Page 3 of Deceived by the Highlander (Daughters of the Isle #2)
He was used to finding an advantage in the unlikeliest of circumstances, and this one certainly worked in his favor.
No one had witnessed this discussion and seen Ranulph’s flare of distrust. All he had to do was reassure Ranulph that Lady Freyja’s happiness was all he wished for, too, and surely the older man would see reason.
It was, after all, imperative that Ranulph was in favor of the marriage so he could persuade his granddaughter it was politically advantageous for her to agree to the match. And if that failed, then he’d have little choice but to set his sights on wooing Lady Freyja.
“My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend. The earl wishes only for Clans Campbell and MacDonald to flourish in peace.”
Ranulph snorted before sucking in a rasping breath. “I’m aware of what the earl wants. There’s no need to ladle honey on yer words, lad.”
Grudging respect inched through him as he eyed the man by his side. When he’d first met Ranulph, all he’d seen was an old man who had difficulty breathing and needed a sturdy stick to help him walk. But there was obviously nothing wrong with his faculties.
Maybe he should try a different tack.
“I’m not. ’Tis only the truth. Kilvenie is a coveted prize, and without a son to inherit, there are many who will risk much to claim the land for their own. But with direct connections to the earl, Lady Freyja’s heritage will be secure.”
“I’m not denying it’s an alliance that’s worth considering. I’m telling ye that my granddaughter is not a pawn to be bartered with.”
The earl had warned him of this. He still found it strange. With her father dead, it stood to reason her paternal grandfather would step up to negotiate the best possible future for her.
And yet here they were.
“I respect yer stance.” Even if he found it damned exasperating. “Lady Freyja is fortunate to have yer support.”
Ranulph gave a raspy laugh. “Do ye know nothing of the MacDonalds of Sgur, Alasdair? A man does not wed into their line lightly, as my son was well aware. Freyja has my unwavering support, but ’tis the love of her foremothers that guides her. Best not to forget that, lad.”
Unsure how best to respond to that comment, he gave a noncommittal grunt as they turned from the shore and headed back to Kilvenie Tower, where it perched on a hill, giving magnificent views across the Isle.
He knew Lady Freyja lived in Sgur Castle with her sister and grandmother. Was that the foremother Ranulph meant? It seemed an odd way of referring to her, considering she was still alive.
As they took the path up the rocky slope, with Ranulph’s hounds leading the way, he offered the older man his arm. After a few moments where Ranulph steadfastly ignored his offer of help, he finally accepted, and an unexpected sting pierced Alasdair’s chest.
It wasn’t right for a man to lose his vigor like this. To be sure, he’d never seen Ranulph in his prime, but he’d overheard whispered conversations among both servants and villagers that confirmed his suspicions that until the last year or so, Ranulph had been a giant of a man.
It was strange for such a thing to affect him. He scarcely knew the man, and yet during the last three days, and against his better judgement, he’d become oddly attached to Ranulph’s dry humor.
They entered the great hall, and servants offered mulled mead for Ranulph and ale for him. The older man sat before the fire, his hands wrapped around his cup, as his hounds lay at his feet. Ranulph glanced about, a frown creasing his weathered brow. “Where’s Ban?”
“We’ll find her,” his steward said.
“She shouldn’t be unsupervised. She could whelp at any moment.”
“We’ll find her,” the steward repeated, undeterred by the sharp note in his laird’s voice and Ranulph sighed before draining his mead and pushing himself to his feet.
He glanced at Alasdair. “I’ll speak with ye later. There are matters I must attend to.”
Alasdair gave a brusque nod and watched the older man amble across the hall, his hounds following in his wake. He knew full well Ranulph needed to rest after the exertions of the morning, but if he wanted to give the impression he was attending to matters of his estate, it was none of his concern.
Maybe he’d see if he could find the laird’s favorite dog. It might cause Ranulph to look more kindly on his proposition.
Smothering a grin at the fanciful notion—no man was that fond of his dog, surely—he strolled back to the courtyard. Despite the steward’s assurance, it didn’t appear anyone was searching for the creature, and as he approached the stables he paused and swept his gaze across the stronghold.
There was no doubt Kilvenie Tower was in an enviable position, with views not only across the Isle but also across the sea. But the earl wasn’t interested in its spectacular views. It was for the formidable foothold it held in the Western Isles.
A muffled howl penetrated his ruminations, and he swung about and stared at the stables. The door was ajar, and a quick glance around confirmed no one else appeared to have heard the sound. Goddamn. Had he really found Ranulph’s missing hound?
He strode over and entered the stables. The aroma of horse and hay filled the air, but it was the metallic tang of blood that hit him. And then he saw a young woman kneeling in the corner, where the dog lay panting.
“’Tis all right, Ban, my love,” the lass said in a soothing tone as she used a dagger to cut a length of material from a blanket she held.
Fascinated, he gazed at her as she hastily folded the material before moving closer to the dog.
“Don’t ye worry now. Ye’re doing a grand job.
We’ll have yer babies out before ye know it. ”
He’d never encountered anyone helping to birth puppies before. Dogs simply whelped without any need for assistance. At least, to his knowledge they did.
Without quite meaning to, he took another step closer, and she swung about, her red-gold hair glinting in the sunlight that filtered through the door, and her blue eyes widened in obvious surprise at seeing him.
The breath stalled in his throat as his gaze locked with her beautiful blue eyes. A smattering of freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and across her flushed cheeks, and he’d be damned if he’d ever seen anything more enchanting in his life.
Her dusky-rose lips parted, and his blood thundered in his head, obliterating the outside world and, God help him, any sense he’d once possessed. He had the mad fancy of dropping to his knees beside her, taking her into his arms, and claiming her delectable mouth.
Yet his feet remained immobile, and his tongue remained transfixed, as though, if he moved or spoke, the vision before him might vanish.
She hitched in a jagged breath, breaking the spell, but before he could gather his wits, she spoke.
“Don’t just stand there gaping, man. Get over here and make yerself useful.”