Page 26 of Sinful Scottish Laird

That earned him a glance from the corner of the lad’s eye. “What’s afeill?”

“A festival. It’s held at Balhaire every year, then. You know of Balhaire, surely.”

The lad shook his head.

“The Mackenzie stronghold. An old castle with a village and whatno’, aye?”

The lad said nothing.

“All the Mackenzies and more come round for the weekend. There is food and ale, games of chance and strength. Musicians, too, and enough dancing to make a lad a wee bit dizzy. And the men—they play men’s games to challenge their strength and cunning. It’s the likes of which you’ve no’ seen in England.”

Still the lad said nothing.

“I suppose you know that the strongest man on earth hails from these very Highlands.”

“He does?” the lad said, turning his head slightly toward Cailean.

“Oh, aye,” Cailean said, nodding. “They call him the Mountain, for he’s as big as one and twice as strong.”

“How can he be stronger than a mountain?”

“You’ve no’ seen a man as big as this. He’s as tall as an elk,” he said, lifting his hand well above his head. “And he’s as broad across as two grown men.” Cailean leaned forward. “He can toss a caber farther than you might throw a stone.”

“What’s a caber?” the lad asked timidly.

“Diah,do my ears deceive me? Have you no’ seen a caber?” he asked with feigned incredulity.

Young Lord Chatwick shook his head.

“Why, it’s the trunk of a tree, It’s whittled down and sanded, aye?” he said, miming the process. “It’s as long as this room and as wide as you. It’s an important part of the games we play in the Highlands.”

Lord Chatwick twisted a bit in his seat so that he could see Cailean. “But how can a man throw the trunk of a tree?”

“With two hands,” Cailean said, turning his hands palms up. He made a shoving motion. “He tosses it up in the air and hopes it lands on its head and falls forward.” He smiled and came off his haunches, settling into a chair next to the bairn. “How far do you think you might toss a caber?”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

“What’s this? Of course you could,” Cailean said. “With good Highland air and perhaps a wee dram of ale, you could do it. You need only try.”

The lad shook his head again. “My mother won’t allow it. She doesn’t want me to be harmed.”

What coddling!Boys could not become men if they were coddled. “Heed me—you canna grow to be a man if you donna earn a few bumps and bruises along the way. A caber toss will no’ harm you, will it? On the morrow, if we have clear weather, I’ll show you if you like.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding.

Cailean extended his hand to him. “I’m Cailean Mackenzie, by the by. You may call me Cailean.”

“Cay-lin,” the boy repeated carefully.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Ellis Bristol, Lord Chatwick,” he said, as if he had uttered those word a thousand times today.

“Well, then, Ellis Bristol, Lord Chatwick, I look forward to demonstrating the toss of a caber on the morrow.” He stood up and winked at the lad. He intended to move on, but he very nearly collided with Lady Chatwick.

“Oh my,” she said, folding her arms. “That worries me. What is to happen on the morrow?”

Cailean could detect her perfume. It was light and clean and reminded him of fresh oranges. No, not oranges, exactly—but something so enticing that he wanted to lean closer to her to smell it.