Kenneth made a sound of disbelief. “And you came here with no guard? No friends?”
“He’s just been robbed,” Mairead said pointedly. “Perhaps he needs something to eat and drink before he has the strength to tell—”
Kenneth whirled on her. She supposed it was nothing but the fact that she’d been avoiding him for so long that allowed her to move out of his way. It helped that Giles’s brother had stepped in front of her and given her cousin the shove she hadn’t dared to. She left them to sorting themselves and found herself joined by Giles who was shaking his head in disgust. He resheathed his sword, then nodded toward the stranger.
“Let’s see if he needs aid.”
Mairead thought that a very useful suggestion, so she avoided her cousin and Giles’s brother who were still scrapping like hounds and stopped with Giles a few paces away from the man who had seemingly come straight out of the forest.
‘Twas a most providential happening, to be sure.
Giles held out his hand. “Giles Cameron,” he said easily. “And your name again?”
The other man shook his hand without hesitation. “Oliver.”
“And your clan?”
“That is a long tale.”
Kenneth tried to shove Giles out of the way and earned a fist under his chin as a result. Mairead thought that one of the better events of the morning, so she let her cousin lie where he’d fallen and turned back to the man named Oliver.
“We’ve ready ears for a good tale,” Giles said pleasantly.
“It might be difficult to believe.”
Mairead had to bite her tongue not to agree that such was indeed the case, but she was nothing if not disciplined. That and she was so astonished by what she was seeing that she could only stand there, mute and overwhelmed, and contemplate the truth of what was staring her in the face.
She was looking at the Duke of Birmingham.
She wondered, now that she was closer and had a fuller view of his face that was so perfectly noble and handsome, how his portrait painter had dared even attempt his likeness. She had very little time to amuse herself by rendering things on parchment, but even had she been skilled in that art she would have hesitated to depict that man there.
She watched his mouth move and realized that aside from the perfection of it and his very fine jawline, he was speaking her tongue. That was unexpected, to be sure, but she knew him to be very well-educated and intelligent. He might have been wearing Highland dress, but obviously ‘twas as he’d said. If he’d been robbed of his sword somewhere along his road, he’d likely also bid a fond farewell to the rest of his dukelyaccoutrements. To be sure, she saw no fine contraption behind him, nor any guardsmen, and definitely no kitchen maid.
“You wear the plaid.”
Mairead wrenched her thoughts away from problems that weren’t hers and concentrated on what was before her. Giles had resheathed his sword before, which augured well for the peaceand tranquility of the afternoon, but he was wickedly proficient with his knives, which might bode less well for that sort of thing. He’d also reached out and casually pulled her not so much fully behind him, but a pair of steps behind where he stood. She could still see their guest and his lack of servants, though, which she thought a decent piece of good fortune for herself.
“It was given to me by a MacLeod I met very far away,” Oliver said carefully. “He’s related to the current laird, surely.”
Giles nodded thoughtfully. “No doubt. And why did he gift it to you?”
“Kindness,” Oliver said. “In return, I agreed to tasks that included bringing greetings from the south.”
“Where in the south?”
“I’ve been recently in Edinburgh, though London before that.”
Mairead forced herself not to nod in agreement. At least that was something that sounded reasonable. It also explained why his Gaelic was decent but not perfect, though she likely would have listened to him babble in Latin all day and not complained.
“Are you English?” Giles asked in surprise.
Mairead managed to suppress her snort only because she did occasionally have a bit of self-control. Of course he was English.
“An accident of birth,” Oliver said with a deprecating smile, “thanks to my sire. My mother is French.”
Mairead thought she was far too old to be finding herself somewhat weak in the knees over a man’s smile, but perhaps she should have had something a bit more substantial for breakfast. Her wits were suffering, to be sure.
“Then let’s try that instead,” Giles said in his own excellent French.
