Page 11 of The Chieftain’s Feud (Chieftain #3)

The food served was magnificent, the atmosphere uneasy, as if the multitude of different coloured plaids clashed with one another and the only thing staying the clansmen’s sword hands was the wind and weather outside the castle walls. There was only one way in or out—the narrow causeway linking Cragenlaw to the mainland, and it didnae encourage too many armed men at a time to walk abreast. To attempt scaling the cliffs almost certainly meant death by suicide, even on a fine sunny day.

Nhaimeth had celebrated many a Yule feast at Cragenlaw, although tonight’s would be the first when he wondered whether the folk seated around the high board might take a bite out of their nearest neighbour. With that notion in mind, he glanced at those either side of him, feeling fortunate that his closest companions were Rob on his left, and Jamie’s sister Iseabel on his right.

The wolfhounds were under the board chewing on bones the bairns had tossed to them, giggling when the animals growled over the juiciest leftovers, but the bairns were enjoying themselves as, for this one night, they were allowed to stay up betimes. Sooner than late, once their mothers made note of the uisge beatha making an appearance, replacing the tankards of ale in the men’s hands, the bairns were sent to bed. Quaich of silver and horn made an appearance frae inside the pouches they all carried—even Nhaimeth, for what self respecting Scot wouldnae have one. It was the habit of the wives to indulge in a glass of wine and sweetmeats of spiced nuts and dried fruits while the men finished the meal with the ‘water of life’.

Therein lay the difficulty. The rules of hospitality governed both guest and host, but Nhaimeth had yet to meet a Buchan who abided by the rules.

The McArthur lifted his Quaich and made the first toast, “Sláinte,” wishing all at the table good health. The moment the other men finished echoing his toast, Euan McArthur looked down and across the table’s length and with a brusque nod said, “Ruthven.”

Nhaimeth felt his liver shrivel a wee bit, listening to the power behind the voice barking the name and grateful not to be the man on the receiving end of the cutting glance flashing between the opponents. Nae sooner did the word, “Buchan,” follow, the next recipient’s expression indicated to Nhaimeth there was a guid chance his liver was of the same ilk.

Encompassing the two men with that sweeping glance, the McArthur announced, “Now is the time for talk.” And with a rueful shake of his head, demanded, “Why in God’s name did this feud begin? I’ll have the truth of it this very night or ken the reason why not.”

Buchan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grumbled, “Why ask me? It was Ruthven who started it. He stole my betrothed then had her away and married before I could catch up with them.”

It didnae bode well to watch Ruthven snarl at Buchan, “E’en now ye willnae admit ye ne’er loved her, whereas I did.”

Banging his finger into the wood next to his Quaich, hard enough to make the contents of the shallow bowl slop over the edge. Buchan countered, “The lass was mine! Mine, I tell ye … my betrothed … and as night follows day, now his son has done the same … stolen my daughter. However, if I have my druthers, the only way that sleekit gob-shite will marry her is o’er my dead body.”

Nhaimeth dug an elbow into Rob’s ribs and leaned forward for a better view. “Look at Jamie.” Their friend’s fist tightly circled the hilt of his sword and his other arm likewise protected Eve Buchan. “Things are about to heat up, I’ve ne’er seen Jamie look so determined.”

Rob’s lips flattened against his teeth a flash of anger lit his eyes. “So he should, if she’s the one for him. So he should.” Rob dragged the words out and Nhaimeth suspected he was thinking of his own lost love, sweet Lhilidh.

But that wasnae to say they both werenae speechless, shocked to the bone when Eve shrugged out of Jamie’s hold and turned, boldly facing her father.

Eve was as stunned as anyone when she jumped to her feet, pulling away frae any pretence of reticence by what felt like her father’s denial of both her and her mother. How dare he?

Why had she ne’er been told the truth of it?

She swayed on her feet, unsteady in the force of her anger and her lip curling, intent on giving him as guid as he deserved. As if to draw a strong line under her fury, she placed a palm under her protruding belly, unashamedly with child and uncaring if it made her father’s expression pained. “That being the case, Father, the truth is, ye should have cocked up yer toes at least three hours syne. That was when a priest married Jamie Ruthven and me. And if ye had even thought to ask instead of tricking me into rushing hame to my so-called ailing brothers, I would have let ye ken Jamie and I had been hand-fasted that same morning.”

Catching back a sob ripped frae her heart, she sat back next to Jamie and smiled at him through her tears. “It isnae even as if he loved me or my mother. He just confessed as much. How could he, and all the while thinking to use my love for ye as a weapon toward his own ends.”

“Hush now, my bonnie lass.” His voice caressed her injured feelings. Eve sighed as her new husband leaned closer and, in sight of God and her father, he spread his strong wide palm across her belly. Against the bonnie green dress Iseabel had gi’en her, Jamie’s hand appeared tanned, and more than possessive. A thousand leagues away frae the kind who attended the King, their knuckles white and effete without the strength of the hand claiming her. Aye, more well favoured than any match made by either the King or her father.

She felt the bairn kick at Jamie’s palm and, in that moment saw love warm his eyes, whether for her or the bairn shouldnae really matter yet, sad to say, it still did.

His hand moved, smoothing o’er worsted and skin with nary a care who saw him as he asked, “Do ye think he recognises me?”

Following his lead, she refused to show fear to those watching and leaned her forehead on Jamie’s arm. She felt vigour in him, in the muscle that flexed beneath her touch, the power in his arm, chain mail not withstanding, and she thanked God for it. Thanked him for her bairn’s sake if, not her own, saying, “Yer very sure it’s a lad. It could be a lass, ye ken,” she teased him, “though I must admit, he does have a grand kick.”

Earlier, as she’d watched the other women laugh with their growing bairns—McArthurs, Farquhars, the future of Scotland in years to come—and had wondered if the one in her belly would one day join them, or would her father’s enmity of the alliance they shared ruin its childhood.

For now, for these few moments, she could ignore the tension building at the Buchan end of the high-board, could ignore, Hadron’s mutters as he egged her father on to some new excess. Naught had changed there. Her uncle always concentrated his might on the worst aspects of any situation, and the feud between the Buchan and Ruthven had gi’en him plenty of arrows for his bow.

Suddenly, she felt a presence, a shadow o’er her, recognised its owner frae the way Jamie’s hand tensed mid-stroke. The bairn turned inside her belly, as if hiding frae its grandfather. In the familiar blue-toned plaid, it could be naebody else. Yet afore she could voice her concern, her brother John, seated next to her, lifted his hand to his father’s arm, staying him with, “Keep in mind that our mother might not have been the wife ye wanted, nonetheless she gave ye three bairns, Buchans each and everyone of us.”

Her father stared at both of them. She could tell he chewed at the inside of his cheek, recognised he held back, until he released a groan out loud, “Jesus’ blood, this is a hell of a thing, letting all and sundry in on our personal affairs.”

Grinding his teeth, he shook his head, and then hesitated, as if he, too, saw Hadron rise to follow him.

Unable to do aught else, she gazed at him, the question visible in her eyes.

Her father shook his head. “Ken this for true. I did want yer mother, and felt her loss to the bottom of my soul. If only she had lived, none of this would be tearing at our clan like a bear gnawing at its bones.”

His raw expression ripped at Eve, a knife in the heart of everything she had believed as a bairn, as a daughter falling in love with a man she kenned her father wouldnae approve of, yet she had hoped… Aye, she had and she still did…

“Take yer seats, both of ye,” they were told in a voice that brooked nae dissention.

Eve frowned. Nae doubt the McArthur had thought to bring a halt to her father’s outburst, but in her heart she wished he had waited. There was more she wanted to discover, much more, but instead she listened to Euan McArthur say, “Getting fired up is more hindrance than help.”

“Aye, yer right,” said Ruthven, clearing his throat as if it cost him a guid effort to agree, his glance flickered toward her father. “Nae sense in letting our tongues run away with us.”

“How does that sit with you, Buchan?” their host inquired.

At that moment, Eve could see why Jamie looked up to the McArthur. Given the example of both of their fathers and their long drawn-out feud, she was thankful that God had seen fit to send Jamie as a young lad to Cragenlaw with this day in mind.

The McArthur waited for her father’s answer, as did she, as did the whole company. Eve felt nae doubt that the servants, too, listened with cocked ears as they walked around them, clearing away and adding to the sweetmeats in the middle of the board. Naebody paid them any heed. It was as if they didnae exist.

The centre of each chieftain’s attention was fixed upon those circled about the high board, listening as the McArthur continued persuasively, “Tonight is Yuletide. Winter is halfway o’er, and soon we’ll be thinking on spring’s green budding. What more fortunate time could there be to see the back of an argument that has lasted half yer lives? Let’s talk it o’er with everyone seated, each keeping his own place, remaining calm and sensible.”

Across from her and Jamie, Eve heard him release a heartfelt sigh that confirmed he wasnae speaking for the sake of hearing his own voice. “Even a fool—and I mean nae insult to ye, Nhaimeth—must realize this peace we are experiencing isnae going to last. Very soon now, this feud the two of ye are indulging in will be as naught compared to the task of facing Normans. Save yer ire for them.”

Hadron scraped his wooden stool across the floor as he resumed his place, as if on purpose. The sound was like to pierce an eardrum, yet still her father stood his ground as the McArthur added some encouragement to his argument. “I ken ye have the King’s ear, and that he hopes that settling yon Normans with allegiance to Scotland, Brus, Du Glas, and St Clair will temper any assault on our borders, but for how long? Think on, Buchan. Think on, man.”

She could tell her father listened by the change in his breathing, but when he answered with nae more than a brief nod, she wondered if he was ashamed of having appeared human.

Then he squeezed John’s shoulder and turned to join Hadron at the end of the table. A little thing, and though he didn’t look at her, she let out a sigh under her breath that seemed filled with hope.