the floor.
“Nay!” Lia cried, lunging after them.
“What are they?” he snarled, catching her arm.
“Lia!” Connell barked.
MacGrigor’s head snapped around and he glared at Connell, who stood with his hand on his dagger.
“MacGrigor?” he asked in shock. “What mean ye?”
MacGrigor’s gaze turned flat. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps ye’ve been turning them against me all along.”
Only then did Lia realize that every able man in the great hall had risen in defense of her until they saw that the man they faced was their own laird.
“Please,” she said softly, focusing on Connell, knowing the others would follow his lead. “Please, ’tis only a misunderstanding.” But as she spoke, she looked at MacGrigor’s hand locked on her arm.
“MacGrigor, release her,” Connell said in a tone she had never heard from him.
“Connell,” MacGrigor snapped. “She is an English spy.” He grabbed the precious sheets from her journal. “ She writes cyphers so we canna divine her purpose.” He threw the papers, scattering them across the table and floor.
“Nay,” Lia moaned. The sheets were so fragile. Years of knowledge! Please don’t let them be destroyed. Please!
Connell watched the sheets flutter to the flagstones at his feet. He looked at MacGrigor, his face pale. “That be the life of my son ye be throwin’ about.”
“It is nothing but a report to her lord. She just admitted she canna read.”
“What is reading but memorized scribbles on vellum?” Lia snapped. “Sueta did not have time to teach me, but she insisted I keep a journal of healing. This was the best I could do. It does not make sense to you, but it makes sense to me.”
“Aye, and to yer employer. How much is le March paying ye?”
“Who?”
“MacGrigor, stop this,” Connell barked. “My son’s life hangs in the balance.”
“How do ye ken she didna kill yer brother… yer wife?”
Connell’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Because I saw how hard she fought to save them.”
Lia bowed her head, fighting against tears.
“Ye werena here, MacGrigor, ye didna see what I saw. Ye judge what ye dinna ken. Just like others have judged ye.”
MacGrigor flinched and released her arm.
Lia scrambled after the sheets of her journal.
MacGrigor turned as if to leave.
“So ye run now?” Connell growled.
MacGrigor hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. “Mind yer place, I am still yer laird.”
“ Who are ye?” Connell snapped.
“What?” The word wasn’t a question, it was a warning.
“Who are ye?” Connell’ s voice cracked. He drew a steadying breath into his lungs. “The MacGrigor I ken didna stand by and watch. He removed his tunic and shouldered the heavy burden with the next man. He didna mind the dirt. He didna shy away from blood or sweat. When the floods came, he stood up to his knees in mud and carried four sandbags at a time when other men could heft only two. When the fire nearly burned down the village, I saw a man rip away tinder as it ignited and suffer burns on his hands. I watched a laird work harder, longer, and carry more than anyone else. I saw a man fight for what he held dear, he didna run from it, he didna quail. And when all was said and done, he laughed with us, he cried with us, and he raised a mug with those who had stood by his side.” Connell drew a deep breath. “That is the laird I serve, that is the man I call friend.”
Lia paused in picking up her sheets of vellum and studied MacGrigor. He remained with his back to Connell, his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut.
Lia summoned her courage. She straightened her shoulders and drew a deep breath. Stepping forward, she placed a handful of vellum on the table and returned to the laird’s side.
“MacGrigor,” she said sof tly. “I know you doubt me because I am English, but listen to truth.” She gently gripped his arm and turned him around.
“Look,” she whispered, gesturing to those in the great hall. “There
“Nay!” Lia cried, lunging after them.
“What are they?” he snarled, catching her arm.
“Lia!” Connell barked.
MacGrigor’s head snapped around and he glared at Connell, who stood with his hand on his dagger.
“MacGrigor?” he asked in shock. “What mean ye?”
MacGrigor’s gaze turned flat. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps ye’ve been turning them against me all along.”
Only then did Lia realize that every able man in the great hall had risen in defense of her until they saw that the man they faced was their own laird.
“Please,” she said softly, focusing on Connell, knowing the others would follow his lead. “Please, ’tis only a misunderstanding.” But as she spoke, she looked at MacGrigor’s hand locked on her arm.
“MacGrigor, release her,” Connell said in a tone she had never heard from him.
“Connell,” MacGrigor snapped. “She is an English spy.” He grabbed the precious sheets from her journal. “ She writes cyphers so we canna divine her purpose.” He threw the papers, scattering them across the table and floor.
“Nay,” Lia moaned. The sheets were so fragile. Years of knowledge! Please don’t let them be destroyed. Please!
Connell watched the sheets flutter to the flagstones at his feet. He looked at MacGrigor, his face pale. “That be the life of my son ye be throwin’ about.”
“It is nothing but a report to her lord. She just admitted she canna read.”
“What is reading but memorized scribbles on vellum?” Lia snapped. “Sueta did not have time to teach me, but she insisted I keep a journal of healing. This was the best I could do. It does not make sense to you, but it makes sense to me.”
“Aye, and to yer employer. How much is le March paying ye?”
“Who?”
“MacGrigor, stop this,” Connell barked. “My son’s life hangs in the balance.”
“How do ye ken she didna kill yer brother… yer wife?”
Connell’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Because I saw how hard she fought to save them.”
Lia bowed her head, fighting against tears.
“Ye werena here, MacGrigor, ye didna see what I saw. Ye judge what ye dinna ken. Just like others have judged ye.”
MacGrigor flinched and released her arm.
Lia scrambled after the sheets of her journal.
MacGrigor turned as if to leave.
“So ye run now?” Connell growled.
MacGrigor hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. “Mind yer place, I am still yer laird.”
“ Who are ye?” Connell snapped.
“What?” The word wasn’t a question, it was a warning.
“Who are ye?” Connell’ s voice cracked. He drew a steadying breath into his lungs. “The MacGrigor I ken didna stand by and watch. He removed his tunic and shouldered the heavy burden with the next man. He didna mind the dirt. He didna shy away from blood or sweat. When the floods came, he stood up to his knees in mud and carried four sandbags at a time when other men could heft only two. When the fire nearly burned down the village, I saw a man rip away tinder as it ignited and suffer burns on his hands. I watched a laird work harder, longer, and carry more than anyone else. I saw a man fight for what he held dear, he didna run from it, he didna quail. And when all was said and done, he laughed with us, he cried with us, and he raised a mug with those who had stood by his side.” Connell drew a deep breath. “That is the laird I serve, that is the man I call friend.”
Lia paused in picking up her sheets of vellum and studied MacGrigor. He remained with his back to Connell, his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut.
Lia summoned her courage. She straightened her shoulders and drew a deep breath. Stepping forward, she placed a handful of vellum on the table and returned to the laird’s side.
“MacGrigor,” she said sof tly. “I know you doubt me because I am English, but listen to truth.” She gently gripped his arm and turned him around.
“Look,” she whispered, gesturing to those in the great hall. “There
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