Page 53 of The Scot Beds His Wife

“There’s smoke upon the north wind tonight,” his mother fretted. “Do you smell it, son?”

Gavin didn’t need his mother’s keen senses, honed by her lack of sight, to catch the acrid smell of fire on the wind. “Aye.” He scanned the darkness to the north and the west, but the lack of moon made the inky shadows absolute. There were very few times Gavin imagined he could understand his mother’s plight, but tonight was one of them.

Something wasn’t right out there. The smoke wasn’t fed by peat or coal, this was something strange and unnatural.

If the smoke came from the north and west, that meant—

A powerful knock served to push his chamber door open, as he’d left it unlatched.

Callum burst in, grim-faced and wild-eyed, followed by his father, an older version of the Mac Tíre, with a thinner beard and a thicker waist.

His mother whimpered and clutched at him, ever sensitive to loud, abrupt sounds.

“Gunshots to the north,” Callum informed him.

Careful not to grip his mother too tightly, though every muscle wanted to seize, he asked, “Do ye smell gunpowder on the wind?”

“Aye, but it would take two warring battalions to produce enough smoke to drift this far—”

Eammon’s hand fell onto his son’s shoulder, stopping his word with a meaningful grip. “You’ll forgive us our intrusion, my lady,” he enunciated gently, his County Claire accent always a melody with an upward inflection. “We mean to cause you no distress. We didn’t realize you were in here with your son.”

“Oh, Mr. Monahan.” Eleanor’s shaking hand lifted to clutch the collar of her robe closer to her high-necked gown. “I was—was just—I came to warn—I thought I heard…” Words failed her, as they often did in the company of men.

“Right you were, my lady, and so you did.” Eammon Monahan praised her as though she’d accomplished a brilliant feat. “But never you fear, the blasts were too far away to pose any threat on Inverthorne lands. Though they’d carry over Gresham Loch well enough.” He cast a meaningful, golden-eyed look at Gavin.

His breath tripping over a sudden weight in his chest, he had to force out the question. “Erradale?”

“Could be.” Callum nodded shortly.

Alison.

Even the trigger-happy lass wasn’t likely to be honing her skills at this time of night.

“The horses are ready,” Callum stated shortly.

“Mother, let me take ye back to yer room.” Gavin struggled to keep his impatience out of his voice, wrestling with it like an unexpected foe as he shuffled her forward.

To the wood and peat dwellings of Erradale, a fire would mean instantaneous disaster. And who would be shooting rifles in the middle of such a frigid bastard of an evening? A man would no more like to be outside than he would be caught beneath the ice forming on the loch.

“You young bucks can tear out of here after the wee Miss Ross,” Eammon offered. “If her ladyship would permit me to escort her back to her quarters, I’ll be along after seeing to her safety.”

Both Callum and Gavin took a moment to gape at Eammon. Never in their lives had they heard the grizzled man speak with such gentility of phrase.

Unperturbed, he stared right back at them.

“A-alone?” Eleanor croaked, her fist tightening on Gavin’s sleeve.

“I’ll fetch Alice,” Gavin offered.

“Nay.”A swallow heralded a polite smile perfected for a long-ago presentation to the queen. “Nay, you go, son. I can find my way on my own. ’Tis only three doors. I do it all the time.”

Kissing his mother’s forehead, Gavin launched himself toward the doorway with Callum close on his heels, as it had always been. They reached the end of the stone hall before they realized one set of footsteps was missing.

Gavin took a precious moment to look back.

Eammon stood at his door, holding it open. His chestheld tight beneath his vest as though the older man wasn’t allowing himself to breathe. The fist curled at his side shook with the burden of restraint as he watched Gavin’s ethereal mother tiptoe back to her own chamber.

Retrieving his own rifle from the armory, Gavin tossed Callum his bow and quiver, and they each stowed their dirks and hatchets with the practiced alacrity of Highlanders who’d comfortably hunted together for the better part of a quarter century.