estate, first.
So to say he was in a filthy, resentful mood when he rode through Dunmuir and arrived at the village kirk would be an understatement. The manse—a single-story stone building with a slate-tiled roof—stood atop a small grassy knoll behind the church and the small cemetery. All was quiet save for the plaintive call of the gulls wheeling overhead and the rustle of the sea breeze through the bracken and a small copse of pines.
As Hamish dismounted and secured his mount’s reins to a rusted iron ring in a low stone wall bordering the cemetery, the door to the manse opened and a lean man in his late thirties with a shock of red hair emerged. Reverend MacDonald.
The minister called a greeting as Hamish followed a path of roughly hewn flagstones up the rise. “Good morning to ye, Lord Sleat. I wasna expecting to see ye until Christmastide.”
“Aye,” Hamish replied, reminding himself to keep his tone civil. “I wasn’t expecting to come home in September either.”
“And I hear ye have a bonnie wife.” An uncertain smile played about the reverend’s lips. “Congratulations, my lord.”
“Thank you. But I didn’t drop by to chat about my bride.” Hamish halted in front of the manse and planted his fisted hands on his kilted hips. “I came here to address a matter of grave importance involving my sister and your brother.”
“Oh . . . I see.” Reverend MacDonald made a show of hefting several books that were tucked under his arm. “I was aboot to head to the vestry. My wife is visiting some of the crofters’ wives, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to finish writing tomorrow’s sermon.” He gestured at the kirk with his free hand. “Would ye mind if we moved our chat—I mean our discussion—down there?”
Hamish narrowed his gaze. The fact that the good reverend was trying to steer him away from the manse was telling indeed. Especially after one of the curtains in the sash window twitched. “While I always value your counsel, I’m sure you know it is not you whom I came to see.” Impatience and ill-humor sharpened his tone. “Where’s Brodie?”
Reverend MacDonald’s Adam’s apple bobbed above his starched minister’s collar. “I . . . er . . . he’s . . .” His eyes darted toward the manse. “He’s . . . ah . . . he’s on his way to Portree to run an errand—”
Hamish shook his head at the minister. “Really, Reverend MacDonald? You of all people are going to lie about his whereabouts?” Taking a step back, he called out, “Brodie MacDonald! Stop hiding behind your brother’s cassock and get your cowardly arse out here right now.”
The kirkman’s countenance grew so pale, Hamish thought the man might faint. “Don’t worry, Reverend,” he said. “I only came here to talk to your brother. Not tear him to pieces. I’m not that uncivilized.”
“Oh. Good . . .” Reverend MacDonald braced an arm against the doorjamb as if his knees were still too weak to support his weight. “That’s verra reassuring. Although, when ye use a word like arse—”
Hamish cocked a brow. “You’re going to lecture me about my manners right now? When it’s your scoundrel of a brother who’s taken liberties with my sister? He’s lucky I didn’t come here to castrate him.”
“Quite . . . Indeed . . .” The minister stepped away from the door. “Why don’t you come inside then? You ken where the parlor is. I’ll have my housekeeper prepare a pot of tea.”
Hamish pushed his way inside the manse. The lintel was so low, he had to duck his head. “I don’t need tea, Reverend. Just a word with Brodie.”
Hamish didn’t have to wait long. No sooner had he taken up a position by the sash window, which commanded a view of a grassy slope running down to a black stony beach and the Little Minch, than he heard a man clear his throat behind him.
“Lord Sleat, I understand ye wish to speak with me.”
Hands clasped behind his back to stop himself from planting a fist in the face of the dog who’d been doing God knew what with his sister, Hamish turned around slowly. “Aye. I do.”
Brodie MacDonald was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. From beneath a tousled sweep of bright red hair, his intelligent gaze met Hamish’s directly. Even though he’d always thought Brodie quick-witted and affable—and eminently suitable for the role of Angus’s tutor—Hamish now looked at