A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,76

hobbled forward.

“Fiona?” Relief tinged his voice. “Is it you? I’d given up.”

Fiona grew cautious, but Broc sounded genuinely glad to see her. He stumbled toward her, leaning heavily on the stick, and caught her in an embrace.

“It is a happy Christmas indeed,” he breathed in her ear.

“Cousin Fiona.” Tavin rose from the bench he’d been sitting on and made his way to her. His brother Neilan also rose but remained at the table. “Welcome. How fortunate.”

“Fortunate?” Fiona’s suspicions immediately rose. The last time she’d seen Tavin, he’d been trying to convince her that marrying him and giving him all her money was a grand idea.

“Aye. We’re trying to persuade Broc to take ship for the Americas. Better for him than limping around here. He can start a new life in the colonies.”

“Can he?” Fiona skewered Tavin with a gaze. Tavin was tall and admittedly good-looking, and he thought much of himself. He dressed in the English style—breeches and brocade frock coat that was far out of place in this ancient setting. He wore a wig, white and sleek over his true dark hair.

“And what happens to Castle Mòr if my brother leaves the country?” Fiona asked as though merely curious.

“Well.” Tavin attempted affability. “We’re the closest male heirs, you know. If you go with Broc, we’ll take good care of it. If you stay …” Tavin took a step closer to her, and Broc had to move out of his way. “The castle is yours, of course. But you’ll need a husband, won’t you?”

One more step, until Fiona could smell the powder on his wig. She heard a rumble, and then Stuart was there, his hands full of Tavin’s coat, hauling the man away from Fiona and to the nearest stone pillar.

Neilan, who was even more of a fop than his brother, his wig decorated with four green silk ribbons, squeaked, and Broc hastened back to Fiona. “See here, you. Unhand him. Fiona, who is this man? I can have him arrested.”

Stuart raised Tavin halfway up the pillar and let him go. Tavin landed on his feet, but his high-heeled shoes turned under him, and he staggered, grabbing for the pillar to hold him up.

Stuart turned around, pulling off his battered hat and throwing it to the ground.

“Feasgar Mhath, Broc Macdonald. How have ye been keeping yourself?”

As had the creaky retainer, Broc cringed as Stuart bade him a good evening in the Scots language. Stuart thought Broc was more upset about hearing his mother tongue than seeing Stuart Cameron returned from the dead. The Macdonald cousins were equally dismayed by the words, but Stuart saw no recognition in their eyes.

“What are …” Broc trailed off and swallowed. “Fiona?”

“’Tis not my doing.” Fiona unwound her scarves, though it was scarcely warmer in here than outdoors. Her face appeared, flushed with cold. “I found him on the way home. Now—it has been a long journey and I am hungry. Is there food? Lights?”

“Everyone has gone,” Broc said. He did not look well, his face pale in the flickering rushlight, and he clutched the stick as though it was all that kept him on his feet. He shot a fearful glance to Padruig and Gair, who’d followed Stuart in. “Deserted me. Only three are left—the gamekeeper, Donia in the kitchen, and Marcas.”

Fiona’s eyes went wide. “Good heavens. Only three people to have the caring of you? Can ye not shift yourself to the kitchen and carve a bit of bread and cheese? I assume Donia is doing the cooking. She was kitchen assistant when I left.”

“Yes, she is carrying on.” Broc’s voice was a near whisper.

“Sit down, man,” Stuart advised. “’Tis clear ye can barely stand. There’s no shame in it. Ye took a hit in battle.”

Broc sank to his high-backed wooden chair—the laird’s chair. All else around the table were benches. Tavin, who’d finally recovered himself and brushed off his coat, smirked at Broc. Tavin hadn’t fought in the war, had likely never picked up a musket in his life.

“What about our tenants?” Fiona asked. “Are they well? Sitting in warm, snug houses, or ones with holes in the roofs?”

“Don’t know. Most have gone. Marcas says many have turned to the cities to find work and won’t be coming back.”

He was a broken man. Stuart again wondered if he’d find his own home like this one. Deserted, empty, all having fled in fear.

“Which is why we should take it over,” Tavin said. “Ye don’t need farms, ye need sheep. Wool fetches a