Rivals for the Crown (25 page)

continued dissatisfaction with the Guardians and the nobles who could not agree on a course for their country's future. And of the sporadic violence between Balliol and Bruce factions that was spreading, leaving no part of Scotland untouched.

At night, when the patrons were settled, the tavern was empty, and their time was their own, Rachel, Sarah, and Isabel joined Rory and Kieran there, listening to what they'd learned that day, then talking of every topic that came to mind. They were merry, which helped dispel Isabel's overwhelming sense of sadness and loss.

During the day she watched Rachel and Sarah and their parents joke together, and help each other, with no cross words exchanged, no accusations. No distrust. Gilbert, the previous owner of the tavern, was a surprise. She'd expected him to be a doddering old fool when she'd first heard of him, but while he was aged, he was far from feebleminded.

She felt she learned slowly, but everyone encouraged her, Rory most of all. Every time she turned, she found him carrying mugs of ale to a table, or taking a heavy tray from her hands with a smile. Or running to the cellar to fetch another pitcher of ale.

On her second night at the inn, a tall, gaunt, man with lean, windburnt cheeks, entered the foyer, a cold wind following him. Isabel had been standing in the corner with Rachel, watching the room for patrons who needed anything, and turned at the sound of the man's greeting. A Highlander, she could tell, both from his

accent and his dress. He stood next to Rachel for a moment, surveying the tavern room, then whirled to face Gilbert.

"Are ye the innkeeper, sir?" he asked.

"I am," Gilbert said. "Which do you need, a meal, or a room, or both?"

"Neither." The man pushed a coin across the desk to Gilbert, keeping his finger atop it. "I'm looking for a man who might be staying here. Highlander. Tall. Very blond hair. Wears a golden brooch with a circle of jewels on it. He's often with one of the MacDonald lads. Easily angered, he is, and said to be somewhere in Berwick. Have ye seen anyone like that?"

"Several over the last month," Gilbert said, turning as if to move an object behind him. He caught Isabel's gaze and rolled his eyes toward the man, then turned back. "Do you have a name, perhaps?"

"Rory MacGannon."

Gilbert tapped his chin, then shook his head. "I've not heard that name. Have you checked the inns down by the water? They would be the sorts of places you might find a man such as that. We do not welcome ruffians."

The man nodded.

"If I do see him," Gilbert said, "where would I find you?"

The man smiled, revealing several missing teeth. "Just look outside yer door. One of us is watching for him."

"How will I know which to tell?"

The man laughed. "I'm not the only one looking for MacGannon. There's an English knight paying good money to hear of his whereabouts."

"Is there? What has this MacGannon done?"

"He's a murderer, sir." The man stepped to the tavern doorway again. "Ye have a Highlander there, the dark-haired man in the corner, playing dice. Who is he?"

"Him?" Gilbert shrugged. "I have no idea, sir. We only ask their names if they take a room. And sometimes not even then."

Isabel gave Rachel a glance, then, while the man was talking with Gilbert, crossed the room to where Kieran sat, engrossed in a dice game with Edgar Keith.

"Kieran," she whispered to him. "You need to listen to me!"

He looked up at her with a smile. "Isabel, lass, it had better be important. I'm making my fortune here."

Edgar snorted. "Losing everything is more like it.

"Don't look past me, but listen! There is a man, talking with Gilbert, looking for Rory by name and offering money for information. He knows Rory could be with a MacDonald. He says Rory is a murderer! No, don't look at him! Where is Rory?"

"Just coming down the stairs," Kieran said softly. "He's standing in the dark, there, listening to the Highlander. Dinna worry, lass, I can tell by his expression that he's hearing it."

"The man is leaving," Edgar said. "He tossed Gilbert a coin and left."

Isabel turned to look across the room and met Rory's gaze. He looked angry. She turned back to Kieran. "Is it true? Did Rory kill a man?"

Rory told her late that night, as they sat with Rachel and Kieran, all that had happened before he'd gone to London. She listened, watching his eyes and the way Kieran nodded. Rory's tone was matter-of-fact, as though things like this were commonplace.

"Kieran told me all about it," Rachel said.

"He did?" Isabel looked from Rachel to Rory.

"And ye've seen the brooch Rory wears on his cloak," Kieran says. "Given to him by the MacDonnell's lady to thank him. She said he was the champion of all women, and I'm thinking she was right."

Rory shook his head. "And ye see the good that's come of it."

"Ye got a
jewelled
brooch out of it," Kieran said.

"And a price on my head."

"How can you make light of this?" Isabel demanded. "You said that John Comyn would stop it. Why has he not?"

Rory's expression sobered. "I'm sure he tried, lass, but the truth of it is that Scotland is ready to explode. My family has come out for Balliol and made no secret of it. The MacDonells have done the same, but this could be a way to divide us, could it not, to have one part of Balliol's faction distrusting another."

"So you think the Bruces are behind it?" Isabel asked.

Rory shrugged. "I may be reading too much into it, but does it not seem strange that I'm the object of such a search? John Comyn has spread the truth of what happened."

"But, as ye say," Kieran said, "Scotland is ready to explode. Could be ye're right. And if not the Bruces, then ye ken who it is."

Rory and Kieran exchanged a look.

"Who?" Isabel asked.

"My father has enemies," Rory said. "The Rosses. My mother's mother was one, but my father killed the king's cousin—ye

remember the story I told ye, about our aunt Nell and all, and every so often the Rosses have a hothead who tries to kill my da, or Liam, or my brother, Magnus, or me. It's been years, though."

"Four since the last time, but that was soon settled," Kieran said.

"Let me understand," Isabel said. "There are men trying to kill you in Scotland. It might be MacDonells, or Rosses, or men after the reward."

"Not just Scotland," Kieran said. "They were in London, too. And dinna forget yer friend, de Boyer, who's now paying for information. Ye must have made quite an impression there."

"That's different. He's trying to find something foul about me to tell Isabel. There's nothing more to it than that."

"Damn, lad." Kieran slapped Rory's shoulder. "Aren't ye the popular one?"

The others laughed, but Isabel found no
humour
in it.

Rory turned to her with a grin. "It's not that dangerous, Isabel. I'm careful. I have Kieran to guard my back. I'm leaving soon, and when I get home I'll have a whole clan to protect me."

She nodded, pretending to agree. But that night she dreamt of Walter Langton chasing her and Rory on horseback. Behind him were faceless men dressed in Highland clothing, brandishing swords. And next to Langton was Henry.

Rory continued to make light of the price on his head, although she noted that he often looked outside at the street and scanned the tavern room before he entered it, and more than once he tensed when the door opened. And Kieran did the same.

On the night before Rory and Kieran were to leave, Rory found Isabel in the hallway. He carried a tray of empty cups, leaning into the kitchen to hand them to the girl there. "My excuse to come and find ye," he said with a wide smile and pulled her around the corner, where they could be alone.

"Ye've hardly had a moment for me, lass. It's busy tonight, but at least no battles yet, aye?"

"You are good to help us, Rory. Not your usual duty, is it?"

"No, and if ye tell anyone of this, Kieran and I will take grave
offence
."

"Grave
offence
. Then shall I take that warning gravely, sir?"

"I'm dead serious, lass."

"Are you plotting something, sir?

"Ye have not a ghost of guessing." He leaned over her. "But I like yer spirit."

She laughed and pushed him away, but he moved closer to her, putting a hand at her waist.

"Do you help serve food at home as well?" she asked.

"Och no, lass. At home we pound on the table with our daggers and demand to be fed."

"I'm sure you do."

"I'm sure we dinna do it at all. Ye have not met my mother. There's no pounding on her tables."

"She must be very proud of a son like you."

"How could she not be?" He laughed, then stepped even closer. "Ye ken we're leaving in the morning. We have to be going in order to be home by Christmas, else I wouldna leave ye. Will ye be all right here, Isabel?" He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. "Ye can come with us, lass. We'll take ye to Stirling. My aunt and uncle are there, and Nell could keep ye safe. Or ye could come to Loch Gannon, to my home. I ken ye'd be welcome."

She could not speak for a moment, then tried to smile at him. "I thank you, Rory MacGannon, for this as well as everything else you have done for me. It is you I worry for now, riding across

Scotland with men hunting for you. They know what you look like, Rory!"

"Whist, lass, d'ye ken how many Highlanders are tall and have blond hair? Let them look. I'll be careful, but I'm not really in danger. I'm going home. It's ye I'm leaving in a strange city. Will ye not come with us?"

She kept her tone light. "And share the dangers of the road with you?"

He raised his eyebrows. "And perhaps more. But seriously, Isabel—"

"I cannot. Rachel and her family have made me welcome, and there is work here that I can do to earn my keep."

"A far cry from what ye're accustomed to."

"Then I will learn to become accustomed to this life. My past is over. I will never go back to London. I am dead, remember?"

"And this is yer afterlife?"

She shared a smile with him. "You have been so kind, Rory. I do not know how to thank you for caring for me, for enduring that hideous voyage, for all your small kindnesses. You came back to London for me. How can I thank you?"

"This way," he said.

His kiss was gentle, but demanding. He claimed her mouth with an ardor that was impossible to mistake, his fingers stroking her cheek, his eyes closed. She closed hers as well,
savouring
the feel of his lips on hers, of the promise of more.

"Rory," she said breathlessly, wrapping her hand around his neck, pulling his mouth back to hers. "Again."

He took possession of her mouth again, lunging into her with his tongue, exploring her fully. She returned the kiss with all the passion she possessed. Just one kiss, she told herself. But as the kiss deepened, she pressed closer to him, wishing to meld with him, to be one, as she'd never felt before. As she knew she would crave the rest of her life. He lifted his head.

"I forgot something upstairs, lass," he said, his eyes dark. "Come with me, will ye no'?"

She knew she should refuse, knew he had not forgotten anything, but she let him take her hand and lead her up the stairway the family and staff used, down the empty corridor and into the room he'd shared with Kieran. He closed the door and pulled her into his arms without a word, and she clasped him to her, raising her mouth to meet his, letting his hands roam from her throat to her shoulders. When he cupped her breast she leaned into his touch, and when he slipped a finger under the edge of her bodice, she was lost.

"Take this off," he said, his voice hoarse. "Let me feel yer skin against me, Isabel. Just this once, before I leave, let me touch ye."

She did not hesitate, but pulled her outer tunic over her head, letting it fall to the floor, then fumbled with the laces of her chemise. She looked up to see him shedding his shirt and reaching for her, his hand already pushing down the cloth of her bodice, his fingers finding the soft flesh of her breast.

He pulled her against him and she melted at the feel of his skin on hers, the warmth of his chest, the brush of his chest hair against her breasts as he moved. His skin was silken beneath her touch, smooth and firm and wonderfully male. She stroked her hand along the muscles of his shoulders, then along his side, marveling at his tautness, at his strength. She kissed the base of his throat and inhaled.

"Rory," she said breathlessly, and felt his body respond.

He lifted her chin and kissed her deeply, his tongue probing her mouth while his hands continued to bare her flesh. And then his mouth was gone, enclosing on her nipple, the flicks of his tongue bringing her exquisite pleasure.

"Rory," she said. "Don't leave me."

He lifted his head and met her gaze. "I'll come back, Isabel. I shouldna want ye so, but God's blood, I do, Isabel! I ken better. There should be nothing between us, I ken that, and I have nothing to offer ye, but ye make me hunger for ye, lass." He pulled her closer, leaning his cheek against the top of her head, her face nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. "It's more than just yer body, though that would be enough to make me travel to the ends of the earth. It's yer courage, and yer
humour
, and yer willingness to work hard. And yer loyalty. Truly, lass, there has never been another like ye. I will never forget ye, Isabel de Burke. Dinna be forgetting me, lass."