Eleven
By midmorning of the next day, Sin was painfully aware of the fact that this might be the first time in his life he’d actually failed his mission. None of Callie’s people would speak to him. The instant he approached, they would stubbornly set their jaws and hasten away.
Not that they were the first to treat him that way. Still, if he were to find the ones responsible for the attacks, he would need them to at least open their mouths in his presence.
He sat in the hall with his brothers and Simon, eating while he told them of his morning misadventure.
“Well,” Braden said, “if you’d take to wearing Scot’s clothes it would help. It’s hard to warm up to a cold English knight.”
Lochlan froze at his youngest brother’s thoughtless words. Unlike Ewan and Braden, he knew the reason Sin disdained Scot’s attire. In his mind, he saw his father returning from the Kilgarigon fair with matching plaid cloth for him and his sons.
Braden had still been in swaddling. Their mother had wrapped the infant up in a portion of green and black plaid while he, Kieran and Ewan had proudly donned their plaids that matched their father’s.
“There’s my boys,” his father had announced proudly as he looked them over and ruffled their hair.
Lochlan had been smiling until he caught sight of Sin in a corner. In their excitement, they had forgotten all about him and as he typically did, Sin had withdrawn into the shadows where he stood sullenly with his arms crossed over his chest.
He would never forget the look on his older brother’s face as Sin watched them. Sin’s young eyes had been filled with envy and pain.
Lochlan had turned to their father. “Da? Where is Sin’s plaid?”
His father had ignored the question and continued to play with Ewan and Kieran.
His young mother had not been so kind. “Plaid cloth is for people of true Scot’s blood, Lochlan. They are not for half-blooded Sassenachs.”
If he lived forever, Lochlan would never understand his mother’s cruelty toward Sin. Nor his father’s complete lack of regard.
Worse, he had found Sin later that day, alone in their room. Sin had been sitting in the middle of the floor with his arm cut open while he let blood trail from the wound into the bowl.
Horrified, Lochlan had run to him and covered the wound with a cloth to stop the bleeding. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to get rid of the English blood in me, but it doesn’t look any different than yours.” Sin’s eyes had been hollow and empty. “How can I make it go away when I can’t find the difference?”
They had bandaged Sin’s arm together and had never again spoken of that moment. But it had haunted Lochlan ever since.
Lochlan looked to Sin who sat beside Simon. In truth, Sin’s strength awed him.
“I’ll not ever put another plaid on my body,” Sin said to Braden.
“I’ll do it,” Simon volunteered cheerfully while he ate. “What the hell? I even have the red hair for it.”
Lochlan smiled, even though he still ached with the pain of his memory. “I think we need to adopt Simon as an official MacAllister. What say you, brothers?”
Braden nodded. “I think he fits right in. Ewan?”
“I would nod, but my head hurts too much for it.”
Sin snorted. “Given how much ale you consumed last night, I’m amazed you can even sit upright.”
Suddenly concerned, Lochlan eyed his brother. “How much did you drink last night?”
“Somewhere between too much and not enough.”
Lochlan rolled his eyes, wishing he knew what to do to return Ewan to the man he’d been before Isobail had changed him.
“Back to the rebels…” Lochlan tried to focus on an issue he could actually help with. “If they’re no longer raiding Henry’s people, why bother?”
Sin looked at him drolly. “Because they could start again at any time.”
