A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,81

his gaze to Fiona, who had grown silent, her amusement gone. “Because she’s marrying me.” Stuart softened his voice as he held Fiona’s stunned gaze. “If she’ll have me.”

The room went very quiet. Gair and Padruig ceased their noisy chewing and turned their way, interested.

Fiona’s chest rose with her sharp breath. Stuart held his, waiting for her to laugh, to dismiss him with a wave, to say she needed no man. Fiona was a strong woman, who could stand on her own, no matter what her foolish family thought.

Fiona’s eyes, the color of jade in sunshine, glistened in the lamplight.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Fiona’s quiet word, which she said with all her heart, had a different effect on all present. Gair appeared highly amused, Tavin incensed, Neilan surprised, Broc shocked. Only Padruig remained stoic.

Stuart’s grin spread across his face, her wild Highlander coming to life. He leapt from his seat, knocking the bench over behind him, and was around the table before Fiona could gasp.

He hauled her up and into his arms. “Ye mean it, love?”

Fiona clutched Stuart’s coat, happiness flooding her. This was right. She never should have let him go when he’d walked out a year and more ago, never been so complacent that she could see him whenever she wished.

She’d hang on now, wherever the road took them.

Tavin’s hands landed on Stuart’s shoulders. “Traitor! I’ll kill you …”

The polished veneer Tavin strove to paste over his Highland ancestry had fled. His face was mottled red, his wig sliding sideways as he attacked the boulder that was Stuart.

Fiona ducked out of the way as Stuart swung on Tavin. Broc, to her astonishment, came to his feet and hobbled to Fiona, putting himself between her and the two fighting men. Protecting her.

Stuart lifted Tavin, crushing him between his large hands. Tavin flailed and fought. He must have studied pugilism somewhere, because his punches were tight and swift, each jab landing on Stuart’s body.

Stuart flung Tavin away. Tavin stumbled but gained his feet, his wig falling to the floor to reveal his shaved head, dark with stubble. His face was twisted with a snarl, an enraged Highlander denied what he considered his.

Neilan stood stupefied as his brother toed off his impractical shoes and rushed Stuart. Stuart met Tavin in the middle of the wide room, a roar issuing from his throat. He must have yelled so at Prestonpans, where he’d captured English artillery, and again at Culloden, when he’d fought to the bitter end.

Tavin’s arms flashed as he struck, Stuart defending blow after blow. Stuart was a larger man, but Tavin was quick and treacherous.

A knife flashed in Tavin’s hand. Fiona cried out, but Stuart was already moving. He locked a strong grip around Tavin’s wrist, bending the arm around Tavin’s back. Tavin punched with his other fist, catching Stuart on the cheek, splitting it open. Blood spattered just as Tavin screamed, and Fiona heard a thin crack of bone.

The next instant, Tavin was on the floor, sobbing and hugging his arm, as Stuart kicked away the knife.

Stuart stood back, gathering his hair from his face, most of the soot having fallen away. The red gleamed in the half light, Stuart a grim giant over the fallen Tavin.

“You broke my arm, you bastard,” Tavin ground out.

“Forgive me, lad.” Stuart dragged in a long breath. “I’m tired of men sticking knives into me.”

Fiona stepped from her brother and thrust a handkerchief at Stuart, who took it dazedly and touched it to his cut cheek. “Brawling in a laird’s hall. I’m amazed at both of you.”

Her voice shook, her bravado failing. She knelt next to Tavin and gently probed his arm. Tavin cursed and wept, the savage Highlander fading once more into the spoiled boy Tavin had always been.

“’Tis a clean break,” Fiona said crisply. “I’ll wrap and splint it for ye, and you’ll be healed in a few weeks. I suggest ye go home and rest, and not venture out for a time.”

“Aye, I’ll take him.” Neilan sounded relieved.

“I’m not leaving.” Tavin scowled up at Fiona and Stuart. “Not until I have what I came for.”

“My lands?” Broc stumped over, moving more quickly than Fiona had seen him do in a while, his stick ringing. “My home, my sister—everything? Get out, Tavin. Ye’re not welcome here. Go back to your house and stay there. I, as your laird, command it.”

“Ye have no authority over me.” Tavin’s words were a gasp.

“Aye, that I do. I’m head of this family, and now that ye’ve shown