Page 39 of Ruining a Highland Healer
"Och aye," said Torrin. "An’ after me parents’ deaths, they were the only ones I had in me life. Well, them an’ Noah."
Valora nodded soberly, turning to face Torrin. Once again, they found themselves staring into each other’s eyes, the moments stretching like dripping honey. The air between them was charged with something unspoken but deeply felt—something that frightened even Torrin with its intensity and yet seemed to pull him closer and closer to her with every passing moment, with every breath they took.
Torrin found himself leaning closer. It would have been easy to capture her lips in a kiss—so easy that he almost gave in to the temptation, getting so close that he could almost taste her lips. But before he could, a bark like thunder echoed in the glen, stopping him dead in his tracks.
Below them, at the base of the tree, Arrow was busy chasing a squirrel, running rounds around the roots and barking excitedlyat the creature. Torrin couldn’t help but laugh as he watched him, and so did Valora, the sound bright and clear like a bell—a beautiful sound, one that Torrin would love to hear for the rest of his life.
"Shall we go back down, then?" he asked Valora. "Someone seems tae be very excited about squirrels an’ I’d rather nae have a massacre on me hands."
With a chuckle, Valora nodded. "Aye. Let us go."
Valora began to climb back down with Torrin’s help, and if he were honest with himself, though it had been his own idea to go back, he now wished they could stay there forever instead.
—
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The wind howled through the gaps in the windows and the door of the inn—The Three Crows, an old, decrepit place in a small town near the borderlands. The men there were loud, eager for a fight; the women few and scantily dressed, there for the men’s entertainment. The very air smelled of ale and wine, the table sticky with spilled drink. It was not the kind of place one expected to find any comfort or peace—only anonymity, the safety of a rambunctious crowd that worked well to hide any conversation, any underlying intention.
Alban Keith sat in the deepest corner of the room, on a creaky chair, shrouded in his own silence. His pale blue eyes scanned the crowd carefully, looking for any newcomers—two men in particular, that he had been waiting for all night.
He had sent messengers to Clan Gunn three days past, with the intention of seeing if Laird Gunn would be willing to part with his new bride. Valora MacNeacail was integral to his plan to control the northern seas, and without her, any war against Clan Gunn would not be the quick and brutal attack he hadenvisioned and had worked towards for so long, but rather a drawn-out battle that would drain his resources and threaten to destroy his own clan along with the Gunns. Alliances were plentiful and strong; and yet none of his allies possessed the kind of sea power that Clan MacNeacail held. Seasoned seamen as they were, used to the whims of the sea, MacNeacail men were essential if Alban wished to control those lands.
And Valora MacNeacail was essential to their acquisition.
The door to the inn banged open, the slab of wood slamming against the wall. The hinges creaked like a lament. Outside, a storm raged, the likes of which the land often weathered—heavy rain, a river’s worth of water pouring onto the land. Alban’s eyes snapped up, but otherwise, his large, wide-shouldered frame remained still. His gaze tracked the two men that entered—both of them soaked to the bone, cursing loudly as they slammed the door shut behind them. No one paid them any mind.
The men’s boots squelched as they walked on the creaky floor, leaving muddy footprints behind. Their wool cloaks were heavy with rainwater and their hair dripped on their shoulders, while dirt clung to their skin and the hems of their clothes. Their beards were scruffy, too long to be considered proper, and their hair was matted where they both had it tied against their napes.
It wasn’t often that Alban saw them in such a state. Usually, when they came to his study, they were all clean and shaven, in fresh clothes to meet him. The rest of them, those who had gone straight back to the castle, would soon have the privilege ofdoing just that—bathing and shaving and changing clothes. But these two—Donnach and Muir—hadn’t had the same luck.
Alban didn’t need to call them over. The two men spotted him with ease, as they knew he tended to sit in the fringes of the room, where people didn’t bother him and from where he could observe the rest of the patrons. One never knew where the enemy might lurk. It was better to have his back against the wall and his eyes on those around him.
When they approached, their expressions pitiful and their eyes full of anger, they both gave Alban a bow.
Muir tore his cloak off and tossed it over the chair, while Donnach only bothered enough to unclasp it as he sat down across from Alban. From up close, they looked even more miserable than before, and now, under the dim light of the candles that lit up the room, he could see that along with the dirt, blood soiled their clothes and skin.
"What’s this?" Alban demanded, stopping himself just short of slamming his hand down on the table and causing his tankard of ale to spill out its contents. He hadn’t touched the drink—it was only an excuse for him to be there. Tempting as it was, he preferred to stay alert while outside the safety of his castle’s walls.
The two men glanced at each other from the corner of their eyes. Alban didn’t have any patience for this. Whatever had happened couldn’t have possibly be good, and he couldn’t help but fearthese two fools—and perhaps the rest of the fools he had sent to Clan Gunn—had ruined his plans for him.
