope peered through the twilight darkness, trying to decipher if she could see anything that might resemble a fire, even a wisp or tendril of smoke. She had yet to learn where the village was. From the road, Edgar, took her straight into the castle’s courtyard, and she didn't recall passing any cottages or pastures. When she'd escaped out of the back, she'd barely looked anywhere to puzzle out anything other than the road and how to get away.

"Where's the village?" Alistair asked.

There was silence from all around, and it was only when he nudged her shoulder and prodded her with, "Lass, where?" that she realized he was speaking to her.

"I… I don't know. I don't remember." Her answer was wholly inadequate for him and for her. But that was the truth, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

He grunted with a disappointment she tried hard not to take personally. None of this was her fault. Not even her faulty memory. What six-year-old would know where the village was in a place she had not laid on in fifteen years anyway?

"I've only just arrived, Sinclair," her voice sounded as bitter as she felt.

"Duncan, take two men with ye to find the village, decipher where the fire is coming from. We'll go to the keep."

"We cannot go to the keep," she said. "What if they are still there? You will most certainly be outnumbered."

Again, Alistair grunted, only this time he managed to sound quite arrogant, as if a few measly, murdering Englishmen meant nothing to him.

Calliope wanted to scream. To turn around, wrap her fingers around his neck, and shake until he had some sense brought back to him.

"Broderick, keep her safe," he said.

Before she understood what was happening, Alistair lifted her onto the other warrior's lap and took off with several men in tow.

Alistair and the man he called Duncan parted ways, going in opposite directions. She sat atop the warrior he'd called Broderick, staring after their retreating forms.

"He promised me dry clothes," she muttered, disgruntled.

"Aye, lass, ye'll be getting dry soon enough." Broderick's words were meant to be kind, but she could hear the annoyance in them all the same. He didn't like the fact that he'd been made to stay behind and mind the lunatic lass they'd found in the woods. She could tell. And really, she couldn't blame him; she was somewhat perturbed herself.

Calliope had always been good at interpreting annoyance. She'd grown used to it with her mother and Edgar. It was harder to understand when someone was being kind.

Well, she wasn't one to sit still, and she certainly wasn't going to be the one that disappointed this warrior. Before Broderick knew what she was doing, she shifted and hopped off his mount, landing a little harder on her feet than she anticipated. What warmth she'd gathered from sitting with the two overly heated warriors dissipated, leaving her feeling as though ice had started to settle in her bones.

"Now see here," Broderick growled, "ye'll no' be going anywhere."

She started to walk away, only to have a strong arm lift her back up onto his lap.

"Sinclair's orders."

"I'm not a Sinclair," she declared as if that would make a difference to this man who clearly took his job seriously.

"Doesna matter, lass," he said as if he'd read her mind. "The Chief's ordered us to stay put and I'm to mind ye, but ye'll need to mind me while I'm doing so."

"I'm not a child."

"Then I dare say, dinna act like one."

"What?" She whirled around in the saddle, prepared to give him hell for his insult, only to hear the distinct sounds of shrill whistles.

"They've found something." Broderick's eyes narrowed.

"Shouldn't we go see what it is?" she encouraged.

"Nay."

"Why not?"

"Sinclair's orders."

Calliope rolled her eyes, even as gooseflesh rose on her skin at the sound of the shrill whistles. "What if the whistle was to gain your attention because they are in need of assistance."

"'Tis no'."

"But what if it is?"

"Good God, woman, hush now."

"Those were not Sinclair orders," she goaded him, folding her arms over her chilled chest. She wished she could remove her boots and hose and hold her water-logged toes toward a fire. If not for the fear running through her veins, she might encourage him to build her a fire.

A second shrill whistle.

"Broderick, is it?"

He grunted just like his leader, and Calliope frowned.

"I think we must answer the call, Broderick."

"There was no call," he insisted, stubborn as his Chief.

"I heard a whistle. Twice."

"Aye."

"Then it was a call."

"Nay."

She gritted her teeth. A whistle was a call; everyone knew that. Why was this warrior being so stubborn?

"What if it is a warning of an advancing army?"

"'Tis no'. That's a different sound."

"Is there no convincing you to see if the village is on fire?"

"I've my orders."

That wasn't really an answer, but she supposed, in his way, it was. Why did Broderick have to be such a stickler? She was scheming up a way to tell him that, hoping to manipulate him into seeing about the people, when one of the men who'd gone off with Duncan rushed down the road toward them.

"They burned out a single cottage, but not all of them."

Calliope's hand came to her mouth. "Was anyone…?"

"Aye, my lady. A few. We canna tell ye who they are. The rest of the village appears empty."

She thought of the maid who rushed into her room and told her to bar the door.

"The clan is very big," she said. "They must have a hiding place."

"Did ye see any foe?" Broderick asked.

"No' a one."

"Could they have taken prisoners?"

The other warrior shrugged. "I dinna know. We'd best tell Alistair what we found."

"Aye, ye take the woman."

And once again, she found herself being transferred into another lap as Broderick rode off in the direction of Alistair and the keep.

Calliope didn't waste any time. She hopped off the warrior's horse and started to run. After all, Sinclair's orders were to stay with Broderick.