Free Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 by Kelly Jameson Page A

listen as she explained her ideas for deceiving the Highlander, but she couldn’t be sure how much he’d understood because he never said anything. Nessa had come into the stables and overheard her talking to Gillis.
    “As always, ye waste yer breath,” she sneered. “He doesna understand a word ye say. He’s witless. If only it had been Tavish who came back from Arkinholm.” It was a cruel thing to say, for Nessa had been infatuated with the handsome and strong Tavish. “Leave us,” Sorcha said. Nessa had frowned and stormed from the stables.
    “Forgive my clumsiness with the whisky, my laird,” Sorcha said, gritting her teeth.
    “No harm done, lass.”
    “Except for a sopping pair of trews,” Nathair said.
    “More whisky,” Lady Douglas demanded, sputtering. “Get me another as well.”
    “Nay,” Malcolm said. “No more whisky. We will be shown to our rooms now. I would like to bathe and change from these uncomfortably wet trews before the e’ening meal. Yer maid will aid me with my bath.”
    “Yea,” Lady Douglas said. “But of course. Dunna fear the chit’s clumsiness. She’ll nae scald ye, of that ye can be sure. Or she’ll be sorely punished. I’ll put ye in the room that used to belong to…to my brother Gordon.”
    Gillis began to shake his head and angry, red splotches appeared on his cheeks.
    “Gillis,” the maid said softly, “perhaps ye can fetch more Birchwood for the fire?” She patted his hand. “All is well, Gillis, all is well.”
    Reluctantly, Gillis nodded. He withdrew his hand from Sorcha’s shoulder and walked away.
    Lady Douglas rang the bell loudly, startling everyone again. Several hounds in the corner howled. “Nessa,” she said, “see to the laird’s room and prepare his bath. Martha and the others will bring the tub and water upstairs.”
    “Me thinks, my lady, ye should give that sarding bell a rest,” Nathair said, rubbing his ears.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    8
     
    Sorcha hurried up the twisting stone stairs and along the dimly lit corridor. Once she was inside Gordon’s room, she shut the heavy, oaken door and took a deep breath.
    The room’s lone window provided a stunning view of the coastal shores and looming mountains. The smaller cove almost dried up at low tide but it was high tide now, and the sea was riotous and frothing as dusk fell. The marshland’s wet surface caught the last rays of the sun and Sorcha could hear the mournful cries of sea birds.
    The room, which contained a four-post bed with dark green coverlets, a chair, a small table, a trunk, and a wide hearth, was adequately prepared for the laird’s stay. It was a masculine room—a boar’s head was mounted on the wall and Gordon’s weathered targe still stood in one corner. The targe was circular, its width almost twice the length of her arm. It was crafted from pine and covered in tooled leather and silver-headed studs, with a spike in the central brass boss. The frame was bent from battle. Kendrew had managed to bring it home after Gordon had died. He’d cleaned the blood off and a layer of dust had coated it ever since.
    When she was a child, Gordon let her strike his oiled targe over and over with her small wooden sword. They’d often stood in the courtyard, the sun streaming down. “Hit me harder!” he’d command. “Wee sister, yer attack is like the tiny bite of a midge!” He teased. “Nobody e’er died from the bite of a midge!” Sorcha smiled at the memory. Gordon had always been teasing but so patient with her.
    The wooden puppets her father had made for Gordon when he was a lad lay next to the targe. A pair of foot soldiers—warriors on strings—could be pulled back and forth in semblance of battle, and a jousting figure with miniature armor and horse-trappings could raise his joust. Her father had made puppets for all of his children. Sorcha had one of her own, a princess, though she had pestered her father to make her a jousting figure instead.
    When Murry was a