Page 29 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)

“A lass?!” Colkitto slammed his tankard onto the table and ale sloshed over the sides, puddling onto the well-scarred slab of wood. “What’s my son doing mucking about the countryside with some lass?”

Jean cut her eyes to Scrymgeour. She knew her father could make even the most dauntless of men quaver, particularly when he was in his drink. But Scrymgeour sat by her side, as placid as ever, and she was grateful.

He glanced her way and she spared him a quick, shy smile. At times like this, she felt chagrined by her father’s behavior. She wondered what Scrymgeour thought of them. Of her especially.

She had three brothers, four if one counted the bastard Angus, and Colkitto for a father, all of them set in their warring ways, clinging tight to a generations-long feud that she sometimes feared defined them as much as their own clan lineage.

Did Scrymgeour sit there, biding his time, waiting for his moment to be free of the lot of them?

She sat tall, marshalling her thoughts enough to answer her father. “He’s not mucking about.” Jean folded her hands in her lap, a calm pose to match the smoothness of her voice. “I told you, Campbell’s men took the woman. My brother simply—”

“Simply risked his own hide for some stranger?”

Jean hesitated. That had given her pause as well, though for different reasons. She hadn’t liked the woman at first. Resented Haley her free and mannish ways.

But when Alasdair had discovered Haley gone, the haste with which he’d raced after her startled Jean.

She wondered if the woman might be the key to blunting her brother’s desire for vengeance. His craving of it was insatiable, never-ending, razing all in his path. It was what had robbed Jean’s husband from her.

“Campbell threatens even now to take back this land,” her father continued. He slammed his hand down again, landing in the puddle with a dull slap.

She saw Scrymgeour bristle at the sprinkle of ale. He discretely dabbed his cheek, and mortification colored her cheeks.

Jean’s mind strayed once more to her husband. Donald MacKay of Ardnacroish. He’d been a good man, she knew. A near stranger to her, but a good man nonetheless.

And then he sacrificed his sword in battle, giving it to her brother when Alasdair’s own had broken. Her husband gave his sword, and so he gave his life.

It was only because of him that her brother still lived.

Jean grimaced.

She tried to take her mind from it. Faced her father, watched his mouth moving, hearing sounds yet not registering words.

The men talked of battle, always battle. She expected more from them. More from Alasdair, especially. He was smarter, more levelheaded than the rest. The only man in her family who knew how to read. Who was a visionary. A leader of men.

She wondered precisely what it was her husband had died for that day, at the Battle of Auldearn.

It had been MacColla’s great victory. So great, the bard Iain Lom MacDonald sang a song to praise him. “Health and joy to the valiant Alasdair,” he’d written.

She wiped her damp palms along her skirts. She should be relieved, she thought. She loved her brother, and he still lived.

But when others slept, and she knew none could hear her in the darkness, Jean wept. She mourned her loss. Resented her brother his warring ways.

She shut her eyes, hearing the men speaking as if from a distance. Her hands were clenched, clammy, the nails that burrowed into her palms the only things that kept her tears at bay.

She felt a hand snake onto her lap. Warm and firm, fingers twined with hers. Giving her a squeeze.

Unclenching, Jean opened her eyes. Glanced to Scrymgeour, stalwart by her side.

And she knew then that he wasn’t simply biding his time. That he would be by her side to stay, if she wished it.

The thought gave her strength.

She tuned back into Colkitto, who roared on. “Campbell vows to take back this very land Clan Iain Mor so dauntonly only just carved back for ourselves.”

“’Twas Alasdair who did the carving, Father,” Jean said quietly. She savored her anger now, and it brought frost to her words. She would will the family to moderation, if it killed her. “And I trust he’ll soon return safe,” she added evenly, “with this Haley in hand.”

Colkitto glared at his daughter, silent. Tensing, Scrymgeour eased his hand from hers, nearer to the dirk hanging at his belt.

Jean shot him a quick, reassuring glance.

“Och,” Colkitto growled. “At ease, lad. My daughter’s in no danger from me. ’Tis my son who needs a fair clouting.” His eyes lit at the prospect. He and his sons sparred and tussled at every opportunity, and if Jean knew her father, he’d not miss this one.

She feared her father was forgetting what he was about. He grew old, well past seventy now, but he’d been a warrior in his day and considered himself a warrior still.

It wasn’t his body that worried her. His skin fell slack, but it hung on muscles that remained as firm as bands of iron at his arms. It was his mind that Jean had been spending more time concerned about. His wits weren’t as fast or as fit as they once were.

Colkitto increasingly spent the days in his cups, bored. Lately she’d had the grim thought that he’d as soon die in battle than spend one more day in their company.

“I’ve already negotiated surrender of Dunyveg. I’ll not—”

“That was before we were born, Father. Thirty years ago. The MacDonalds once again hold Dunyveg.”

The old man let out a slow hiss. Not moving his eyes from his daughter, he shouted for his wife. “Mary! More ale!”

Jean finally let herself flinch. Would he not show a little decorum? She stole a look in Scrymgeour’s direction, shame keeping her chin cast low.

Her mother glided into the room, and Jean was reminded of what a beauty she’d once been.

MacColla was an unusually large man, all her brothers were, and it was a trait they could only have inherited from their mother.

Though Colkitto was tall, her mother was almost of a like height, still ramrod straight and strong despite her years.

“Aye, Husband, we’ve ale to hand.” Mary smiled, and Jean was thankful for the elegant nod she gave Scrymgeour as she refilled his cup. “There is no need to bellow like a bull. I’m only just in the other room.”

She went to stand behind her husband’s chair and placed a calm hand on his shoulder. “You may fashion yourself a king among men, my love,” she said, taking in the unadorned walls of the humble two-bedroom cottage, “but this home is a far cry from a castle.”

Face otherwise completely still, her eyes locked on Jean and she gave a sly wink.

Scrymgeour stifled a laugh, clearly shocked by Mary’s impertinence.

Colkitto erupted into laughter, a thunderous sound echoing off the cold, stone walls. Her father had a broad, open-mouthed laugh, revealing teeth yellowed with age.

“To my Mary!” He lifted his newly filled cup. “Never have I known her to speak with forked tongue.” He craned his head to look up at her. “You’re as bonny as the day we met, beanag .” He gave her a brusque nod before taking a deep pull of ale.

“And you, an duine agam ,” Mary replied. Reaching down, she took the cup from his lips for a sip. “I find you just as irascible.”

“Aye, we drink now.” Chuckling, Colkitto reached up to pat his wife on the cheek, then turned his attention back to the table. “But soon we fight. The MacDonalds have reclaimed Kintyre, and Campbell will not let it stand. Mark me, he will come at us, with blood on his mind.”

Blood and more blood. It was time for the fighting to stop.

Her father’s bitterness grew with each passing day. As acrid as the accursed ale that he could no longer live without.

And Alasdair. Her brother was no longer a young man. It was time for him to think on other things. A home. A wife. He had nearly four decades behind him and still no life of his own to speak of.

He’d seemed captivated by that peculiar woman.

Jean wrapped her hands around her cup. The metal was cool on her hot skin.

A shadow of a smile flickered for an instant. Perhaps the stranger named Haley would be just the one to finally turn her brother’s head.