The Devil in Plaid
Lily Baldwin
Prologue
Ranulf MacKenzie eyed the band of riders he passed on the road to his family’s stronghold. He counted fifteen warriors clad in the colors of the MacDonnell, plus two women, a lady and her maid.
“My lady,” Ranulf said, bowing his head as he passed the beauty. Waves of black hair skimmed her waist. Eyes as blue as the summer’s sky met his. She smiled modestly in greeting and dipped her head, before returning her gaze forward.
Ranulf shifted in his saddle and watched her go, admiring her slender curves from behind. When her entourage of warriors impeded his view of her round derriere gently rocking in the saddle, he shifted his gaze forward. In the distance, he beheld another beauty—the MacKenzie stronghold.
Ten years had passed since he left home, a decade spent amassing a small fortune as a hired sword, not to mention building an army of warriors loyal only to him.
“What is yer business?” the guard said when he approached the gate.
Ranulf straightened in his saddle and narrowed his eyes on the man.
The guard sighed impatiently. “If ye don’t want to state yer business, ye can just turn yer horse around and—” Then he froze. He looked hard at Ranulf. An instant later, his eyes widened. “Sir...Sir…” he stammered before dropping to one knee. “Sir Ranulf, forgive me. Welcome home.”
Ranulf pursed his lips. Then he shifted his gaze forward and held out his hand. “Water.”
The guard rushed into the gate house, returning moments later, placing an opened costrel in Ranulf’s hand. He took a big swig and swooshed the water around his mouth. Then he leaned over and spat it out, hitting his mark—the guard’s boot. The man knew better than to react.
Ranulf let the pouch fall from his fingertips to the ground. “Run along and announce my return to yer laird.”
As if the very devil licked at his heels, the guard sprinted ahead.
Ranulf gave his horse a nudge. Ten warriors followed, their horses’ hooves clomping rhythmically on the soft earth behind him.
When they arrived in the baily, he swung down from his mount and turned to face his men. Each wore a black leather jerkin with Ranulf’s coat of arms on his back. Another fifty men, ruthless swordfighters all, remained hidden in the forest beyond the outskirts of the village.
“Kenric,” Ranulf said, motioning to his second in command.
A man of towering height with cropped blonde hair; narrow, hard eyes; and powerful shoulders swung down from his horse and bowed. “Aye, Sir Ranulf.”
Ranulf withdrew the sword he had strapped to his back and gave it to Kenric for safe keeping. “Stay here with the men. If I were to march through the keep with nigh a dozen of my own warriors, my brother might worry my business here is not friendly.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Kenric said, keeping his head bowed.
“Nay, we wouldn’t.” Ranulf smirked. “Watch the men. I do not want any trouble…yet.”
Kenric glanced up, a knowing smile curving his lips. “Understood.”
Ranulf sought out his son among his mighty warriors. “Fergus, ye come with me, but stay quiet. The rest of ye remain here and keep alert.”
Before he could give his men leave to enter the MacKenzie stronghold, there was the matter of obtaining the laird’s approval. But Ranulf wasn’t worried. He could be very persuasive and knew, in the end, he would have his way.
“Welcome home, Sir Ranulf,” one of the guards said as he opened the door leading to the great hall.
Ranulf scanned the room, expecting to see his brother, but the hall was empty. His expression remained passive, despite the laird’s dismissive treatment of his homecoming. “No matter,” he mumbled to himself before he addressed the guard. “Where is my brother?”
“He is in his study with yer nephew.”
“See that my men are fed and our horses groomed.”
“Aye, Sir Ranulf,” the guard replied.
Ranulf headed toward the wide, stone stairwell. He glanced back to ensure Fergus followed close behind. Shifting his gaze forward, he thundered up the stairs, not taking the time to appreciate the familiar surroundings. Before he enjoyed the pleasure of being home, he had old business to settle.
When he reached the study, he turned to Fergus. “Stay quiet. Keep out of the way.” Then he swung open the door without knocking and locked eyes with his brother, Laird Donald MacKenzie.
Donald paused and looked up from the bread he was buttering. “The prodigal son returns,” he said dryly.
Ranulf ground his teeth as he met his brother’s disapproving gaze. “Ye needn’t look so overjoyed,” he said coolly, although he could feel his blood begin to boil just standing in his smug brother’s presence. Ranulf turned away before his expression betrayed his disdain, looking to where his nephew sat scribbling in a ledger at a small desk on the other side of the room. Ranulf’s lips twitched, wanting to curl in disgust. Instead, he rolled his eyes. The boy was now eight and ten, a man grown. Golden whiskers covered his chin, but he was as soft as a maid and just as slender.
“Welcome home, Uncle,” the lad said, looking up with wide, innocent eyes.
Pasting a smile on his face, Ranulf turned and looked pointedly at his brother. “At least someone appears happy to see me.”