Page 1 of The Thief (Castle Blackstone #3)

Late spring, 1411

Stirling Castle, Scotland

While smoke from a dozen rush torches wafted about the rafters like worried ghosts, Ian MacKay studied the men and women milling before him in Stirling’s great hall. Each, he’d decided long ago, was either flint or kindling. Each, whether they kenned it or not, had the capacity to turn Scotland into a raging inferno.

Something he’d willingly die to prevent.

His attention shifted slowly from one chieftain to another but never lingered. Should he focus too long on one man, he could inadvertently set rival tongues to wagging. He served, after all, as Albany’s eyes and ears within the realm. Their regent’s spy. Not a position he relished—-in fact, he loathed it--but that couldna alter his determination to maintain his position. ‘Twas his only hope for seeing his rightful king on the throne and for keeping his kith and kin secure in their northwest Highland home.

No easy task, given the MacKays were a querulous lot forever at odds with their neighbors, the powerful Sutherlands to their south and the St. Clairs to their east. Worse, his new liege lord was the hot-blooded Black Angus. Worse still, the man was his brother-by-marriage.

Aye, for his clan and king he would remain, suppressing his longing for a family of his own, more often garbed in silk instead of his breachen feile, suffering ridiculous shoes when he much preferred going barefoot, traveling hither and yon at Albany’s whim, all in the name of Scotland.

He heaved a resigned sigh as a harassed-looking warrior shouldered his way through the crowd and approached the cluster of Campbells.

God’s teeth, now what?

He tried to read the agitated man’s lips as John Campbell, a barrel-chested chieftain normally of good humor, narrowed his eyes and then scowled. A heartbeat later the warrior rushed off.

“What has auld Campbell scowling?”

Ian glanced at his younger brother, Shamus, and again mentally cursed the pox that had ruined the lad’s once- handsome countenance. Thank God their sister had been spared.

“The Campbells are at odds with the Stewarts of Appin again. Not wise, given the Stewart’s marriage alliance.”

Shamus grunted. “Aye, and their powerful Douglas allies.”

“Aye.” But then the Campbell had a few allies of his own. Duncan MacDougall of Drasmoor, for one.

A strong liege lord, the laird of Castle Blackstone could marshal nine hundred battle-hardened warriors if need be. Duncan’s entry into battle would doubtless suck in Angus the Blood of Donaleigh; the men had fought shoulder to shoulder for decades. Sensing a possible Stewart defeat, the Douglas—-having signed a secret pledge with Albany--would then have no choice but to call forth his five thousand men. The earl of Sutherland, loathing Douglas, would then enter the battle, and Ian had little doubt his liege would use Sutherland’s entrance as an excuse to summon his four thousand warriors with the lift of his beefy hand.

Then, God help them all.

Meanwhile, the loathsome English would be watching and grinning into their cups, waiting for Scotland to self-destruct.

Which, given the current tensions, was altogether possible.

That Scotland should be so easily torn asunder--that matters could so easily get out of hand by a simple reiving or misunderstanding--made Ian’s blood boil.

“Shamus, ye’ll have to excuse me. I fear I’ve work to do else all hell breaks loose.” Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the Campbells .

“Brother, before you go!”

Ian turned to find Shamus shouldering his way through the crowd. Finally at his side and grinning, Shamus murmured, “‘Pride. Envy. Avarice. These are the sparks have set on fire the hearts of all men.’”

Ian laughed. “ Inferno and sadly too true. You now owe me L700 and sixpence.”

“Shit. How could you have read it already? You just purchased it.”

Ian winked. “I had plenty of time on the way back from France.”

Shamus made a derisive sound at the back of his throat. “One of these days...”

“Aye, one of these days you’ll best me. Now be off. We both have work to do.”

Ian sighed as Shamus, muttering, his back hunched, walked away. They’d played this game for nigh on to a decade now and his having a prodigious memory did have its advantages. Ian’s repetitive winning kept his brother reading. An imperative, given Ian fully expected to die without issue leaving Shamus to take control of Seabhagnead, his beloved mountain keep...should he ever finish it. And to be an effective laird, his brother would need more than his engaging smile and strong arm; he’d need the insight and resourcefulness he’d gleam through the books Ian deliberately left lying about.

But enough of this. He had a war to prevent.

With his gaze on the Campbell, Ian nearly trampled Lady Mary MacKinnon when she stepped into his path. Forcing a smile he murmured, “My pardon, my lady.”

The raven-haired chatelaine of Brittle Moor placed her hand on his arm. “Ian, dearest, I’ve missed you.”

“Ah, I’ve thought of you often as well.”

Mary tipped her head and studied him through thick black lashes, a charming pout gracing her bowed lips. “Then why am I seeking you out instead of whithershins? You’ve been home for nearly a week, yet my bed remains cold. Hmmm?”

He sighed. On Albany’s orders he’d gone to Brittle Moor to offer the crown’s reassurances that the lady and her clan would continue to have protection after her husband died. She, in turn, had spilled her tears and fears all over his chest, as many a lady tended to do. Being a gentleman and having a weakness for bonnie brunettes, he’d naturally offered comfort. But like the seasons, each had its own time and theirs had passed.

“Now, Mary, you know I can’t be tupping another man’s wife. I do have some scruples.” Not many when it came to bedding luscious wenches, but a few.

Glancing about, she whispered, “I’m no man’s wife for a fortnight yet and well you know it.” She shuddered in delicate fashion. “Oh, to be man...or a wealthy woman who could buy her way free.”

Ian patted the delicately boned hand, which had brought him a good deal of pleasure some three moons past, before easing it off his arm.

Mary had been sold into marriage at the age of fourteen to a sickly man thrice her age and was now pledged to an apparently viral chieftain who had sired five daughters and desperately needed a son. Her bed wouldn’t be cold for long. “If you find MacLeod so loathsome, you should have taken my advice and pledged yourself to the church, become a voweress.”

Mary snorted diversely. “Now? After you introduced me to the delicious—-ah, my lord MacLeod!”

Ian glanced left and found Mary’s burly fiancé bearing down on them. He acknowledged the ruddy-faced Lord of the Isle of Lewis with a nod and raised his voice to normal volume. “I’ll keep an eye out for a suitable palfrey, my lady. Docile, black and no more than thirteen hands high, as you wish.”

Bright pink spots bloomed on Mary’s cheeks. “Perfect.” She then beamed at MacLeod, who looked none too pleased to find Ian at his betrothed’s side. “My lord, I was just telling Sir MacKay that my ancient mare won’t be able to handle your Isle’s rugged terrain, and he graciously offered to find me another.”

MacLeod wrapped a possessive arm around Mary’s waist and pulled her to his side. Locking gazes with Ian he muttered, “We’ve cattle aplenty, my lady. No need to bother MacKay with such trivial matters, now is there?”

Mary patted MacLeod’s mail-clad chest and sighed. “Of course, my lord. How thoughtless of me. My apologies, Sir MacKay.”

Ah, as he suspected. The lady wasn’t as opposed to this new union as she would have him believe .

Ian bowed. “As you wish, my lady. I shall forget the matter entirely.” To MacLeod he said, “Good eve, MacLeod, and my best wishes on your upcoming nuptials.”

As he strode away, MacLeod growled “bastard” under his breath, and Ian sighed. Mary played a dangerous game. Thank heaven he’d had the wisdom to ignore her last missive summoning him to her chambers. He wouldn’t be the least surprised to learn her betrothed had secreted a number of spies about her. ‘Twas one thing to have half of Scotland calling him the Thief of Hearts. ‘Twas quite another to be caught at it.

He shuddered and quickened his pace, again focused on forestalling a conflict between the Campbells and Stewarts.

As if sensing his approach, the seafaring Campbells of Dunstaffnage parted, and Ian caught sight of an extraordinarily tall woman in widow’s garb on the far side of the hall. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and he slowed to study this stranger silhouetted by a full moon.

Humph!

Albany had been explicit when he had summoned the chieftains to the General Council. Each was to have no more than ten in their party and those were to be kin. He knew every leader within the realm and none had married or produced such a tall and... plush lass.

An angry shout jerked his attention back to the Campbells .

Augh. The mystery of the widow would have to wait. But not for long. He wouldn’t put it past the bloody English to put a Trojan horse amongst them. Were he in their position, he most certainly would.