The Highlander's Return

“Is there anywhere private here at Gunn?” Graeme paused in reaching for the keep doors and turned to Payton MacKay with surprise. “Private?” “Aye. Somewhere I can talk to me sister alone to give her the news,” he explained and then added, “’Twill be embarrassing for Annella later does she faint or begin in keenin’ over the loss in front o’ everyone as she’s like to do when I tell her. So ’tis best to do it away from all.” “Ah.” Graeme nodded with understanding, but his gaze moved to the two men behind MacKay. Symon and Teague. He wasn’t surprised to see his friends showing the same discomfort he was feeling at the thought of a weeping woman. The two warriors had been with him for years, the three of them hiring themselves out to anyone with a need and the coin to pay them. They’d battled their way across the better part of Scotland, as well as more far-flung and exotic places. That being the case, none of them were used to dealing with members of the opposite gender. At least not ladies with their delicate sensibilities. They were more used to camp followers and tavern wenches who’d as soon scratch out their own eyes as let tears leak from them. Tough women who had fought to survive and would continue that fight all the days of their lives. Women for whom weeping and wailing would do little to make their lives better, so didn’t bother with it as ladies were apparently wont to do. At least that’s what Payton claimed ladies were like. The man had spent a good deal of the past six months regaling their traveling party with how sweet and sensitive his sisters, Kenna and Annella, were, and had made it obvious he worried over how Annella would take the news that she was a widow. He seemed to think it would shatter her delicate sensibilities. After sharing a grimace with Symon and Teague, Graeme shifted his gaze back to Payton. “There are gardens behind the keep. The vegetable and fruit gardens closer to the kitchens are often crowded, but there is a floral garden beyond that should suit your purpose.” “Good, good,” Payton said, but it seemed obvious he wasn’t eager to attend to the task ahead of him. Graeme understood that. He himself wasn’t eager to impart the news to his parents. His father would no doubt be fine and take it like a man, but his mother . . . Graeme didn’t even want to consider her reaction. William had been her favorite son, her little angel. She would no doubt be fainting and keening right alongside Annella for the next three days. Shaking his head at the thought, Graeme finally opened the doors to the keep and led Payton and the other men inside. “Damn me, Raynard! Ye’re making me head ache with yer bellowing. Do you no’ stop it, I swear I’ll knock ye silly!” Graeme’s footsteps slowed, his gaze searching the great hall for the source of those words. It was a woman’s voice, but her accent was an odd combination of Scots and English. Rather like Payton, whose mother was English and father was Scottish, so that his speech was not wholly one or the other, but— His thoughts died abruptly as his gaze found the gathering of men crowded around the only trestle table presently set up. As a couple of the men shifted, he caught sight of a woman. It was only the back of her that he briefly glimpsed before the men moved again, hiding her from sight. Graeme was left with an impression of a short, shapely female in a dark gown, with long blonde hair cascading down her back. But that image didn’t at all match the words he’d just heard, he decided. “Stop pokin’ me with that damned needle, and I’ll stop bellowin’!” a deep voice roared back. “It’d serve you right if I did stop and let you bleed to death, ye big oaf. I’ve told ye and told ye that you drink too much and need to cut back ere ye kill yourself with one o’ your drunken falls. Yet here ye are! On the table again, me having to sew ye up after ye passed out and fell on your own damned knife.” “The hell I did!” The man sounded outraged at the suggestion. “Somebody must ha’e stabbed me, I tell ye!” A sharp snort of disbelief was followed by the demand, “Where’s the knife?” Curious, Graeme started forward again, toward where the men were gathered. He was vaguely aware that Payton and the others were following him, but his attention was on the blade that was suddenly held aloft by one of the men at the back of the group. It was passed overhead from man to man until it reached the woman who had asked for it. He knew it was her hand that was the last to take it because the men had shifted once more, giving him a clear view of the petite blonde. His gaze slid over the blade she now held aloft. It was bloodstained with a crushed and equally bloodied apple at its base he noted as she held it up for the complaining man to see. “’Tis your own damned knife, Raynard. Your apple’s still on it.” The woman’s voice was filled with disgust. “Nay, I—” “There were three witnesses to your fall,” the woman continued impatiently. “Sadly, they were behind ye and did no’ ken about your falling on your knife so left ye to sleep off the drink in the path. It was no’ until sunrise someone noticed the blood pooling around ye and brought ye in for sewing. Now quit your bellowin’ and let me get on with this ere ye do bleed to death.” It appeared Raynard did not take direction well. The moment the lady bent to again set to work, he immediately resumed struggling and hollering and making a hell of a racket. “Should I knock ’im out, Lady Annella?” one of the men helping to hold down the furious Raynard roared to be heard over the noise as he and the others struggled to hold the man still for her to sew up. Lady Annella shook her head, and in a brief silence as Raynard stopped his bellowing to suck in air, said, “Cook’s bringing me something to make him sleep.” “I dinna want to sleep!” Raynard bellowed at once. “I dinna care!” Lady Annella roared right back, and Graeme had to bite his lip to keep a snort of laughter from slipping out. But his urge to laugh faded quickly as he noted how much trouble the half a dozen men were having holding down Raynard. Graeme was growing concerned the man might actually break free and strike out at Lady Annella when the kitchen door swung open. Turning his gaze that way, he watched a short, round, gray-haired woman come rushing out with a pot in hand. “Cook,” Graeme murmured under his breath with affection. “What?” Payton MacKay sounded distracted even as he asked the question. Graeme’s expression changed as he glanced to the man beside him and he arched one eyebrow. “Did I hear one o’ the men call that woman Lady Annella?” “Aye.” Payton frowned slightly as he admitted it. It was Symon, his voice amused, who then asked, “No’ yer sister and Graeme’s sister by marriage, Lady Annella Gunn?” “Aye,” Payton growled, looking a little annoyed now. “The same lady sister ye’ve spent the last six months telling us was sweet, kind and delicate?” Teague asked pointedly. Payton opened his mouth to answer, but then paused and simply stood there, eyes narrowing as he watched his sister. Made curious, Graeme turned back to see that cook had pushed her way through the men surrounding the trestle table to reach the blonde and was holding out the pot. Graeme would have assumed it held some sort of medicinal to put the man to sleep, except that the pot was handed over at an angle that showed it was empty. He realized the pot itself was what cook had been bringing to put the man to sleep when Annella turned back to the still complaining Raynard and slammed it over his head. Even as the belligerent man went unconscious and blessedly silent, the lady handed the empty pot back to cook with a murmured, “Thank ye, Millie,” then bent back to sewing up her patient. Graeme spun on his heel then and hurried past Symon and Teague, headed back the way they’d come. As quickly as he moved, he barely made it out of the keep before the laughter burst from his lips.