“Did Dunollie win?” Emma squeaked, clasping her hands together.
Janet groaned. “Aye, and you sound far too happy about it.”
She pursed her lips. Goodness, she was bad at hiding her emotions. Everyone told her so. But why should she try to hide her feelings all the time? Such a thing seemed nonsensical. Though…hadn’t she denied sighing only a few moments ago? Perhaps she ought to try to be more cognizant of her expressions, especially when it came to Ciar MacDougall, at least while they were still at Achnacarry.
“Forgive me. Is Robert covered with mud?” she asked, this time fully intending to smile.
“You’re laughing.”
“And why not?” Emma laughed from her belly. “’Tis a rare moment indeed when my brother loses anything.”
“Hush. He’s heading here now, and he’s not smiling.”
* * *
Ciar joined his men gathered around the ale keg. “How did I ken I’d find you here?”
Livingstone handed him a frothing tankard. “A man works up a thirst after watching such a riveting tug o’ war.”
“Aye, and I’ll wager you had a good laugh watching the clan chiefs battle.”
“I’ll say. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen MacRae lose anything requiring a bit o’ brawn.”
“Do not grow accustomed to it. Should we have another go, the tables could easily be turned.” Ciar took a long drink; the ale was just what he needed to quench his thirst. “Did you find the lad?”
Shaking his head, Livingstone rolled his eyes to the skies. “Aye.”
“And?”
“He asked a shilling.”
“Did you pay it?”
“I balked, but aye. An awful lot to pay for an untried water dog.”
Ciar’s shoulder ticked up. “Mayhap I don’t give a rat’s arse if the dog can fish or nay.”
“He’s a runt.” Livingstone licked the ale froth from his lip. “He’s not even worth adorning your hall’s hearth.”
“I disagree. The pup is affectionate.”
“What the blazes? Och, if it is affection you’re needing, I ken a friendly serving wench.”
“Wheesht.” Ciar sliced his hand through the air. “Go fetch the dog. And mind you, walk where few will see him.”
The man-at-arms snorted, adjusting the dirk in his belt. “That mongrel is more likely to lick an intruder than bite him. He’ll be no kind of watchdog whatsoever.”
“One never kens. I reckon Albert might grow to be quite protective of his master.”
“Bloody Albert it is now?” mumbled the hardened Highlander, walking away.
The pipers played while lads turned the pig on a spit over the fire. Truth be told, the pork had been roasting in the kitchen fires all day, but Lochiel liked it charred by the open fire for a time—said a ceilidh wasn’t the same without a pig on the spit. Ciar’s mouth watered. He agreed with the old clan chief. There was nothing better than roast pork and warm applesauce. And he’d be eating both soon.
But first he had something important to do.
By the time he finished his ale, Livingstone had returned, leading Albert. “Here’s your mop o’ wiry fur, and I’ll say he’s vicious with his tail—wags so fast, he’ll knock everything over in his path.” The man sniggered. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing, m’laird?”
“Nay.” Ciar snatched the lead from the jester’s hand. “Where are you off to?”
“Remember the serving wench?”
“I should have known.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Behave yourself.”
“Och. That would be no fun whatsoever.”
Scratching the dog’s ears, Ciar shook his head. “Are you ready, laddie?”
Albert circled, his tail wagging and swatting Ciar in the knees and shins.
“We may as well head over there.” He pulled the dog to heel. “And pray Robert is in good spirits after his hiding in the tug o’ war.”
Interestingly, Albert heeled well for a dog of nine months. Sam must have worked him on the lead. Ciar skirted around the outside of the gathering. Of course Emma wouldn’t be able to see him approaching, but Betty or Janet might say something.
He still couldn’t believe he’d let his guard down last eve. Aye, his damned heart had taken over his senses for a moment—long enough to be caught by the bloody lady’s maid. Good Lord, he’d felt like a lad of sixteen, smacked on the wrist by his ma. But,