Free Highland Flame (Highland Brides) by Lois Greiman

he would get wet when it rained. And they had served mutton for supper. He hated mutton. Thus he had two excellent reasons to leave. Besides, he had only promised to stay until sunset and it was well past that time.
    Scowling at the cloud-shaped stain, he thought about the meat he had stored in his sporran. He would be a fool not to leave, of course. The MacGowans were a hot-blooded clan and dangerous. They hated the Forbeses, and they hated him.
    He sat up and swung his feet over the side of his humble pallet. He had removed his footgear some hours earlier and sat now deep in silent debate.
    If he stayed he might untangle the mystery that haunted him. Who had killed Simon and sent the note signed with Leith's name? He knew his brother far too well to ever suspect him of such a heinous act But someone had done it, and Roderic needed to know the truth. On the other hand, if he stayed, someone might soon be wondering who had killed him .
    Reaching to the far side of his ugly straw tick, Roderic retrieved his leather sporran and rose. The wise thing to do would be to leave now. The safe thing would be to leave now. There was no reason to think he couldn't solve this puzzle from outside Dun Ard as well as from within its walls.
    With that decision made, Roderic glanced about the room. The tower boasted one window. It was shuttered and narrow and more than thirty feet above the nearest wall.
    But the drop to the stone parapet didn't concern him. Leith had often said Roderic had been born to be an acrobat or perhaps a jester. Approaching the window, Roderic reached into his sporran and extracted the cold hunk of greasy mutton. He rubbed the meat onto the rusty hinges and hook, then silently swung the shutters open. He was halfway home.
    Removing his plaid, he slipped a corner of it around a hinge and pinned it in place with his brooch. It was lucky indeed that Flanna had returned his shirt to him, he thought, or he would be roaming about Dun Ard just as his mother had birthed him. Only larger, and stronger, and infinitely more handsome. He smiled as he tied his sporran about his waist. Then, he retrieved the borrowed blanket from his pallet, knotted the thing to the end of his plaid, and tossed the bound woolens through the window. 'Twas a fine night for a prowl, but the MacGowans would owe him dearly—a brooch, a plaid, and his favorite pair of boots.
    The sandstone blocks of the tower wall felt cool against his feet as he descended. Something gave slightly, but whether it was the brooch or the hinge or the wool itself, Roderic couldn't be sure. Still he skimmed downward, unperturbed by the instability of his rope. His first true concern was when the blanket ended nearly ten feet above the walkway he intended to reach.
    Roderic scowled into the dark depths. The parapet was perhaps twice the width of his body and sloped downward in both directions. To the left of that and perhaps six feet below was the stone walkway which completed the enormous width of the wall. To the right was a long, dark, and painful drop into death.
    Above him, something groaned against his weight.
    Probably the blanket, he thought. 'Twould be like the MacGowans to make inferior wool just to spite him.
    Taking a deep breath and sending one quick prayer to his maker, Roderic eased to the end of the blanket, swung to the left, and dropped. His feet hit the parapet, numbing them with the force of the impact and throwing him onto the very edge of the walkway, where he clung like a cat on a limb.
    A dark abyss stared him in the face. Somewhere far below was the bailey. His toes curled, his fingers clutched at the stone. He teetered forward, and then with a Herculean effort hauled himself back against the cold wall behind him. He lay there for a spell, gasping for breath and listening for any untoward noises from above or below.
    No unusual sounds caught his attention, so he leaned his head gratefully back, taking in deep breaths and gathering his strength.
    The