In Scot Water - Caroline Lee Page 0,1

honey bun.”

She turned her attention back to her son where it belonged. “Aright, my wee honey bun.”

Five-year-old Liam giggled. “And a wheat loaf?”

Her monthly market visit meant treats the lad looked forward to as much as she did. “Aye. I’ll get two, if ye’re willing to carry the basket home.”

“Aye! Aye!” The lad bounced up and down. “Ye carry the baby; I’ll carry the food.”

Smiling tiredly, she let him lead her to the baker. They had a three-hour walk home ahead of them, and she knew she’d end up carrying both her sons and the basket by the time they reached halfway. Her back ached just thinking of it.

Sometimes she wished she could leave Liam home with Nanny, as she did when she went foraging. But on market days, she was gone all day, which was too long to leave him behind. Besides, the lad was curious and full of energy, and he craved the sights and sounds of civilization as much as she did.

“Come along, my love,” she called softly to him as they reached the shop.

Before speaking with the baker, she turned once more to the spot where the men had stood earlier, hoping to catch one more glimpse of the tall, auburn-haired warrior who’d made her breath catch.

But he was gone.

Chapter 1

The weather was making everyone antsy.

Already this morning, Malcolm had had to break up two fights, which was ridiculous, because two fools disagreed on who was more endowed in the bollocks department.

Aye, the constant rain was making everyone irritated because they were losing valuable summer days when they could be planting or training or raiding.

It seemed as if all of the Oliphant men were dealing with the boredom and short tempers in one of three ways: drinking, fighting, or fooking.

And the Oliphant bastards were no exception.

“Best two out of three?” Finn closed one eye and stared down at the gambling sticks on the table. “I’d be better at this, I vow, if the damned things would quit their spinning.”

“They’re supposed to spin,” Malcolm drawled, as their brother Alistair scooped up the sticks. “Although I suspect they’d go where ye wanted them to go if ye were drinking less.”

“Och, where’s the fun in that?” Finn reached for his flagon of ale. “So best two out of three?”

“Nay.” Malcolm shook his head. “Ye’re nae challenge when ye’re drunk.”

“How about me?” Alistair asked mildly. There was a flagon in front of him, but the man rarely drank to excess. The man rarely did anything to excess. “I’m no’ drunk.”

“Aye, but ye’re nae challenge, period.”

As his brother scowled and Finn hooted with laughter, Malcolm took a swig of ale. There was a delightful buzzing in his head; just the sort of thing a man needed to get through yet another day of being cooped up inside by the torrential downpours they’ve had over the last sennight.

“Just because ye’re smarter than me,” Alistair began, “dinnae think ye can—”

“I’m smarter than both of ye put together,” Malcolm corrected, maintaining a serious expression to go with the jibe, “and ye’d be fools to doubt it.”

Alistair’s scowl deepened. “Ye dinnae need brains to win this stupid game.”

He was right; essentially, the players tossed the sticks on the ground or table, and bet whether they would come down with the dark or light side facing upward.

I must be truly desperate for amusement if I’ve sunk this low.

“Aye, but ye need brains to gamble, and I’m tired of taking yer money.”

Finn guffawed at this, but Alistair tossed the sticks down with a sigh. “Why did I bother coming down from my solar for this? I was in the middle of drafting that new marriage contract Da asked for since Henry Stewart’s death.”

Malcolm winced. Their sister’s most recent betrothal—was this her fifth or sixth?—had been negated by the groom’s death just a few days ago. Was Da already looking for a new betrothed for her?

That, more than any actual censure, prompted him to say, “Ye should relax more, Alistair.”

“Aye!” Finn slapped Alistair on the back, his perpetual good mood somehow grating in the close confines. “Even serious auld arseholes, with sticks up their nostrils, need to put down their work once in a while.”

“I’m no’ auld. Just a few months aulder than ye.”

Indeed, Alistair and his twin, Kiergan, were the oldest of the Oliphant bastards, although ‘twas not much of a distinction.

After the loss of his lady love, William Oliphant, laird of the clan, had set out to sow his wild oats. And sow them he had.