Page 48 of The Laird's Wicked Game
“Quiet … self-restrained,” Tara replied with a rueful shake of her head. “I don’t think I ever saw her and Rae bicker … not like Jack and I do.” She paused then. “Donalda was an excellent chatelaine though … I always admired the way she managed the broch.”
Kylie nodded at this yet refrained from asking anything else. It wouldn’t do to appear too interested in the laird’s wife.
Meanwhile, Tara continued to drink her wine, observing Kylie over the rim of her cup.
Her gaze had turned speculative now, and Kylie tensed. “What is it?”
Tara shook her head. “I’m not sure … I can’t put my finger on it … but somehow, ye are different today.”
“I am?” she replied, taking care to appear amused rather than flustered by this observation.
“Aye, there’s more color to yer cheeks, yer eyes are brighter, and ye smile more readily.” Tara paused then, her lips curving. “And I caught ye singing like a bird just now.”
Kylie’s pulse quickened, even as she shrugged. “Maybe living at Dounarwyse suits me.”
Tara’s smile widened. “I’d say it does.”
18: MY SHIP AND MY SWORD
Castle Coeffin, Isle of Lismore
One month later …
RAMSAY MACDONALD DIDN’T like to be interrupted when he was drinking. He had a jug of mead at his elbow, and his companions had just started another round of knucklebones, when the stranger entered the hall—and he could tell by the beeline the man was making for him that he wished to talk.
Tall, fair-haired, and with a swagger that made Ramsay scowl, the man reminded him of the laird of this castle. Duncan MacDougall’s hair was more white than blond these days, yet the resemblance was striking. The same high cheekbones. The same ice-blue eyes.
Taking another pull of mead, Ramsay tracked the newcomer right up to his table. The man then halted before him and folded his arms across his chest. “Ross Macbeth?”
Ramsay grunted. These days he didn’t go by his real name—he hadn’t done so in nearly four years. Ramsay MacDonald was a wanted man and so was Ross Macbeth. “Aye, what’s it to ye?”
The stranger gave him a wolfish smile. The bastard had perfect white teeth. “My name’s Tormod MacDougall.”
“Good for ye.”
“My uncle says ye captain that cog moored on the docks.”
“Aye.” Ramsay drained the last of his mead and poured himself some more. He wasn’t drunk enough to bandy words with this bore. “What of it?”
“He tells me ye and yer men are the ‘Ghost Raiders’.”
Ramsay pulled a face. The laird of Castle Coeffin had a big mouth. Over the past months, the MacDougalls had given Ramsay and his men a safe port. They had no love for the Macleans of Mull, having had a long-running dispute over fishing rights. Even so, Ramsay knew he was likely outstaying his welcome by now.
He’d promised Duncan he’d get back to raiding the Isle of Mull’s coastline in the autumn, and he would.
Still grinning, and unbothered by Ramsay’s cool welcome, Tormod dragged a stool over from a nearby trestle table and took a seat. It was growing late, and the castle’s hall was empty save for this table where Ramsay and his crew lingered. The laird had long since retired with his wife to his chambers upstairs. “Fear not,” the arrogant newcomer drawled. “I have a bone to pick with the Macleans of Mull too.”
Ramsay sneered. He didn’t care and wished this fool would stop his yapping and leave him in peace.
Undaunted though, Tormod continued. “My uncle says there are two Macleans ye hate the most … Loch Maclean, and his cousin, Jack.”
Ramsay stilled. Had he said that? He must have been in his cups when he let that slip. He’d gone by his real name back when he and Jack had crossed paths. These days, he was usually careful not to reveal much about the events that had led to his exile. “Is there a point to yer blether?” he asked sourly.
“Aye.” Tormod drew his stool closer, his pale blue eyes gleaming intently now. The hair on the back of Ramsay’s neck prickled. There was something about this warrior that made him uneasy. He smiled too much, yet his eyes were as cold as lumps of granite. “I used to work in the Dounarwyse Guard. Did ye know that Jack Maclean leads it these days?”
Ramsay set his cup down on the table before him with a thump.
Around him, his men ceased their game of knucklebones, keen gazes swiveling his way. But their captain ignored them. Instead, his gaze remained riveted upon Tormod. The man didn’t know it, yet he’d just handed Ramsay a prize.