A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,80
would,” Tavin said, though he took on a note of uncertainty. “I’d arrest you.”
“Oh, I won’t go near your lands. Nothing to do with me.” Stuart sent Fiona a wink.
Fiona gazed back at him, her eyes a beautiful green. She had no idea what he was doing, but her smooth face betrayed nothing.
Neilan spoke up. “What do you mean?” The silver snuffbox rested at his elbow, which meant Gair had successfully persuaded him to buy it.
Stuart leaned toward the cousins, enjoying himself. “Have ye never heard tell of the brollachan that did so much damage to the enemy camps during the Uprising? Oh, I beg your pardon, I mean loyalist camps, full of Highlanders happy to bow to King Geordie and pay him taxes.”
“A brollachan?” Tavin scoffed. “Don’t be daft. There is no such thing.”
Neilan nodded, his eyes round. “I remember the tales.”
“It was never a ghost,” Tavin said loudly. “It was one of the Young Pretender’s men playing tricks.”
At that moment, a huge clatter sounded. Neilan leapt to his feet, and Tavin rose slowly. Broc jumped and stared. An empty pewter plate Gair had set on a smaller table had fallen for no apparent reason. Neilan gazed at it in terror, and Broc also looked stunned.
“Children’s stories.” Tavin resumed his seat with a thump. “Sit down, Neilan. Ye look like a half-wit.”
Neilan resumed his seat, continuing to stare at the platter, as did Broc. Padruig, who’d knocked it to the floor while Stuart had held the cousins’ attention, continued to eat.
“Mebbe.” Stuart shrugged. “Whether ’tis men or ghosts, ye stand to lose everything. Can ye afford to? Is that the true reason you’re here, trying to pick Broc’s pockets?”
Neilan flushed guiltily, but Tavin bristled. “You’re mad. If men are terrorizing the lands of loyalists, they’ll be taken. Or shot.”
“As I say, if ye can find them.” Stuart tapped the side of his nose. “Now, I can put in a word for you with the brollachan, tell it to leave ye be.”
“Because you’re one of them?” Tavin asked. “Perhaps we’ll have you arrested.”
“’Twould be inhospitable,” Stuart pointed out. “As I’m a guest in the house you wish to be yours.”
Tavin began to splutter, but Fiona shushed him. She, like Padruig, had not jumped when the plate had fallen. It lay on the floor even now, the burnished pewter winking.
“It is an interesting point,” Fiona said serenely. “Why the desire to take over Broc’s lands, Tavin? Everything not well at home?”
“Of course everything is—”
“Stop lying.” Neilan threw down his spoon and rounded on his brother. “We’re skint. All our tenants ran off too. But everyone knows ye have the better lands, Broc. Tavin wants them. And Fiona. Notice it’s me who has to stay home and try to eke out an existence while he takes over the laird’s castle.”
“Shut it, ye cretin.” Tavin balled up his fist. Stuart reached across the table and caught Tavin’s wrist before he could bash his brother.
Tavin extricated himself from Stuart’s grip and sat down, red-faced. Neilan quickly rose and moved away from the table, coming to rest next to a stone pillar.
“A very good observation,” Fiona said. “I turned you down a few minutes ago, Tavin, if you recall.”
“You’ll have to marry me.” Tavin’s polite affability disappeared. In its place was the hard ambition of a man who’d waited years to take what he wanted. “Look at Broc. He’s dying, or as good as. He’ll never walk right, never catch a bonny lass, as this lackey says, never have sons. You’ll never command as a woman, Fiona, even if ye do become laird. Ye need the might of men behind ye, and they’ve all gone, haven’t they? I’ll take over as laird, and if you don’t marry me, I’ll turf ye out. You’ll have nothing, nowhere to go. So ye have no choice, woman.”
Fiona reached for her glass of whisky. “Ah, what a lovely proposal …”
Stuart’s rage rose until his vision tinged with red. Tavin, with his round, pale face under the irritating wig, reminded him strongly of some officers Stuart had faced in battle, men who’d come out of their tents to fight only when they absolutely had to and then killed those who’d thrown up their hands in surrender.
“She’ll not be marrying ye.” Stuart’s statement was flat, hard, and rang through the hall.
“Are ye going to stop her?” Tavin’s smirk tempted Stuart to reach for the knife in his boot.