Page 17 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)
He didn’t understand it. MacColla slammed the cup onto the table, sending the amber liquid sloshing.
Jean’s cheeks reddened and she stared, stricken, down at her stew bowl, visibly forcing herself to chew and swallow her meal.
He felt bad to have upset the lass, but he couldn’t stop himself. “And you’re certain he said disband?”
“Aye,” Scrymgeour replied warily, “the king’s letter asked that all Royalist battalions disband at once. He specifically mentioned you, Alasdair. Asking you to disband,” he added gravely.
“Disband . . .” MacColla growled. All this talk of kings and letters. It meant nothing. The king knew nothing of Campbell. Knew nothing of MacColla’s fight, of the wrongs that needed avenging.
He felt a surge of anger and frustration. The world of politics churned on, and here he sat with a glass of whisky and two lasses by his side, when what he really required was to face his enemy across a battlefield with naught but the sword at his back.
“Aye,” Scrymgeour said gravely. “If you continue this feuding with the Campbell, you’ll be in defiance of the king’s orders.”
“Whatever my fight with Campbell, disbanding Royalist forces won’t stop the king’s enemies on the battlefield.” He stared at Scrymgeour across the table, the weight of his glare something most men would turn from.
“I fight for Clan MacDonald,” MacColla continued. “For land, for honor. These are things more ancient than the king, more ancient than Parliament, or the Covenanters, or any of the many enemies set on bringing down Charles.”
MacColla was breathing hard, trying to make sense of this turn of events. He would make Campbell pay for his wrongs, and fighting was the only way. If it meant he were in opposition to the king, then so be it.
He’d sacrificed much for King Charles. Fought with James Graham against Campbell and the Covenanters, in defense of the king’s own standard.
His lips twitched, face souring in anger, thinking of the countless men he’d lost. So many MacDonald clansmen, fallen.
“I’ll not back down,” MacColla said.
He tilted his glass once more to his lips. There’d been a day when he thought his service to Charles would be rewarded. He’d thought perhaps the king would grant him lands. A title.
But to request MacColla’s submission instead?
“I’ll not know what he thinks,” Scrymgeour said carefully, “asking his supporters—”
“What he thinks?” MacColla interrupted, raising his voice. “He’s a madman. What he thinks . . .”
Scrymgeour stiffened at such treacherous words.
Haley ventured quietly, “King Charles . . .” All heads whirled to look at her. She cleared her throat, and tried again. “King Charles thinks that if he can get you to disband, it would demonstrate to all his enemies that he’s sincere in his attempts at brokering a peace.”
MacColla stared at her, his eyes flat. Finally he gave her a slow nod. “’Tis too late for a peace.” And though his voice was hushed, it was cold steel. “I’ll not disarm. I’ll remain in arms. And if it’s in defiance of king and Covenanter both, then so be it.”
MacColla drank deeply then, a great swig from his glass that he swallowed back with gritted teeth. He’d thought himself isolated before. But he’d never back down from his fight with Campbell. If that made him nobody’s ally, well, he wasn’t in search of friends. He was hunting for enemies.
He glared around the table, challenging any who would question such a traitorous move. Scrymgeour sat at the end opposite him, nervously eyeing MacColla over the lip of his crystal tumbler.
The strange lass sat across from his sister. She was the only one at the table who returned his gaze evenly. He looked at her and met a frank stare, open but unreadable. “And you,” he barked at her. “How do you know of such things? How can I be assured you’re not Campbell’s spy?”
She opened her mouth to speak, and he interrupted. “Tell me about this strange name of yours.” MacColla picked the cup back up and poured himself another healthy two fingers of whisky.
“Haley.” Her voice was even. “Haley Fitzpatrick.”
“Fitzpatrick . . .” he mused. “An Irish lass, is it?”
“From Donegal,” she announced, sitting a little straighter.
“Truly, now? I’ve known Fitzpatricks, but I’ve not ever heard such a strange name as Haley. ” Eyes not budging from hers, he took a big swig from his glass. “I’d know how you ended up so far from home, Mistress Haley. Or is it you were kidnapped just as my Jean was?”
Uh-oh. She hadn’t thought that far into her backstory. She quickly decided a change of topic was in order.
“Now that’s a funny story. My name, that is.” She didn’t actually know where her parents had gotten the name. Haley imagined her mom had heard it somewhere, liked the sound of it, and that was that. She knew she couldn’t speak the truth, though, so she decided to freestyle a bit.
“My mother thought me a noisy . . . bairn. ” She knew the Scottish slang terms, and she drew on them now to embellish her story.
“Strong lungs. Hale and hearty . . . aye ?” The Scottish tic had a pleasant feel as it rolled off her tongue, and her face loosened into a smile. “And so they called me Haley.”
MacColla stared silent, and just when she felt the smile begin to fade from her face, he erupted into a great laugh. He slammed his hand on the table, clinked his glass against hers. He saw that it was empty, and he quickly refilled it.
She picked up the cool, heavy cup. Waved it under her nose. Her eyes immediately teared. The stuff was one step above rotgut. She held it up to the candlelight, wondering if it would make her blind. Great. I’ll drink myself blind then I can beg for alms in front of Holyrood Palace.
Blinking her eyes shut tight, she put the cool glass to her forehead. Shit. Old Scotland. How the fuck . . . ? Opening them again, she glanced around the table. Jean, nervous as ever. God forbid she make a peep.
Scrym . . . whatever his name was. Staring at MacColla. Probably terrified MacColla would decide he didn’t like him or his news, and tear off his head and eat it for dessert.
MacColla had been furious to hear the contents of Scrymgeour’s letter from the king. Haley followed the conversation for a while, then the truly fucked-upness of her situation hit her. That she was listening hungrily to hot gossip about . . . King Charles the first ?
She looked at the glass in her hand. What the hell? “ Slàinte, ” she said, lifting it in his direction, then tipped it back fast, downing the contents in one burning gulp.
“ Aaaaeh, ” she exclaimed, and her upper body gave a slow, comical shudder. Haley slammed the glass on the table, slid it toward MacColla, and smiled through the tears in her eyes.
She didn’t want to consider the strange feeling of satisfaction that warmed her upon hearing his shocked laugh explode in response.
Haley watched him pour more whisky into her glass, vaguely aware of the uncomfortable glances exchanged between the other two at the table. The triumph she felt upon hearing Jean’s chair scrape away from the table was one she didn’t deny.
“Jean,” Scrymgeour said earnestly. He seemed flustered by his friend’s turbulent behavior, and he directed his full attentions to MacColla’s sister. “May I . . .”
“Aye,” the girl whispered gratefully, and Haley flashed her a broad smile.
“Please, John,” Jean told him nervously.
“If you’ll excuse us, Alasdair.” Scrymgeour was on his feet and helping Jean from her chair in an instant. “Mistress Fitzpatrick.” He nodded coolly in Haley’s direction.
“Mister Scrym . . . geour.” It was almost certainly the wrong title for the man, but she doubted he fully understood her anyway.
The drink had burned through her like thousand-proof spirits, thickening her tongue.
To make up for it, she flashed as composed a smile as she could muster, honestly hoping the effects were more drawing room than frat house.
An uncomfortable silence fell between her and MacColla the moment the other two left. She wracked her brain for something to say. Mostly she wasn’t ready to head back to her own room for the night. She’d need a tad more anesthetizing before she could ever fall asleep.
Besides, the issue of James Graham’s death had become an obsession. And here she was, sitting with likely one of the only living men who knew the true fate of the famous war hero. Maybe if she got MacColla drunk, he’d spill the beans.
“ Uh . . .” she floundered. “They say it was Saint Patrick who introduced the distilling of whisky to Ireland.” Or so her father had claimed through the years, with a zeal that implied the sipping of his Jameson was just about divinely inspired.
“From the hand of the Almighty Himself, is it?”
It wasn’t until she looked up and saw the playfulness in his eyes that she realized he wasn’t serious.
“ Mhmm .” Unsure of what to say, Haley took another big sip. Her shiver was more subtle this time, but she still had to hiss a breath out through gritted teeth. “All right. That’s it.” She slammed her own hand down then. “Do you have a coin or something?”
“A coin?”
“Yes, you know, money. A coin.”
“I . . .” He looked hesitant.
“Oh”—she waved a hand dismissively—“my charming company is free. I just need a little help gulping this stuff down. Come on, MacColla.” She acted as if she’d been slighted. “Trust me.”
“Oh, I don’t trust you, lass.” His voice was cold and flat, his face unreadable, staring at her. Just when she began to feel nervous that she’d crossed a line, MacColla burst into laughter.
“Don’t fash yourself.” He reached across the table and pinched her chin. “Trust you I don’t.” He rifled through his sporran and retrieved a silver coin. “But I will listen to you, aye?” He flicked it to Haley and she caught it easily.