A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,82
your true colors, I’ll do whatever I can to keep ye from inheriting. I’ll marry whatever lass will have me and sire as many children as I’ve got years left in me.”
Stuart’s eyes twinkled with mirth over the blood-streaked handkerchief. “Better not say that when you’re proposing, lad. Might put a lady off.”
Broc ignored him. “On your feet, Tavin. Let Fiona see to your wound, and then you’re gone.”
Tavin finally looked worried. “In the night, and the snow? Have some pity, Broc. It’s Christmas.”
“’Tis not Christmas until tomorrow. I don’t want ye here. Ye have a perfectly fine house ten miles away. Go before I find some way to throw you out of that too.”
Tavin snarled. He swung his free hand at Fiona, but found it caught in Stuart’s fist.
“I went easy on ye, lad.” Stuart lowered his voice to deliver the warning. “But if ye try to hit Fiona again, I’ll break every bone ye have.”
Tavin gulped and subsided. Gair and Neilan emerged to flank Tavin. “Come on, you,” Gair said, one hand under Tavin’s arm. “Best ye retire from the scene of battle. I know how to set a broken bone.”
Tavin threw a terrified glance at Gair and a beseeching one at Fiona. “Go with him,” Fiona said. “I’ll be in to look after you soon.”
Stuart released Tavin into Gair’s care. Tavin had no choice but to let Gair walk him out, Neilan quivering behind them.
Broc let out his breath. “I thank you, Stuart Cameron. I should never have let Tavin crawl under my skin. But I’ve been so afraid …”
Fiona slid her arm around her brother, and he leaned into her gratefully. “Never mind,” she told him. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long this time. I didn’t realize ye needed me.”
“No, I drove ye from me.” When Broc decided to become morose, he could be a master of it. “I’m glad ye returned, love. Stuart.” Broc offered his hand, the other resting heavily on his stick. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”
Stuart accepted the handshake, and he clapped Broc on the back. “Ye owe me nothing. Your blessing on my nuptials with Fiona and the sgian dubh I need, and all is cleared.”
“I think Fiona will do well with you,” Broc said graciously. “As for the sgian dubh, you are welcome to search through what I have found. If this knife is important, it should be returned to its owner.”
He glanced at Padruig, who’d remained on the edge of the conflict and reunion. Broc shrank a little behind Fiona as Padruig gave him a keen look from his one sharp eye.
“I no longer need it,” Padruig said.
Fiona blinked, startled. “Pardon?”
“Padruig,” Stuart said with exaggerated patience. “What are ye talking about, man?”
“I have the sgian dubh.” Padruig reached into his coat and removed a knife, holding it up to catch the light.
Fiona saw a plain dark steel blade, worn from years of use. The hilt was wrapped in a strip of leather, and a crest had been melded to it. Fiona clearly read the word MacNab on top of the shield.
Stuart growled. “How long have ye had that?”
“Since Culloden.” Padruig calmly sheathed the knife and returned it to his pocket. “I took it from my dead brother.”
Fiona caught her breath. “Your brother? Padruig, I’m so sorry.”
“We were never close. But he was my kin.” His nod at her sympathy said the matter was at an end.
Stuart’s fists balled. “If ye have the blasted sgian dubh, why did ye give me the rigamarole about finding it for you? Making us search the lass’s chamber at the inn, dragging us here? Through the snow? In the coldest part of December?”
“Ye needed to come here.” Padruig flicked his gaze to Fiona. “She needed to. Ye were pining for her, Cameron. When I saw her at the inn, it put the idea in me mind.”
Fiona shared Stuart’s exasperation. “To trick us into traveling home?” she blurted out. “Did ye know my cousins were here?”
“No. That was luck.” Padruig shrugged. “All’s well, isn’t it? You’re betrothed and will soon be man and wife. And now that Stuart helped your brother, he’ll not betray you.” Padruig’s lips twitched into a faint smile, something rare to his face. “Gair likened us to the three wise Highlanders, the daft sod. Come bearing gifts. This is my gift to you.” He lifted his whisky glass. “Slàinte.”
He’d barely taken a sip before Fiona flew at him, grabbing the startled Padruig in a hug and kissing his