A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,79
am happy as well,” Fiona said cautiously. It was a rare day Broc didn’t follow a kind word with a demand.
“Tavin is right that I should go away from here. I doubt I’ll ever have an heir.” Broc had not married. The lady he’d set his eyes on had chosen another, and he’d nursed resentment and wounded pride in the five years since. “If you marry Tavin, you can both live here, and you’ll bear the Macdonald heir.”
Broc spoke woodenly, as though the speech was rehearsed. Fiona could guess who’d coached him.
She turned a sweet smile on Tavin who was trying to persuade Gair to hand him the whisky. Gair would begin to and then stop and pour more for himself or Padruig.
“No, thank you, Tavin,” Fiona said clearly. “I will not marry you.”
Tavin gave her a sour glance. “You might not have a choice, cousin. Broc won’t sire any sons, thanks to his injury. You are his only hope. I am the logical man for you to marry. Neilan is the younger—he’ll run our lands, while I take over here.”
“Won’t sire any sons?” Stuart’s large rumble interrupted. “He was shot in the leg, not the balls. He’ll sire sons just fine.”
Broc’s face went crimson. “Dinnae mock me, sir.”
“Not mocking. ’Tis a fact. What have these idiots been filling your head with?”
“They talk a lot of sense,” Broc said, though Fiona glimpsed a silent plea in his green eyes. “I won’t be able to be laird much longer. A stronger man should take over.”
“I see I came home just in time,” Fiona began, but Stuart held up his hand.
“I crave a boon, Macdonald,” Stuart said.
Broc flicked his tired gaze to him. “What?” He took a large sip of whisky, like a thirsty man who’d just found water.
“I’m searching for a sgian dubh. One lost on Culloden Moor. Do ye have such a thing? If ye can find it for me, I promise I’ll rid ye of your unwanted guests and restore ye to your power.”
Chapter Seven
Broc frowned, more bewildered than interested. “A sgian dubh—?”
Padruig spoke the first words he’d uttered since they’d arrived. “Plain hilt. Crest of MacNab on it.”
“I heard ye were light-fingered on that battlefield, Macdonald,” Gair added. “Arrived to watch the slaughter and then retrieved weapons and things. Stashing them to bring home with ye.”
Broc blinked. “Confiscating. They were the weapons of a fallen enemy and had to be secured.”
Gair took a noisy sip of whisky. “Where did ye secure them to?”
“My strongroom. Until they’re wanted. They’ll be melted down, I think.”
Padruig’s silence was far more unnerving than Gair’s snort. Stuart decided he’d better interrupt.
“It’s one knife among many,” Stuart said. “King Geordie will never miss it.”
“They’re not mine to give away—”
“They weren’t yours t’ take,” Padruig said in his firm voice.
“Did ye hear my terms, Broc?” Stuart asked. “The sgian dubh, and your cousins vanish into the smoke and leave ye be. You are laird, you’ll recover, find a bonny lass to marry ye, and have a score of bairns. These lummoxes have filled your head with tales.”
“Now, look here—” Tavin began.
“God’s balls, but ye sound like a Sassenach,” Stuart growled. “Why don’t ye take yourselves to England and have done?”
“We are loyal to England—to Britain.” Tavin spoke as though he explained to a child. “We have land here, that we will keep arable or for sheep, and pay taxes we owe. In return, His Majesty leaves us alone. That’s the sensible road to take these days. No popping white cockades on bonnets and believing the Stewart kings will rise again.”
“Land, aye.” Stuart nodded. He finished up his bannocks, which were crumbly and oat-y as he liked them. “But it’s a lawless time. Ye never know what will happen to your lands if ye leave them for too long.”
“That is why Neilan will go home and tend the estate,” Tavin said patiently. “While I stay here and help Broc.”
“Should go soon, the pair of ye,” Stuart said. “I happen to know quite a few Highlanders not happy with those who turned on them. Ye never see them, but they’re about. Wouldn’t be surprised if ye find your fields burned, your houses taken down brick by brick, your tenants and retainers gone …”
Neilan looked nervous, but Tavin bristled. “Marauders will be arrested, hanged as traitors and looters.”
“If ye can catch them.” Stuart calmly sipped whisky. “I know many men, throughout Scotland, and even England, in fact, who wouldn’t mind stripping Hanoverian sympathizers of all they have.”