"Nay wonder the lad ne'er gets fat from all the food he shoves down his gullet. He is tupping himself bone-thin every day and night. Do I ken the lass?"
"Nay. She isnae married and I doubt she will try pressing for marriage, either. I think Liam finally listened to some of what ye told him. I would ne'er have thought near drowning him in a horse trough would make him heed your words of wisdom, but it seems to have done so. Either that or he fears for his life,"
Somerled murmured and ignored Sigimor's scowl.
"I thought ye said Liam would settle down after a wee while, that he was only acting like a randy goat because he had been with the monks and they wouldnae let him have any," said a young boy with reddish-blond hair.
"Aye, I said that, Thormand," replied Sigimor. "And, I was right."
Thormand scowled at Sigimor. "He has been tupping near every lass for miles about for near to two years now."
"Weel, he was with the monks for five."
Diarmot took a quick drink of wine to smother his urge to laugh. He could tell by the look upon the youth's face that he desperately wanted to argue that ridiculous reasoning, but was not sure it was a good time to do so. Many another in the hall were doing exactly what Diarmot was doing. Sigimor wore that smirk that so irritated Diarmot when it was directed at him, and he could sympathize with the youth's blatant annoyance.
The man who strode into the hall at that moment quickly grabbed firm hold of Diarmot's attention. He knew this was the famous Liam because of all the somewhat lewd remarks directed at him as he strode past his kinsmen. With him was Gilbert, but Diarmot's reply to that man's greeting was only half-hearted.
Liam Cameron was a beautiful man. Diarmot hated to think of him so, yet could think of no other way to describe him. He was much like Gillyanne's cousin Payton, but bigger. Long dark copper hair threaded with gold, perfect features, a perfectly proportioned lean, strong body, and grace in his every step. When he neared them and smiled, Diarmot met the man's friendly blue-green gaze and suddenly sympathized with Connor's many grumbled complaints about Payton Murray.
Such manly perfection was irritating.
"He is a good lad," Sigimor said, smiling faintly at Diarmot. "Still, someone that bonny can feel like a splinter under the skin at times."
"Aye," agreed Diarmot, for once not troubled that Sigimor had guessed his thoughts. "Lady Gillyanne has just such a cousin and I was suddenly able to understand why Connor keeps saying the lad needs seasoning, in the form of a broken nose and a few scars."
Sigimor chuckled, then looked at Liam who had seated himself beside Diarmot and was filling a plate with food. "Worked up an appetite, did ye?"
"It was a long walk here," Liam drawled, then he looked at Diarmot. "How is my sweet cousin Ilsa? Did ye bring the bonny wee lass with you?"
"Nay," Diarmot replied, knowing he was being taunted. "I left her home with my eight children." He smiled faintly at the look of shock on Liam's face.
"Dinnae prod the mon, Liam. He is smarter than he looks," said Sigimor. "Now, tell us what ye ken."
"Ye need to go speak to Lord Ogilvey," Liam said.
"That is all ye have to say?"
"That is all I am going to say. Ye have to go and talk to Lord Ogilvey. Ask him about his wife, Lorraine."
Diarmot looked at Sigimor and suspected he was wearing the same look of shocked recognition that man was. "L.O. Lorraine Ogilvey." He looked at Liam.
"Why will ye say no more?"
"Because a lot of what I have been told is gossip, nay more. Tis also sordid--sinful, if one heeds the monks--and I willnae blacken any woman or mon's name on gossip alone. Talk to Lord Ogilvey and I will confirm or nay what he says."
"Ye will be able to do that quickly, too, for ye will be going with us,"
said Sigimor.
Diarmot looked around the small clearing amongst the thick oak trees and fought to regain his composure. He knew the four Camerons riding with him sat on their horses a few feet away watching him, and suspected they knew why he had suddenly veered from the trail and come here. For several moments he had been so caught up in the return of a memory lost for too long that he doubted he would have noticed if they had ridden right over him.
As they had almost done once before, he thought He had made love to Ilsa here several times. It had been a favorite trysting spot of theirs. Here was where her brothers had found them that day. Here was where he had taken her maidenhead.
Everything she had told him had been the truth. He had begun to believe it, but it was a relief to have his own memory now confirm it. Finlay and Cearnach were his sons, could be no other man's. That, too, he had decided upon his own, but could not help but heartily welcome the memory that proved it, the memory that took away all chance of insidious doubt.