Page 65 of Luthias

“Aye, lass, I ken.” Those amethyst eyes flashed again, but this time with disgust. “The thief, ’twould be you.”

Chapter Two

Laird Luthias MacRoss looked down at the little wench holding the Fire Sword that she’d somehow stolen yesterday from Dun Lasair’s great hall. Bold as a Viking raider, she stood in silence but without any sign of fear, obviously thinking of some believable excuse to offer. She had no one with her, and hadn’t bothered to disguise herself as one of his female servants. No, she simply looked at him directly with her big, seemingly innocent Fae-green eyes while standing in his armory with the most precious blade in the stronghold in her hand.

Had she come to help herself to more? How could she simply stand there as if she’d done nothing wrong, and beg for his help? She wasn’t even trying to hide the sword from him.

“I’m not a thief, sir. I work here.” As she spoke, her pretty mouth framed each word as if she were offering them like kisses. She even took a step closer to him and held up the strange pendant around her neck. “What happened to the lights? Was there a power failure?”

Brazen as the wench was, he couldn’t toss her in the dungeons, Luthias thought as he looked over her delicate skin and tiny, fine-boned body. She’d freeze in a few hours. She also looked very young, perhaps only just coming into her womanhood. Her chestnut hair was as fine and feathery as a child’s. How like the Carack laird to make use of a naive maiden, he thought, growing angrier. Callum, that cruel fack, had gone too far this time.

“You’ve failed,” he assured her. “You should ken ’tisnae wise to steal from my clan. I’ll no’ spare you for being a female.”

“Your what?” She looked perplexed now. “I’m sorry, did you come to the Pelton as a historical consultant?”

As she took another step toward him he became distracted by her garments. What was this she wore? A jacket, blouse and trews of uncommonly fine weave in a shade of light indigo so rare a king might have coveted them. Her shoes had heels hewn high and narrow, that should have had her teetering with every step––or perhaps they were small daggers thus cleverly concealed. He’d put nothing past the Carack with their endless scheming.

Was this wench meant to be an assassin, and the filching of the blade a ruse to lure him to the armory alone? Why should they entrust such a wee thing to do such filthy work? He could snap her in two with one blow. And why did she speak so strangely?

He needed to hear her voice again to fathom her origins. “Give me your name, lass.”

“I’m Emery Parker, the new intern,” she said. “I overheard someone talking about this blade on the phone, and it sounded like he intended to steal it before it could be catalogued. I came to move it to someplace safe so he couldn’t do that. Look, if you could go with me to security, I’ll explain everything to them.”

He’d never heard anyone speak with her soft, odd accent, and many of the words she used sounded like gibberish to his ears. Yet she had just as well admitted to being the cohort of another thief.

Mayhap fear has made her addled.

“You wish me believe you came here to protect the sword.” As she nodded he folded his arms. “Tell me thus first: how did you manage to steal it from the hall?”

Her expression changed from puzzled to exasperated.

“I didn’t steal the sword,” she said, very patiently, as if he were a simpleton. “It’s been in here since it was delivered. I was just going to hide it to keep someone else from stealing it.” She looked over him without a shred of shame. “I’m sorry, but who are you exactly?”

“Luthias, laird of the MacRoss,” he chided. “Didnae your masters warn you of me? I’ve no pity for pilfering females. Behaving touched shallnae save you from a proper thrashing.”

“MacRoss.” Her gaze shifted to his tartan, and the confusion faded from her expression, replaced by wariness. “Clan MacRoss, okay. And you’re the laird? Really? Nice to meet you.”

Finally, it seemed, she felt some fear of him. “Dinnae fret. Speak truly, and I shall be merciful. Lie, and you shall be beaten.”

“You’re really convincing, Mister MacRoss, but unfortunately I wasn’t born yesterday.” She looked around as if searching for a way to escape him. “Have you got a phone? We should call security now. They can come to us and straighten this out.”

“Shout as you wish,” Luthias told her. “None shall come to your aid. You’ve no allies in this stronghold, lass.”

“Look, will you quit with the medieval laird act already?” Emery demanded. “I get that you want to mess with me, but really, you can drop it now. Is this some kind of new employee initiation thing? Did that guy Gordon put you up to it?”

He glanced down at the sword she held. Ever since it had been forged by Prince Ross nine centuries ago, the enclave of sages had recounted the legend of why he had created the saining blade, and the clan’s responsibility to keep it safe. Luthias also remembered taking a knee as he and his brothers swore they would protect any mortal who came to the clan with the Fire Sword in hand.

Since that day the blade had remained locked away in its crystal case in the great hall of Dun Lasair. No one had ever touched it, including him.

Luthias had believed the legend to be yet another vexing mystery left behind by the first MacRoss laird. Now he beheld a female dressed in clothes and shoes too finely made to be the work of any weaver or seamstress known to him. Around her throat lay a golden chain with links so thin they might have been fashioned from the web of a gold-spinning spider, and a larger pendant that had an overlarge square of glass suspended from a black ribbon. Two seed-size pearls glowed in her earlobes, and the cuff around her wrist showed the face of a wee sundial etched with tiny numbers. A tiny gold ring gleamed at the base of her smallest finger on one hand. Like a child she wore her dark hair unveiled and only partly pinned up, but it had been cut in many lengths. Somehow she had even painted her fingernails a pearly pink. She might have just arrived from the royal court of Elphyne.

Or mayhap one cast out of Elphyne sent her to me.

“’Tis what day and century for you, lass?” Luthias asked her.

“I told you, you can stop that.” When he didn’t say anything she made an impatient sound. “Fine. It’s Monday, June twenty-seventh. You know it’s the twenty-first century.” As she watched his face Emery frowned. “You do know that, right?”

Luthias picked up a reed and lit it with the lantern’s flame, and then walked about using it to light the braziers in his armory. He then slid to one side the window shutters to reveal the view of the highlands, now set ablaze by the rising sun. As he did Emery came to stand beside him, and stared out at the forest surrounding his stronghold.