Page 16 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

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" L aird Sinclair wants to see ye." Duncan stood outside the bedchamber that had been assigned to Calliope, not making eye contact.

The man certainly was as oddball as his leader.

"All right. Will you lead the way, Sir Duncan?"

The warrior looked taken aback, his face draining a little of color as if she'd asked him to come into her chamber for an assignation.

"I won't bite, Sir Duncan. But I will get lost."

He grunted and beckoned her to follow, walking entirely too fast down the corridor, rounding the stairs at a pace that was likely to break one or both of their necks.

"Here, my lady," he said, tapping on the door with his knuckles before marching off down the stairs as if he couldn't wait to be out of her presence.

My goodness.

Calliope waited for the call to come from the inside, but there was only silence. She, too, rapped her knuckles against the wood door, but still, there was no call. Rolling her eyes, she pushed open the door and stared into the dimly lit, very large, empty room.

Sinclair’s study was sans Sinclair.

Calliope let out an annoyed huff. Commanded her attendance and wasn't even in the room. Annoying. Why bother? The nerve. Well, if he wasn't going to be here when he explicitly beckoned her, then she was going to take this as an opportunity to snoop.

She'd never been allowed in her Edgar's study, and she didn't remember if her real father had one at all.

Not that it mattered. If there was a study, it now belonged to her.

There was a wall lined with shelves, each shelf carrying a book or scroll. The wall with windows held weapons of all sorts. As if Alistair might expect to be set upon inside this room. She imagined him hunched over some sort of correspondence, quill in hand, only to toss the inky feather and leap for a weapon to fill his palm. The sight would actually be both comical and exhilarating.

The hearth was lit, but very low. A few banked logs with glowing embers barely gave off any heat. She shivered at the cold in the room. No blazing fire for the master of this castle. Though, to be fair, when they'd been riding together, it was fairly clear the man was a fire himself. She'd been instantly warmed. And how irritating that he'd kept pushing her away, trying to keep all that heat for himself.

Calliope meandered over to the long trestle table in the study's center, quite intrigued by the setup. A massive map spread out on the surface, and the little carved pieces that looked like part of a game of chess were placed all over. Riders on horseback. Ships. Men with swords. Castles. Mountains. Lochs. The map was like nothing she'd ever seen before. A work of art with leaves painted on every tree and castles carved from wood stood on top, making the map come to life. A miniature of Scotland.

She imagined this room was a gathering place, like a second great hall, rather than the laird’s study. Men would come from all around to sit at the table, bang their fists, argue, and do whatever it was that men did. And perhaps they still did, given the impressive map.

Just who exactly was Alistair Sinclair?

What did a man like him need with a map like this?

She whirled as the door behind her opened, and in came the man himself, taking up the space between the frame, his head easily a foot taller than the door itself. Saints, but he was a massive man.

And also, why did they make doorways in castles so short? As a child, she used to think it was so the enemy would come running through and knock themselves out before those within ever had to raise their weapons.

There was a scar in the middle of Alistair's forehead. Was it from hitting his head on the door? Or from battle? She was going to guess the door. There was another ragged scar on his chin, which she suspected was from an actual fight with a person, not a frame, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but he spoke first.

"What the hell were ye thinking?"

Calliope straightened her spine. Her fingers, which had been stroking the horse on the map a moment before, gripped the figure, prepared to throw it at his head. Sinclair summoned her here, which he seemed to have forgotten, and if he was going to command someone to join him in his study, then he'd best remember it. Then she recalled what had happened before she was summoned and realized he was likely asking about her attempt at escape. Fair.

"Excuse me?" She feigned outrage, but really, she had been about to climb out a window, and if he wasn't going to ask what the hell she was thinking, then she might think he had no feelings at all. Still, a lass had her pride.

"Ye could have killed yourself."

She shrugged. "I've climbed out a fair number of windows and never died before."

"What?"

His shock made her laugh. She would never understand why she liked the bulging of his eyes and the wrinkle of his forehead, but for some reason, it brought her a measure of delight she hadn't felt in a really long time.

"I'd rather not explain myself." She schooled her tone back to boredom, her expression flat, but on the inside, she was begging for him to engage.

There was an awareness of something running through her veins. The need to fight. To run. To reign victorious over something. And if it couldn't be her own castle, then why not this man? Call it exhaustion or madness—who cared as long as she was allowed to let herself run with it.

Alistair grumbled something under his breath.

"Oh, Sinclair, say it louder so I can hear," she pouted.

He grimaced, ignoring her request. "Do ye want your castle back?"

"Of course I do. That is an daft question." Now, she pouted in earnest.

"As daft as ye climbing out the window." He stared at her, daring her to counter that one.

Calliope sniffed. "Fine. I admit to it being a foolish and impulsive decision. But I stand by it. I've yet to fall from a window. I'm an excellent rock climber."

"Ye mean to say ye had no rope?" There was that shocked look again.

Calliope laughed once more. "What good would a rope do me?" She waved away his sputter. "Besides, that's in the past. Let us get to the heart of the matter. My castle."

Alistair marched toward her, and for the briefest of seconds, she thought he might take her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened after she'd done something foolish. But instead of manhandling her, he stood beside her and pointed at the map.

"The horses represent our allies. The ships belong to my brother. This is Scotland, of course, and down here, at the border."

Calliope followed the path of his finger along the map. She'd never seen the world laid out so wonderfully. "Did you paint this yourself?"

"Aye."

That surprised her. A talented artist, a warrior, and a leader? Skilled with a sword, but a paintbrush too? Again, she questioned just who in the hell he was.

"You're very talented." Her voice was breathless, and she wished she could pull it back. For some reason, she didn't want him to know how much he impressed her. "What's it for? Keeping watch?"

"Aye. And my brothers and I are aiding the Bruce."

"Robert the Bruce?"

He gave her an odd look. "Is there any other?"

She shrugged. "I've been in England for most of my life. I wouldn't know. Is there?"

"Nay."

The man looked at her like she was addled, but she was telling the truth. It wasn't like her mother and Sir Edgar had kept her apprised of everything that went on in Scotland; why would they?

"Well, 'tis a lovely map. Now, if there's nothing else, I'd like to discuss your plans for getting my castle back. As you've brought me here, somewhat against my will, I should at least have a say in that, don't you think?

"Nay."

Now it was Calliope's turn to look shocked. "I beg your pardon?"

Sinclair winged a brow at her. "Ye can beg all ye like, lass, but this will be my operation. No' yours."

"I never." The simple words rushed out under her breath. She wanted to tell him what a brute he was. And rude. And maybe he was the one who was addled. But all she could manage to do now with her throat tight with frustration and irritation and fear, was slam the dumb horse back on the table.

Pain seared through her palm, and she cried out, wincing as she flipped her hand over to see a jagged splinter in the center. Nay, not a splinter, a tiny wooden sword.

"My God, woman," Alistair barked out. He tugged a linen square from somewhere on his person and brought it to her hand.

Calliope stared at the faded linen, the embroidery in the corner, and the thistle, which was actually a bow if one looked close enough.

"Where did you get that?" she asked accusingly.

"What?" He glanced up at her with a frown.

The blood was draining quickly from her face and chest. The sting in the center of her palm was forgotten, and she touched the tiny purple bow. "This linen, where did you get it?"

"A gift. Long ago." He was staring at her with the oddest expression. "Why?"

Calliope swallowed. "Who gave it to you?"

He tried to tug the linen back. "Why?"

Calliope wouldn't let him. "Did you steal it?" she asked.

"Steal it?" Alistair sounded appalled. And his grip was stronger. He yanked the linen square away.

"I made that," she said, pointing and then wincing because doing so made her hand throb.

"How could ye know ye made it?" he asked.

"Because I did." She yanked out the tiny wooden sword and stabbed it toward the thistle. "I sewed that thistle to look like a bow. A small rebellion against my mother."

"Ye…" His eyes widened now as he warded off her tiny wooden sword. "Ye sewed this?"

"Aye. Where did you get it?"

"Who did ye give it to?"

Calliope narrowed her eyes. "'Tis rude to answer a question with a question."

"All right, fine. 'Twas a gift. At a joust."

"By a lass?"

"Aye."

"That was me."

"Ye lie."

Calliope rolled her eyes and then repeated how she'd seen the lad holding the reins of a warrior's horse and that she had been intent on gifting her rebellious linen to a warrior. Still, when she'd seen him, she'd given it to him instead.

"Ye…" he said again as if he couldn't quite grasp the concept that she was herself and that she'd been a little girl once, and not just any young woman, but the one who'd given him a gift.

"Aye, me. Is that so hard to believe?"

He shook his head, a look of awe coming over his face. "I've worn this linen for every battle, every competition."

"Really?" she smiled, intrigued by his admission.

"It has been my good luck token."

"Are you serious?" Why was her heart thudding so hard behind the wall of her chest?

"Every single one."

"And have you won them all?"

"Aye."

"So, what you're saying is, you want to thank me."

Alistair snorted. "I supposed I owe ye my gratitude. Though, I dinna even know your name."

Calliope formed an O with her mouth, surprised she'd yet to share that with him. "Calliope."

He grinned.

"And what you're also wanting to say, Sinclair, is that since I was so kind as to give you my rebellion linen, which has helped you to be victorious and successful, that you wish to let me lead this rebellion against those who have taken my castle."

"No' so much, Calliope."

The way he said her name sent a little thrill up her spine.

"Well, it was worth a try." She grinned. "At least let me… observe."

Alistair shook his head, and she felt those familiar tremors of anger returning.

"After all we've been through, Sinclair, I thought better of you."

"All we've been through?"

"Aye, my blood is woven into that bow on that tiny square. You took me with you for all the other battles."

"If I were no' a sane man, I might actually believe ye." A whistle sounded from the window. "Ah, they come."

"Who comes?" She started toward the window.

"My allies."

Outside, a thunderous sound emanated from the ground. Dozens of warriors were riding toward the castle. She might have been terrified they were about to be set upon if he'd not just declared them allies. "They will help?"

"Aye." Confidence oozed from his voice.

"Please, let me at least speak with them and offer my thanks." Her voice was as sweet as honey.

Alistair looked like he would say no but quickly changed his mind. "All right. But allow me to introduce ye first."

The first of many battles won.