Return of the Scot (Scots of Honor #1) - Eliza Knight Page 0,1

himself not to cower at the sharp surprise of the man’s shout. A head poked out from the top of the tower gate.

Then a curse escaped the man’s lips as he tossed off his feathered woolen cap, revealing ginger hair and thrust himself over the parapet so hard Lorne feared he’d dive right off. “Your Grace! Is it ye? Do my eyes deceive me?” The guard made the sign of the cross.

Lorne could have cried at hearing the familiar voice of his childhood friend, to have recognized a much beloved face. “Mungo, ’tis I. Open the gate for me.”

Mungo let out a lengthy tirade of mumbled Gaelic Lorne couldn’t discern, but the gate did open, and kilt-clad clansmen rushed through beside Mungo, their swords clinking against their boot spurs, each of them muttering prayers and crossing themselves.

“How is this possible?” Mungo said, reaching out to touch him and then yanking back as though he might be burned. “We were told ye were dead.”

Having been warned of this in London, Lorne was not surprised at the news. He gripped his old friend on the shoulder and squeezed, a smile stretching wide across his face. “I assure ye I’m verra much alive and in need of a bath, a bed and a hot meal.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Mungo glanced at the other men, and a silent message passed between them. “Come, we’ll get ye settled.” He signaled for the gates to close and called up for another man to take watch as they led Lorne down the road.

One of them tried to take the reins from Lorne, but he held them tight, barely suppressing a growl. At the man’s startled expression, Lorne laughed it off and reluctantly let go. He was home. His men could be trusted.

Mungo let out a tirade of queries, which Lorne barely answered. Instead, he picked up his speed, questioning what the men would think if he tore off his boots and ran inside. But he didn’t want his homecoming to be any more awkward than it already would be, so he remained walking at a steady pace and ignored the increasing pinches in his toes.

As people came out to see who walked with Mungo, a whisper like the buzz of bees passed over the wind. Mungo waved away anyone who came near, thank goodness, and the men rushed ahead to open the wide, arched door. When they entered the castle, hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor from the left and then Mrs. Blair, not looking a day older than when he’d left, burst into the entryway. His housekeeper took one glance of him, blanched as white as a sheet and then dropped in a heavy faint to the floor.

“Blimey!” Lorne jerked forward to check on her. White wisps of hair framed her face, and on closer look, the lines beside her eyes and mouth had deepened.

“’Tis like she saw a ghost,” Mungo jested beside him.

Lorne gave him a wry glance and lifted his housekeeper into his arms. “Carry her to the drawing room,” he said to the two men who’d accompanied them.

“There is something ye should know, my laird.” Mungo avoided his gaze, watching the men take the woman from Lorne’s arms, having to share the weight, where he had strength enough yet to hold her himself.

“Aye?”

Mungo looked as though he’d eaten a pot of spoiled mutton. “As I mentioned afore, the clan, they thought ye were dead.”

Lorne ignored the painful prick in his heart. He removed his cap, sat down on the stairs and started to pluck at his boot laces—to hell with waiting for his chamber.

“Lord Gille, he assumed the role as duke and chief.”

“Naturally,” Lorne said tightly, tugging off one boot and biting his cheek to keep from moaning at the uncomfortable restriction being removed. He glanced around the grand entrance to the castle, searching out his half-brother Gille and not seeing him. ‘Haps he was visiting a crofter or working in the fields as Lorne had often done.

“Well, he…” But Mungo didn’t continue. He pinched his cap and twirled it round and round while his gaze landed anywhere but on Lorne.

Mungo’s gaze shifted warily to the place above Lorne’s head. Forgetting his other boot, Lorne followed Mungo’s line of vision to the place behind him. He gaped at the empty spot on the wall where the sword of his ancestor, who had fought beside William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, used to hang. The artifact had been there so long that there was still