Her stomach lurched again. She wished she had asked that art teacher just how long it took to weave a tapestry. Too long was her most precise guess.
“Well?” Isla prompted, holding the baby out.
Nancy shrugged and took a breath. “I promise, I’ll try my very best not to drop her.” She hesitated. “Actually, it’s probably best if I sit down to start with.”
“Ye willnae drop her, lass. I trust ye,” Isla assured, in a voice so sincere that it hurt.
The last person to say that was Emily, whomighthave picked up her voicemails and called the cops by now, or might not, and hopefully never had to know where Nancy was, because she’d be back before Emily sensed something was wrong.
Or I’ll be another woman who disappeared while searching for missing women.
She remembered that delivery guy outside the apartment building and the note about the Hawk that had sent her off to North Carolina in the first place, and shuddered.
Whoever had been keeping tabs on her, even theycouldn’t have imagined what had befallen her.
“Hunter?” Jack’s fist rapped pointlessly on the open door of the garret that Hunter used as a study. A place where he could work through the endless requests and duties of a lairdandkeep an eye on the walls and soldiers guarding it, like the man-at-arms he used to be.
Hunter looked up from the letters he was writing to the clans east of Lochlann territory, to give to the envoys who would be traveling there soon. He’d never been much of a diplomat, either in words or in action, and he wasveryclose to ripping up every piece of correspondence he’d written in the past few hours, certain he must sound like an idiot.
His gloomy disposition brightened for a moment when he saw Beathan standing with Jack. Maybe he could convince his cousin to write the letters instead, a consolation for not being permitted to join the trade negotiations.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, somewhat blithely.
Then, he saw Jack’s face, and he sat up straighter, his mood taking a dive into darker waters.
Jack and Beathan stepped into the garret and closed the door behind them. Another bad sign.
“A scout came back from the border,” Jack said with a sigh. “Some MacLeaches crossed the valley. Killed two of our guards who were patrollin’ near the outpost by the stream. One of theirs dead, too.”
Hunter groaned and gripped his quill so tightly that it snapped. “Again?”
“Aye, again,” Jack replied.
Thus far, they had been keeping the minor ambushes quiet, so as not to stir panic in the rest of the clan. Mostly, the Lochlann men had either chased off the enemy or had emerged with a few injuries, but in the past couple of weeks, the MacLeach soldiers had been getting bolder. This would be the second time that he had been informed of dead men, and it was two times too many.
Then again, it was a more delicate matter than it seemed.
“Let ‘em come,” he sniffed as he set to cutting another pen from a feather, pouring his anger into every slice of his blade. “It’s howI want ‘em: cocksure and thinkin’ we’re weakened. That’s when they start makin’ mistakes.”
At that, Beathan squinted, a glint of anger hiding like shards of glass in his light blue eyes. “Ye cannae let this go unpunished, Cousin. If they think they can get away with it, they’ll keep killin’ our guards until there’s nay one left on the border!”
“His daughter died, Beathan,” Hunter replied, cold and firm. “That’s punishment enough for now. If he continues, that’s different.”
“So ye’re willin’ to letourmen be a sacrifice becauseyerwife died? In their hands, I might add.” Beathan’s nose turned up in obvious distaste, but then he’d never been able to hide his feelings well. It was part of what made him such a good envoy, able to empathize and convey his emotions in a way that Hunter couldn’t hope to.
Hunter puffed out an irritated breath. “He has nay children left because of me. Say what ye will, but he deserves some grace. And nay, that doesnae mean I’m pleased that I have to tell two other families that their son or husband or braither is dead. It just means I willnae take us all to war again over this.”
It didn’t matter that it was his wife who had gotten her brother killed. Shehadn’t been in her right mind, and Hunter hadn’t bothered to notice, unaware of the letters she was sending to Patrick, each one filled with lies. Now, Aaron Warren, Laird of Clan MacLeach, had no heirs to speak of, not from his own bloodline at least. The war took one son; Hunter took the other.
“I’m nae just a warrior now,” Hunter added, his voice hard.
One more word of dissent from his cousin or his friend, and he wouldn’t be held responsible for his actions.
Jack nodded reluctantly. “Aye, I daenae envy ye.”
“Nor do I,” Beathan conceded.
Hehad avoided the war altogether, left back at the castle to defend the women and children if the fighting came too close, and to be kept safe as a potential heir if his brother, the previous Laird, fell in battle.
