Page 32 of The Scottish Bride
“If you were King Edward’s men,” she continued, “perhaps you would know where to find Sir Henry Keith. My brother.”
“We know the man,” Gilchrist said, “but we do not know where he might be now.”
“Sir Malise said he was sent on an errand for King Edward. A dangerous errand.”
“We know nothing of that. Sorry.” Gilchrist shrugged.
“If we cannot find him, perhaps I should go to Lanercost and ask to see King Edward myself. I have questions for him.”
Liam sent her a quick scowl. “That is an odd plan, lady.”
“No odder than a knight watching my castle before dawn.”
“Or a lass making her way down the bedsheets,” he drawled. “We were traveling this way to take the hound to a friend. But we spied a kitten up a tree.”
“Is the kitten saved now—or is she caught by wolves?”
“Trust us, or do not. Either way, you are safe,” he assured her.
“Sir,” she said after a moment, “why take your hound to a monastery?”
“I am away for long weeks and do not have the household I once had. Roc stays at Holyoak with other hounds in the monks’ care.”
“The hounds of Holyoak?” She stared at him. “I have seen them there. My husband admired them too. I visited there sometimes to see the books,” she offered. “Abbot Murdoch permitted me to read in their library. He is a kind man.”
“He is,” Liam said. “He cares for books and hounds and looks after souls as well.”
“Do the monks train the dogs for hunting? My husband thought so.”
“If a lord asks it, aye. I trained Roc myself, in the days before… Well, we—my kin—once bred and raised gaze hounds, but no longer. Times have changed.” His father, another Baron William, and Sir David Campbell, too, had taught Liam and his brothers to work with the once-famed hounds of Dalrinnie.
“Were you hunting with Roc this morning? ’Twas early and cold for it.”
“I might have, but Roc spotted a lovely creature in distress, so—” He shrugged.
“He is a fine hound. Wolfhound, they call the breed? But such a dog is not—”
“Not for the likes of me, a mere knight?” He was not just that, but no need to say so. He merely lifted a brow and her cheeks went high pink. “Wolfhounds are prized and allowed only for earls and dukes and kings? Those are English rules,” he said. “In Scotland, fine dogs belong with fine masters, no matter who they are.”
“He seems an excellent dog, with a worthy master. I do not hunt. I enjoy the outing and the chase, but not the taking down. My father cared deeply for his hounds and his hawks. And my husband had a pair of very fine dogs at Dalrinnie.”
He exchanged glances with Gilchrist at that. The hounds of Dalrinnie belonged to the Setons. Liam wanted to know more—how many remained there, what was their health, did Sir Davey watch over them still.
“You have hounds like Roc at Dalrinnie?” He dared ask only that.
“Just one now. Oonagh, she is called. She is like Roc, tall and gray and gentle.”
Oonagh.His heart bounded. He had raised her from a pup. “Is she safe there with you gone?” He had to ask.
“I would not leave her to Sir Malise, I will tell you that,” she said briskly. “I asked a friend to watch after her.”
“Good. They are handsome and dignified and aye, gentle, these dogs. As loyal a friend as one could have,” he said. “Sight hounds, they call them, or gaze hounds, for their long sharp vision out in the field. Your husband had others?”
“Another, an older male. He died last summer. They do not live many years.”
Colla.A brindled hound raised at Dalrinnie—perhaps the father of Oonagh’s puppies. “True. Eight years is a good long life for a gaze hound.”
“A pity. They are majestic guardians. Oonagh makes it her work to watch over me. I worry she will fret when she cannot find me at Dalrinnie. But the seneschal will watch after her.”
