‘Your friend sleeps,’ she said, lacing her tone with as much accusation as she could. ‘He’s not dead.’
The string of curses was more a growl than words, but she understood them all the same as he turned back to her again. Every bit of him was as menacing as when he had entered the courtyard that very morning. ‘Yes, Paiden does sleep, McCrieff. But will he wake or sleep for ever?’
She had no answer to that. None at all.
‘I thought so,’ he said, closing the door behind him.
Chapter Nine
Hours later, Rory left the quiet of Paiden’s room. Too quiet. Too still. Barely his friend at all despite the jolt of joy and relief when he first entered the room to see Paiden sleeping in a different position.
All hope dashed when Hannah, the servant tending him, recited the litany of tasks she done since the wedding. One of which was to move Paiden’s prone body so he did not get sore.
His vibrant friend adjusted by a woman. When he woke, he’d give his friend hell for missing the opportunity. Hannah, with her ample curves, was a woman Paiden would try to woo.
Why hadn’t he fought Paiden harder to stay behind? They’d all known it was a trap when the field had been empty of McCrieffs. Because of that they’d all stayed on their guard, evenduring the feast, his men had carefully watched the food, the McCrieffs, the doorways.
It wasn’t until he’d announced his wedding that they forgot themselves. Forgot that they were on enemy land. It wasn’t until he had lowered his guard, had gazed like a lust-filled fool at Ailsa that his friend was poisoned.
All his fault.
Out of all the Lochmores, Paiden was the only one who accepted him, who made him feel as if he belonged. He should have ordered his friend to stay behind, but he’d been weak. If Paiden died, Rory wouldn’t want to return to castle Lochmore because he wouldn’t have a home.
Forcing his thoughts away, he turned in the hallway, intending to go outside, when Duff came around the opposite corner.
‘You’ve returned,’ he said. When he announced they would continue with the marriage, Rory had directed Duff to return to Lochmore land and sent a message to his parents.
‘It was quick, they were already mounted on the other side of the stream. There wasn’t a battle, and they’d heard nothing.’
So they’d intended to storm McCrieff land to rescue them which would have nullified all their careful planning to keep to a negotiation first.
Duff gave a quick grin. ‘It’s not as if they’d risk your precious neck.’
As an only heir. Of course because he was an heir and now they were here. It was early morning. They must have packed and travelled by night. He thought he’d completed everything quickly enough that his father wouldn’t interfere. He was satisfied that he had at least managed to wed the McCrieff woman before he was stopped or his father demanded more terms.
He’d done the best he could under the circumstances. Except Paiden’s health was in the balance and that would take some explanation. The missive he’d sent explained most of his reasoning, but not all. He wished for more sleep, not for endless discussions and strategies.
‘Tell my father—’
‘Your father’s not here.’ Duff gave a slight shrug. ‘Neither is your mother, but that was to be expected.’
Rory was tired, exhausted. He ached... He woke yesterday morn with thoughts of battle. To lose friends and comrades. To gain some bit of McCrieff land. And instead he’d gained a wife. So of course, he didn’t understand Duff when he’d said his father hadn’t come.
‘You carried my missive to my father.’
‘Aye, and I stood before him as he read every word.’
If only he could have been there to see the expression on his father’s face. ‘And?’
‘He rolled it up and handed it to your mother, who opened it twice as slowly and read it twice as long as that.’
This was why he gave the missive to Duff, not because he thought he could fight off whoever stopped him along the way from McCrieff lands to there. It was because Duff had the observation of a hawk and the tongue of an ale-doused whore. Nothing would get past him and he’d freely give Rory the details he craved without losing his pride in the asking.
Still, he felt like asking, his exhaustion making him impatient, not the need to know his parents’ reactions to what he’d done. ‘Then what?’
‘Your mother placed her hand on your father’s arm and acted faint. Your father leaned over her and with some words to his man—’
‘Harold.’ His father’s man-at-arms and advisor. The man Rory talked to more often than his own father.
