Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(49)
“Stupid man,” Callum Ewing bellowed. “What are you thinking, jumping out of the wood like that in front of twenty-five armed men? Do you know who you’re challenging?”
Lachlan watched as two of Callum’s fighters kicked their steads to intervene, their swords singing out of their scabbards. By reflex, Lachlan clutched his own hilt in the folds of his borrowed cleric’s robes.
“I’m making no challenge, Callum Ewing,” Angus said as the fighting men hemmed him in. “I was happy to see familiar colors. I’ve been wandering in these woods for half a day now, trying to find my way out of game paths and onto any decent road.”
Callum kicked his mount closer. “Angus O’Donnell, is that you?”
“Of course it is. Have you gone blind, old friend, not to recognize me, even after all these years?”
Callum raised his hand for his men to stand down. Lachlan loosened his own grip on his sword as Callum’s smile twitched under the well-trimmed white beard.
“You’ve grown a bit since I last saw you, Angus,” the chieftain said.
“That I have.” Angus laughed and slapped his belly with his palms. It was a wonder to Lachlan that Angus could go from threatening this man’s life to bantering with him, all within a few moments.
“And what in God’s name are you doing on this lonely stretch of road? It’s dangerous times to be wandering, even for an Irish merchant.”
“Indeed, so I’ve heard. So many bloody tales coming out of Loch Fyfe.”
“Aye, there has been enough bloodshed and treachery in these parts to last many a generation.”
Callum squinted to where the rest of them waited by the side of the road. By instinct, Lachlan lowered his head so the cowl would cover his eyes, though Angus had assured him that his beard alone made him look more like a French pirate than a MacEgan.
Callum said, “I see you have porters and clerics and plenty of baggage, but where’s your cart of wines and spices? And why didn’t you bring your ship to port at Bruichladdich or Kintyre?”
“The fog bedazzled my men, sending us up the river rather than up the coast.” Angus shrugged. “Not knowing the difference, we scraped the boat on a shallow rock during low tide. We had to row fast to the nearest shore, to a wild place just over these hills.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t routed by the MacDonalds.”
“Oh, I trade with them, too, Ewing. The MacDonald has a weakness for the Bordeaux.”
Callum’s grin widened. “I’d call you a traitor if I didn’t like your wine so much myself. Is that where you’re off to?”
“No, I’m off to Loch Fyfe,” he said. “To pay tribute at the grave of Fergus MacEgan, and bring my greetings to the new chieftain, whoever he may be.”
Lachlan didn’t have to squint too hard to see the powerful effect the words had on the chieftain. Callum’s features spasmed into a grief. This head of the Ewing clan had been his father’s good friend, the septs linked by generations of friendship, interests, and occasional intermarriage. The sight of Callum’s grief gave credence to Lachlan’s decision to put his faith in Cairenn and her otherworldly, inexplicable powers.
“Aye, Angus,” Callum said. “You’re a far stretch of the legs from where you want to go, at least twenty leagues off. Follow this road whence we came. You’ll pass my castle beyond the third bend. Some ways beyond, there’s a good place to ford the river to get to the other side. Six leagues through the woods heading north and you’ll be in MacEgan lands.”
Angus squinted down the road in the direction the chieftain pointed. “MacEgan lands that way and MacDonald lands behind me. Yes, I’ve got my bearings now.” Angus then turned to squint down the other end of the road. “If my memory serves, Ewing, this path leads to Lamont land.”
“And to hell, I suspect.”
Surely Angus missed his calling as a master player, Lachlan thought, as he watched astonished disbelief cross his cousin’s face.
“There must be a story here,” Angus said darkly, “if you’re off to speak with the devil.”
“There are devils enough whence I came.” The old chieftain shifted his grip on his pommel. “But when the only MacEgan left standing is an untried young man, and the whole place abounds with murderers, the only path open to an honest man is straight into the devil’s arms.”
There was one more MacEgan alive, and Lachlan’s body tingled with the urge to shout it. If only he could throw off his cleric’s robes and make himself known, but Cairenn’s fingers curled under his rope belt as if in warning. She whispered something between his shoulder blades. He could not hear the words, but he guessed their substance. He had to stay mute while in the presence of so many men whose loyalties were as of yet unknown.
Then he noticed another rider weaving past the twenty mounted men to Callum’s side. The rider wore a plain blue cloak pulled low as though the rider wanted to hide as much as Lachlan did. Lachlan’s heart did a hard throb when he saw a pale, bejeweled hand come out from under the blue cloak to yank at the hem of Callum’s mantle.
Lachlan’s throat tightened. Strange, that Cairenn hadn’t mentioned the woman amid the riders. Why had she kept this detail away from him? It would have been just like her to cast him a sly-eyed glance of reproof, or duck her head with hurt, once she knew who rode with these men. Guilt would have needled him, yes, but at least then he would have been better prepared for the complication.