Page 40 of Ruining a Highland Healer
When neither of the men responded, Alban leaned closer over the table, hissing, "Whose blood is this, ye fools?"
It took the men a few more moments of silence before the braver of the two, Donnach, spoke.
"We were followed," he said without ceremony.
Alban’s shoulders tensed. "Scouts?"
"Aye. Gunn men. Two o’ them," Muir said, his voice low and barely intelligible over the ruckus in the inn. "They tailed us from Halberry Castle. Quiet, but nae quiet enough."
With a sigh, Alban ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing back the strands that had fallen out of the loose tie on the back of his neck. He couldn’t remember a time that had brought more stress for him than this, and for good reason. Usually, he took matters into his own hands, but now that it was such a delicate situation, he couldn’t show his face in Clan Gunn lands. Sending his men to do his bidding was the only good option, though now it seemed they had failed to deliver the results he wanted.
"An’ ye thought the best way tae deal with them was tae kill them?" Alban asked in a furious whisper. "I specifically told ye tae go in peace!"
"We couldnae risk lettin’ them return," said Muir. "They’d have tracked us all the way here, or worse, turned back to their Laird with word o’ where we’d been."
Donnach hesitated for a moment, glancing dubiously at Alban, but then nodded. "We did what had tae be done."
"What had tae be done," Alban echoed bitterly. "An’ now Torrin Gunn has cause tae sharpen every blade between here an’ the Hebrides! I specifically told ye tae maintain the peace. Dae ye nae realize how important that is?"
"They followed us like wolves on a hunt," Muir said. "What else were we supposed tae dae?"
"Dae ye have good reason tae believe they were sent tae kill ye?"
It was clearly not a question either Donnach or Muir had considered before slaughtering the scouts. For all any of them knew, Laird Gunn had sent his men after them just to make sure they would leave the lands. And yet, his own men had been the ones to spill the first blood, something that was inevitable on the one hand, but premature on the other. Alban had always known he would have to be the one to begin this war, but he had never anticipated it would come so soon. Now, there seemed to be no other option.
"They were scouts, m’laird," said Muir, as though this explained anything. "Why else would they be there?"
"I dinnae ken!" yelled Alban, finally exploding and slamming his hands on the table. The wood was sticky under his hands; the ale spilled from his tankard. "Dae their jobs? Like scouts?"
Silence stretched over the table and along the surrounding ones. The inn’s patrons were watching—some of them, at least, those who were not too drunk to care about another patron reaching the height of what they must have thought was a drunken stupor. Some of them, those who were more sober and wiser, shied away from Alban’s table and for good reason.
I cannae believe these two! An’ now everyone is watchin’!
Alban leaned back slowly, giving the people around him a warning look. Only when they looked away did he turn his gaze to the two men before him, eyes narrowing.
"Tell me about the meetin’," he said. "Start from the beginnin’."
Donnach glanced at Muir, then said, "We all went tae the laird’s study an’ yer proposal was given tae him. He was quick tae reject it."
"He also said that ye shouldnae even consider about makin’ such proposals after war has already been declared," Muir added. "He rather furious, me laird."
"O’ course," said Alban. It wasn’t a surprise to him. He had thought that maybe by offering so much gold for Valora MacNeacail’s hand, Laird Gunn would be swayed, but there wasno swaying him, just as there would be no swaying Alban if he was in his shoes. The MacNeacail forces were worth much more than all that gold—not only their ships, but their men, whose expertise was invaluable in the northern seas.
"So ye see, me laird, we had nay choice but tae think the scouts were after us," Muir added. "Laird Gunn was furious. We thought his men would kill us."
With a sigh, Alban shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around this. That wasn’t a good enough reason to kill Gunn men, not even for him. Now all his plans had been revealed, and Laird Gunn would know there was no real offer of peace.
"Then we have a war tae plan," he said after a small pause. There was no avoiding it now. There had been no avoiding it anyway, but he wished it hadn’t come so soon.
Clan Keith had to be the one to attack first, and though Alban was almost certain Torrin Gunn wouldn’t be the first to draw steel, he still had to be prepared for it, to be the one to attack when Laird Gunn wasn’t ready.
He rose slowly, his shadow stretching across the candlelit floorboards. Unable to resist the call of the drink anymore, he reached for the tankard and drained half of its contents in one large sip, before slamming it back down on the table. This time, no one spared him a second glance—no one but Donnach and Muir, who looked up at him, uncertain.
Alban’s voice hardened, but remained a low whisper, something the other tables around them wouldn’t hear. "I should have yer heads fer what ye did. I very much should. But I need all the hands I can get fer this, so this time, I will spare yer lives. Ye can die on the battlefield, killin’ Gunn men."
Both men paled before him, but then they both stood, nodding fervently.
"We’ll need the smiths. And scouts o’ our own," said Muir.
