Ambrose stared straight at him. “Because that’s his son right behind him.”
“He’s coming this way.”
To his credit, Grey dismounted as quickly as Ian did. He stood by his side as the laird’s son approached, and then he actually took a step forward. His brothers were nothing if not protective.
“Many thanks for coming to our aid,” Ambrose said.
Ian wanted to hate the man. He was certainly a coward for not visiting Màiri before the wedding, after he learned she was engaged. But by all accounts, the man in front of him was honorable and kind. An excellent swordsman, most said.
And Ian had most certainly asked around.
“Of course,” Ian responded, waiting for the man’s next move.
“Is Màiri well?”
He must have hesitated just long enough for Ambrose to pick up on it.
“What is it?”
Grey started to answer, but Ian cut in. He could fight his own battles—something he’d remind Grey of when this was over.
“She’s a bit out of sorts at the moment, but she’s resting.”
So much for trying to fit in. Apparentlyout of sortswasn’t a medieval phrase. Ambrose wrinkled his nose and lifted his chin.
“Her stomach? And pain here?” Ambrose touched his temple. “Perhaps she was warm?”
How the hell did he know all of that?
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Aye.”
Ambrose nodded. “It’s happened many times,” he said. “She worries about something, aye?”
“Greyson,” their grandfather shouted, waving to him. Ian nodded for his brother to go. With a final glare at Ambrose, Grey walked off toward the forge.
“Maybe,” Ian said, noncommittally. He didn’t like this guy knowing so much about his wife.
He knows her better than you. He’s known Màiri his whole life.
“If you please, offer her my well-wishes.”
Ian couldn’t help his scowl. “Sure.”
Ambrose was distracted by something in the vicinity of the forge. They both looked in that direction as the laird of Clan Dern pointed behind the forge.
“What’s going on?”
Ambrose looked at him strangely. Ian tried not to roll his eyes. “What, pray tell, is happening?”
That didn’t help much. He would have laughed aloud if Ambrose didn’t look so concerned, but Ian didn’t think it was his lame attempt to talk like a medieval person that was bothering the guy.
“We’re attempting to learn more about the source of the fire. It looks like Father believes they may have come from the west.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s pointing to the ground. There must be footprints leading away from the forge.”
The west. He didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what the laird of Clan Dern was suggesting. The feud between Dern and Kelbrue was legendary.
