He downshifted mentally into baffled nobleman and prepared to do whatever it took to keep himself alive.
Four
Mairead jerked her arm awayfrom her cousin, wishing she had the courage to use either a sharp knife or a sharper tongue on the fool. Unfortunately, she knew at least what the latter would earn her and that was only more abuse from her uncle’s youngest son. He was ten-and-eight, surely old enough to know better.
“Kenneth, enough,” one of the other lads there said, stepping in front of her. “Pick on a man, why don’t you, instead of a gel?”
Kenneth bounced on the balls of his feet and glared at the Cameron clansman who dared voice such an invitation. “Who, you?”
Mairead would have pointed out to her cousin that Giles, eldest son of the Cameron himself, was not going to be an enjoyable sparring partner, but with any luck Kenneth would find that out for himself. Giles had not only the cheek to venture over the border that lay between Cameron soil and theirs often enough, but the swordplay to match his courage.
Then again, the reason Giles and his younger brother routinely came south was to catch a glimpse of any of the fairer daughters of Ranald MacLeod, so perhaps when romantic notions seeped into a lad’s wee head, he did things he shouldn’t have.
Whatever wits they might have lost to the cause of romance aside, those Cameron lads at least had decent manners, something she couldn’t say for her own family. Kenneth shoved Giles aside and grabbed her arm again, fair wrenching it from its moorings. She jerked it away for the third time and wondered, for more than just the third time, if perhaps she should have snuck into her father’s lists instead of shadowing his priests asthey were about their scratching on parchment. It would have provided her with skills she most certainly didn’t possess.
“Leave me be, Kenneth,” she exclaimed. “Find someone else to vex with your vile self.”
He swore at her, but that was nothing new. She was halfway to giving him a sharp shove when she enjoyed the same from him. She landed on her backside, which would have been less unpleasant if she hadn’t landed on a rock. She winced, then crawled uncomfortably to her feet, fully prepared to give back as good as she’d had and the consequences be damned only to realize that the men around her had drawn their swords.
She was halfway to turning and bolting off back down the meadow when it occurred to her that they hadn’t turned on her. She considered that for a moment and wondered if perhaps they would brawl with each other, leaving her free to stroll back down the meadow to the keep without any trouble. She rubbed her abused backside and looked at the lads to mark how the battle was proceeding so she might have that to mull over and enjoy as she limped back home.
They were all turned toward the east, toward the forest where she knew for a fact most of them never ventured. And why not? One never knew what magical thing it might spew out…
Apparently today that thing was a man.
She watched as the newcomer came to an easy, graceful halt, though he was breathing heavily, as if he’d run a long way. He held up his hands carefully, no doubt to show he had no weapon in them.
“Friend, not foe,” he said clearly.
Mairead would have patted her surroundings for a chair or a stool, but she was outside and she’d already sat down quite heavily on the ground. She forced herself to keep her feet whilst she gaped at the man standing not twenty paces from her.
He was wearing a proper shirt as well as a plaid wrapped around him and a belt holding it there. She could see the hilts of dirks peeking up from the sides of his boots, though those boots looked to be much finer than any either her cousins or the Cameron lads owned. His Gaelic, all three words she’d heard from him, had a bit of an accent, but ‘twas intelligible enough.
And that was exactly where her common sense ended and her turn as a witless kitchen maid began.
Her cousins weren’t altogether ugly. Giles, being a Cameron as he was, had a markedly handsome visage. All the lads standing nearby were strong and well-built, but that was also nothing out of the ordinary. When they weren’t practicing with their swords, they were hunting or keeping themselves busy with some other noble labor. They were braw enough to turn the head of any lass with two good eyes.
But that man there, standing some twenty paces away from her, dressed in simple, unremarkable gear, outshone them all.
He was taller than any of the rest of the lads, which she appreciated, being rather tall herself. His shoulders were broad, the rest of him pleasingly fashioned, and his mien one of soberness and the careful noting of what was going on around him. She was, as she had reminded herself very recently, not unaccustomed to looking at handsome men. It had been a very poor preparation, however, for looking atthathandsome man.
She could hardly do justice to his firm jaw, pale eyes, and a nose that was fine and almost straight. She imagined he’d likely broken it at some point, but since she’d been surrounded by that sort of thing the whole of her life, she didn’t think anything of it. The rest of his face was a pleasing collection of the usual business which she would have lingered over but she couldn’t stop looking at his hair which was longish, though not nearly as long as her relatives kept theirs.
And it was still the color of golden summer grasses in the meadow when the day was fine and the sun shining.
Kenneth gestured at him with his sword. “Who are ye?”
Mairead pulled herself back to the matter at hand which might very well include putting herself in harm’s way to save that man standing there with his hands still in plain sight.
“I’m called Oliver,” he said carefully. “I mean you no harm.”
“Where’s your gear?” Kenneth demanded. “And your horse?”
The golden-haired man winced. “It was taken from me.”
“You were robbed?” Giles asked, resting his sword against his shoulder. “By whom? McKinnons?”
“I didn’t stop to ask.”
