Page 3 of The Laird’s Wicked Game (Highland Scandal #2)
THE OUTLINE OF a stone tower house surrounded by a high curtain wall rose against the pale northern sky. Dounarwyse broch loomed before Kylie, and her pulse quickened in response. Suddenly, the nervousness that had plagued her on the ride north evaporated.
This was it. Her new beginning.
The journey from Craignure had taken longer than she’d anticipated. She and Maclean had lapsed into silence again after a while. Noon had come and gone, and it was now mid-afternoon. They’d left Dùn da Ghaoithe far behind. The land was more arable here. Perched upon a high grassy hill, with a patchwork of farmland and copses of oak and birch stretching west and north, it was clear to see why the Macleans had built a fortress in such a spot. The broch had wide views out across the Sound of Mull. No one sailing the narrow stretch of water between Mull and the mainland would pass Dounarwyse unseen .
They rode up the incline toward the castle, and the laird urged his courser into a brisk trot, drawing ahead of Kylie now.
And as the mighty walls of Dounarwyse reared above them, a noise greeted her.
A roar—men’s voices, amplified as they echoed off stone. Tensing in the saddle, she peered ahead at where the chieftain had led the way into the castle across the lowered drawbridge. Rae had just passed under the stone arch, beneath the wicked iron teeth of the portcullis under the guard tower, and disappeared into the yard beyond.
She couldn’t see anything as yet, although the noise now assaulted her ears.
The shouting erupted into cheering then, and chanting began.
Kylie’s pulse leaped into a canter. What the devil had they just ridden into?
The garron’s heavy hooves clip-clopped on cobbles as she rode into the barmkin—a wide courtyard that encircled the broch itself. However, her attention didn’t linger on her surroundings. Instead, it traveled to where two men were brawling with bare knuckles, egged on by a crowd of guards.
“Cease this!” The roar of Maclean’s voice made Kylie’s breathing catch. The man she’d met at Moy, and the one who’d escorted her from Craignure, had been restrained—this one was not. His unleashed temper was blistering.
The raucous cheering cut off as the warriors watching the brawl whipped around to face their laird. Their expressions turned slack with surprise. His arrival had slapped the grins off their faces. The entertainment was over .
However, the two fighting men ignored him. One—tall, lean, and fair-haired, his face twisted with rage—drove a heavy punch into his opponent’s belly. The burly man with receding dark hair wheezed like a winded carthorse. A moment later, the two of them were rolling on the ground.
Snarling a curse, Maclean swung down from his courser and stormed toward the pair. The onlookers hurriedly drew back to let him pass.
All the while, the two brawling men still paid him no mind. If anything, the blond warrior grew even more savage. He’d now gripped the dark-haired guard around the neck and was throttling him.
Panic caught Kylie by the throat. Mother Mary, he means to kill him.
Another tall figure strode into the fray. Jack Maclean had also dismounted and was making a beeline toward the brawlers. But his elder brother reached them first. The laird grabbed the fair-haired warrior by the collar of his leather vest, yanking him hard. However, the man was still fixated on choking the life out of his opponent—whose face was now going an alarming shade of purple.
Cursing again, Maclean drew back. An instant later, a heavy booted foot collided with the warrior’s ribs. And this time, he paid attention. A rasped oath echoed through the barmkin as the man released his chokehold and lurched sideways.
Jack was on the fair-haired warrior then, hauling him roughly to his feet! “Explain yerself, MacDougall!”
The man snarled at his captain, only to find himself in a headlock. He paid Jack little mind though. His attention was on the man he’d been fighting. “I’ll end ye, Bryce,” he shouted. “I swear it! ”
His opponent wasn’t listening. Instead, the man rolled onto his side and vomited.
The chieftain stepped close to the man Jack still held fast. He then grabbed a handful of the warrior’s long pale hair and yanked his head up so their gazes met.
Once again, Maclean’s savagery cowed Kylie a little. Even from a few yards away, she marked the murderous glint in his green eyes. She’d had no idea the man possessed such a temper.
Silence fell in the barmkin. Meanwhile, Kylie’s pulse started to thump in her ears.
Where have I ended up?
“Tormod MacDougall,” Maclean growled. “Ye had better have an iron-clad reason for trying to throttle one of yer fellow men-at-arms.”
The warrior’s ice-blue eyes glittered, his handsome face taut with pain. “Macquarie cheated me.”
“Liar,” Bryce wheezed, pushing himself onto his knees. “Ye are a poor loser … and off yer head to boot!”
MacDougall spat a curse, only to go rigid when the laird yanked his head back further.
“A game of knucklebones got out of hand last night, Maclean,” one of the other men spoke up, his tone subdued. “Tormod’s been in a vile temper ever since.”
“That turd took five silver pennies that belonged to me,” MacDougall growled, fury still vibrating off him. “He’s a dog-humping thief!”
“I’ve no interest in yer petty grievances,” Maclean countered. His own voice had lowered to a rasp now, his face set into forbidding lines. “But if I catch ye fighting like a mad dog in my barmkin again, I shall take a horsewhip to ye. Do ye understand? ”
Kylie shifted uncomfortably upon her garron’s back and cast a sidelong glance at where Makenna had pulled up her pony alongside. Her sister’s expression was veiled. It was likely she’d seen many scenes like this one, for she served in the Meggernie Guard. But Kylie hadn’t. The hostility that crackled like lightning and the violence shivering in the air made her skin prickle. She now felt a little queasy.
“Answer the laird, Tormod,” Jack said, his tone equally dangerous. “Before I choke the words out of ye.”
A nerve ticked in MacDougall’s cheek, his internal battle plain to see, before he ground out, “Aye, Maclean. I understand.”
“Apologies for the ugly scene.” Rae flexed his hands by his sides as he approached the two ladies who’d dismounted from their garrons and were waiting for him by the stables. Anger still boiled in his gut in the aftermath, although witnessing Lady Grant’s pale, tense face made it settle to a simmer. He then kicked himself.
That wasn’t how he’d planned to welcome her to Dounarwyse.
“There’s no need to excuse yerself,” Makenna replied, with an approving nod. “Behavior like that can’t be tolerated.”
“No,” Rae agreed. “It can’t.”
His attention flicked back to Lady Grant. She was frowning now. His chest constricted. Cods, she likely thought the Macleans of Dounarwyse were brutes.
He’d been struggling all day though. The journey from Craignure had been awkward, and he’d often been at a loss for what to say to the woman he’d hired. He hadn’t even been able to meet her eye when they talked—but now, she’d seen him lose control.
He really wasn’t himself at the moment. Ever since the Ghost Raiders had attacked Lochbuie earlier in the year, he’d been like a cat on a hot bake-stone. Over the past months, his worry about when they’d resume their reiving had grown. The Mackinnons’ siege of Dounarwyse three years earlier had left a deep scar on his broch and lands, and they’d only recently rallied. He wanted to shield those under his protection from harm yet feared he couldn’ t .
Aye, it was bad enough that his lands and those who farmed them were at risk from attack—but arriving home to find one of his men trying to kill another had just pushed him over the edge.
At least the situation had been resolved swiftly, for the moment. Bryce had retreated into the barracks, and Tormod had disappeared into the stables, no doubt to cool off. Meanwhile, Jack was upbraiding his men for abandoning their posts and not stepping in to stop the brawl. “Ye left the walls undefended and the gates wide open!” he roared at the shamefaced guards lined up before him. “Anyone could have ridden in here!”
“Come,” Rae said tersely, gesturing to where stable hands approached. It was best the women didn’t witness any more of this. Makenna might be used to it, but her sister wouldn’t be. “The lads will take care of our mounts, while we go inside.” He paused then, forcing himself to meet Lady Grant’s eye. Curse him, he needed to pull himself together. Ever since greeting her by the dock in Craignure, he’d battled shyness and self-consciousness around the woman. Every time she focused on him, he felt like a gauche lad. “Ye will be hungry and tired after yer journey. I instructed the cook to have a meal ready for ye in my solar.”
“Thank ye,” Lady Grant replied, her oak-brown gaze shuttered. “Although, I am keen to meet yer sons.”
“Aye … and ye will.” He grimaced then. “Brace yerself.”
Makenna snorted. “Careful, or ye shall frighten my sister off.”
Lady Grant’s expression tensed at this, and she cast her sister a quelling look. However, Makenna merely winked at her.
Meanwhile, Rae’s gut hardened. He wouldn’t be surprised if the lady was already reconsidering her life choices.
They made their way across the barmkin then, skirting around where Jack was still upbraiding his Guard—Rae would speak to his brother about the disorder among their ranks later, in private—and headed toward the steps that led into the broch. And as they climbed, a large shaggy dog bounded out of the tower house through the open door.
Tail wagging, the Highland collie arrowed straight for the laird.
“Oof, Storm!” Rae braced himself as his dog barreled into him. “Careful, or ye’ll knock me over.”
Storm started to bark then, bouncing in a circle around the three of them, as if he was attempting to round them up like sheep.
“Someone didn’t like being left behind,” Makenna noted with a laugh.
“I remember this collie from Moy Castle,” her sister added.
“Aye, Storm usually goes everywhere with me … but not today. ”
Embarrassment washed over him then, warmth creeping up his neck. Would Lady Grant think him foolish? Donalda had often been dismissive about his bond with his collie.
Don’t be a daft bastard , he told himself, irritation spiking through him. Why does it matter to ye so much what the lady thinks?
Shoving aside the insecure thoughts that were starting to vex him, he moved on.
The small party entered the broch with Storm bouncing at Rae’s side, tail wagging like a banner, crossing a narrow entrance hall. The heavy oaken door at the far end was open, revealing a large rectangular hall beyond, yet Rae didn’t take the women into that space. Instead, they climbed the narrow stone stairs to the floor above, where the chieftain’s chambers were located.
His solar, a room where he spent much of his time when he wasn’t busy with other matters, was a rectangular chamber with a great, currently unlit, hearth up one end, flanked by two high-backed chairs—and a wooden table at the other. Shelving up against one wall held neatly stacked ledgers, ink pots, and quills. There was also a tidy row of books upon the shelves, his pride and joy, although most of them he’d inherited from his father.
A tapestry depicting Dounarwyse broch surrounded by a glittering sea and bucolic fields hung from the wall opposite the hearth, and a stag’s head—a magnificent beast Rae’s great grandfather had killed—was mounted above the fireplace.
A familiar hollow sensation settled within Rae’s chest then. As much as he loved his solar, he’d spent too much time alone here, of late. Brooding. Worrying. Listening to the sounds of life and gaiety outside the open window but feeling apart from it all.
Halting inside, he watched the two women take in their surroundings. Lady Grant’s gaze lingered upon his books before it traveled over to the open window .
Is she comparing my solar to her father’s at Meggernie Castle?
These two were daughters of a clan-chief. It didn’t usually bother him what others thought of his home—for he’d always been proud of this fortress—but now he worried they’d think his solar cramped and shabby.
Heat washed over him then, and he curled his fingers into fists at his sides. Hades, what was wrong with him? He wasn’t used to lacking such confidence within the walls of his own broch.
Silently berating himself for letting such ridiculous insecurities get to him, he motioned to the table. As he’d anticipated, servants had already brought up food. Storm, who’d entered the solar with him, had calmed down and now sat at his side, gaze trained upon the meal. A pot of mutton stew, a basket of fresh oaten bread, and a wheel of cheese awaited the three of them. “Please take a seat,” he said, more brusquely than intended, “and I shall pour some wine.”
“This is delicious,” Makenna enthused as she helped herself to more stew. “Ye are blessed with a good cook.”
“We are,” Maclean admitted. “Cadha is getting on in years, and her eyesight is starting to fail, but she still always manages to produce a fine meal.” He picked up a ewer and glanced over at Kylie. “More wine?”
She nodded, watching as he poured the apple wine into her goblet. In truth, she wasn’t used to being waited on thus by a man—especially the laird himself. At Meggernie Castle, her mother, she, or one of her sisters poured refreshments for guests, and during her marriage, she’d always done so for Errol. The break with the traditional order of things was disquieting .
Perhaps, after his show of temper outdoors earlier, Rae Maclean wished to demonstrate that he did, indeed, have a softer side.
Taking another mouthful of stew, Kylie admitted that, indeed, it was one of the best she’d ever tasted, the gravy rich and velvety, the meat tender and full-flavored. She savored it while sipping from her goblet.
Slowly, she started to relax. The violent scene that had greeted them below had made her question her sanity in coming to live here, but the good food and wine unknotted the tension in her chest, as had the laird’s hospitality. This was a pleasant place to have a meal too. The solar’s single window sat opposite the table. It was open this afternoon, giving her a view out to sea. The sun glistened gold on the water, turning it molten, and in the distance, outlined against the faint shadow of the mainland, she spied a cog traveling the Sound.
“What a sight,” she murmured, eager to talk of pleasant, positive things. “Ye must never tire of it.”
She glanced over at Maclean then, meeting his eye.
Feeding Storm the last scrap of his bread, he favored her with a half-smile. “No … I never have.”