Page 62 of Claimed by a Highlander
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“You’re the finest horse in all of Scotland,” Rory said, rubbing Curan’s nose after the horse trotted out of the darkness. “Ye saved us tonight.”
Rory retrieved their saddle, rolled blankets, and extra oats for Curan from the barn, and they slept in the open field.
At least Sybil slept, showing more trust than Rory deserved. He lay awake, furious with himself for putting Sybil in danger. In his pride, he’d been confident he could protect her, but he had misjudged the risk. They had survived the fire only because Duncan had also made a misjudgment by not staying to make certain they died in the fire.
He pondered Duncan’s lapse as he stared at the black sky. Most people assumed Duncan was dimwitted because of his size and reputation for brute force, but Hector’s henchman was clever and excruciatingly thorough in the execution of his dark deeds.
Perhaps Duncan had searched elsewhere, still not found what he was looking for, and returned to torch the house on the chance it was hidden there. If he came in the night, he might not even have realized they were there.
Whether Duncan meant to murder them or not, the fire brought home to Rory that his pursuit of the chieftainship put Sybil in danger. The one thing she needed from him after what her brothers had done was to feel safe, and he’d failed her.
Dawn was just breaking when he saw the silhouettes of a dozen Highland warriors—and one priest—riding toward them. He kissed Sybil’s brow to wake her.
“Mo Leannain,”my sweetheart, he said, and kissed Sybil’s brow. “Malcolm and the others are here.”
After some ribbing about his state of undress, one of the men lent him some extra clothes, and Rory told them about the fire.
“Is sleamhainn leac doras an taigh mhòir,” the chief’s house has a slippery doorstep, one of the older men said with a nod toward the smoldering house. “So long as Hector wants to take your place, ye must watch your back.”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
They moved into the barn, leaving two men outside to keep watch. Though the hour was early, someone had brought whisky to facilitate the discussion.
“Tonight the fires will be lit on hilltops all across MacKenzie lands to call the clan to the gathering at Castle Leod,” Malcolm said. “My sons have seen to that, and they’ll arrive over the next few days with many clansmen to support you.”
“Good,” Rory said, nodding his thanks.
“The clan has a week to travel to the gathering to select the new chieftain,” Malcolm continued. “If we’re lucky, Hector won’t learn of Brian’s death until he sees the fires, but I expect he already knows.”
“Then he’s on his way to Castle Leod to make his claim for the chieftainship.” Rory lifted his cup. “But I’ll be there first. I’ll not have him bar the damned gates to me as he did at Eilean Donan.”
The men clanked their cups together and drank.
“I know I’ll have my supporters, but our clansmen are accustomed to following Hector,” Rory said. “He’s led the clan in my brother’s name for many years.”
“And deceived them even longer,” Alex said.
“Hector always saw ye as a threat,” one of the other men said. “The clan knows your reputation as a warrior, but Hector made damned sure ye were never allowed to lead a battle or sit on the council.”
The men contemplated their whisky in silence for a time.
“If ye want your clansmen to see ye as a chieftain,” Sybil said, “then ye must look and act like one.”
From the way all the men turned to look at her, it was apparent they had either forgotten she was there or never expected her to speak. She took a deep breath and forged ahead.
“Rory should ride through the gates on the last day accompanied by two hundred warriors,” she said, spreading her arms, “and all the people shouting his name!”
Rory laughed, and the others stared at her as if she were daft. In the long, awkward silence that followed, she thought they all had dismissed her advice.
Malcolm pulled out his pipe and chewed on the stem.
“There’s something to be said for the lass’s plan,” he said after a long pause. “Hector goes nowhere without a guard of twenty, as if he’s been chieftain all along. He sleeps in the chieftain’s bedchamber and sits in the chieftain’s chair too.”
“Hmmph,” Rory grunted. “Sitting in the chieftain’s chair doesn’t make a man worthy to lead.”
“If ye don’t believe appearances matter, consider my bishop. Dress that fool in his white and gold robes and pointy hat, and people believe he’s a font of wisdom,” Alex said, then grinned and added, “Not that you’re a fool.”
