completely sour. He would keep Nicholas’s horse this time.
“Feed a wolf once, MacBain, and he’s bound to come sniffing around here again for more food.”
The laird’s first-in-command, a thick-shouldered, blond warrior named Calum, made that remark with a forced sneer in his voice. The sparkle in his eyes indicated he was actually amused by the baron’s arrival.
“Are you going to kill him?”
MacBain thought about the question a long minute before answering. “Probably.” His voice had been deliberately blasé.
Calum laughed. “Baron Nicholas is a courageous man to come back here.”
“Not courageous,” MacBain corrected. “Foolish.”
“He’s coming up the last hill wearing your plaid as pretty as you please, MacBain.”
Keith, the eldest of the Maclaurin warriors, shouted the announcement as he came strutting through the doorway.
“Do you want me to bring him inside?” Calum asked.
“Inside?” Keith snorted. “We’re more out than in, Calum. The roofs gone from fire, and only three of the four walls are standing proud now. I’d say we’re already outside.”
“The English did this,” Calum reminded his laird. “Nicholas ...”
“He came here to rid the Maclaurin land of the infidels,” MacBain reminded his soldier. “Nicholas had no part in the destruction.”
“He’s still English.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” He pulled away from the mantel he’d been leaning against, muttered an expletive when a slat of wood crashed to the floor, and then walked outside. Both Calum and Keith fell into step behind him. They took their positions on either side of their leader at the bottom of the steps.
The MacBain towered over his soldiers. He was a giant of a man, fierce in appearance and temperament with dark black-brown hair and gray-colored eyes. He looked mean. Even his stance was belligerent. His legs were braced apart, his arms were folded across his massive chest, and a scowl was firmly in place.
Baron Nicholas spotted the laird as soon as his mount crested the hill. MacBain looked furious all right. Nicholas reminded himself that that was a usual condition. Still the scowl was black enough to give the baron second thoughts. “I must be daft,” he muttered to himself. He took a deep breath, then let out a shrill whistle of greeting. He added a smile for good measure and raised one fist in the air as a greeting.
The MacBain wasn’t impressed with the baron’s manners. He waited until Nicholas had reached the center of the barren courtyard before raising his hand in an unspoken signal to stop.
“I thought I’d been damned specific, Baron. I told you not to come back here.”
“Aye, you did tell me not to come back,” Nicholas agreed. “I remember.”
“Do you also remember I told you I’d have to kill you if you ever set foot on my land again?”
Nicholas nodded. “I’ve a strong memory for details, MacBain. I remember that threat.”
“Is this not open defiance then?”
“You could conclude it is,” Nicholas answered with a negligent shrug.
The smile on the baron’s face confused the hell out of MacBain. Did Nicholas think they were playing some sort of game? Was he that simpleminded?
MacBain let out a long sigh. “Take off my plaid, Nicholas.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to get your blood on it.”
His voice shook with fury. Nicholas hoped to God it was all bluster. He believed he was equal in muscle and strength to the laird, and he was certainly every inch as tall. Still he didn’t want to fight the man. If he killed the laird, his plan would fail; and if the laird killed him, he’d never know what the hell the plan was until it was too late. Besides, the MacBain was much quicker in battle. He didn’t fight fair either, a trait, Nicholas decided, he found impressive.
“Aye, it is your plaid,” he shouted to the barbarian. “But the land, MacBain, well now, that belongs to my sister.”
MacBain’s scowl intensified. He didn’t like