Kiliwhimin
At dawn the day after the Council meeting, Duncan bade Ewan farewell with a gruff reminder of his duty. There was no handshake and no attempt at an embrace. Andrew’s mother wept and babbled reassurances she was certain all would be well. Her son managed to grit his teeth and swallow his tears until Ewan picked him up and hugged him.
His older brother offered a limp handshake. Colin tended to think he was already the Mackinloch laird. The five years’ age difference had stood in the way of them ever becoming friends.
Tight-lipped, Ewan was the first to ride out through the gates of Roigh Hall. There was no sign of Kathleen as he passed her cottage.
He wondered if he’d ever see the castle again. It was the place of his birth and he admitted inwardly he’d taken for granted the comfort and security of the only home he’d known. Few enemy clans had ever contemplated attacking the powerful Mackinlochs.
“Least of all the cowardly MacCarrons,” he grumbled, after taking a last look over his shoulder.
Reluctant to indulge in hours of idle chatter with his men, he stayed slightly ahead. For the first hour of the journey to Creag Castle, David tried without success to instigate conversation with Fynn, until the older man cut him off. “Ye mistake me for someone who has the patience to listen to yer stammering prattle,” he said.
After that, the trio rode in silence, which suited Ewan just fine.
When the weak noonday sun indicated it was time to eat, he reached into his satchel and found the heel of bread a tearful Alys Cook had packed for him. He bit into it, though his appetite had fled.
Chunnering over the likelihood Colin may have had a hand in the MacCarron agreement since he’d participated in the meetings at Clunes, Ewan didn’t bother to tell his men they’d have to eat in the saddle. Let them figure it out for themselves.
He finished the bread and a lump of hard cheese from which he suspected Alys had pared the mold. As he tipped the flagon of ale to his mouth, a loud shout from David caused him to spill some of the brew. “Loo…loo…look. An ee…ee…eagle.”
Wiping droplets from his plaid, Ewan peered at the bird of prey and its mate gliding effortlessly high in the sky. He inhaled deeply as his irritation fled. The rugged grandeur of the Highlands always filled him with a sense of peace. Resentment had turned his mind inward and he hadn’t paid attention to the magnificent beauty of the shoreline they followed as they traveled southwest. There was no more breathtaking vista in the whole of Scotland than Loch Ness.
Even Fynn stared open-mouthed at the birds, his good hand shading his eyes, the reins wound around his stump.
As they resumed their journey, it struck Ewan he had a choice. He could wallow in self-pity or make the best of his fate. Mayhap Jamie was right about MacCarron lasses being bonnie, though how his uncle would ken such a thing…
He mused on the color of his betrothed’s hair—he liked redheads, or, better yet, golden-haired beauties. He cursed when it dawned on him he hadn’t paid attention to the name of his intended. “She’ll probably have a warty nose,” he muttered, “and be bald as a coot.”
“Yer par…par…pardon, I did…didna hear what ye said, my…my…”
“Nothing,” Ewan hissed.
Annoyed he’d again lost his temper, he looked to the sky. The eagles were faint dots in the distant clouds. The raptors didn’t worry about enemies, and neither should he. The MacCarrons wouldn’t dare murder him, lest they bring the wrath of the Mackinlochs down on their misbegotten heads.
Perhaps his conniving father hadn’t offered him up as a sacrificial lamb. Forcing the MacCarrons to hold to the bargain was important and he’d make sure they did. In the meanwhile, he’d get to rut to his heart’s content, and he could always keep his eyes shut if his bride wasn’t comely.
The sky suddenly darkened as it occurred to him he’d have to be careful not to sire a bairn in the process. A child would be an unwanted complication if he was to return to Roigh after a year and a day.
He looked over his shoulder. “We need to pick up our pace if we want to reach the lodge at Kiliwhimin afore the downpour,” he shouted, feeling the first drops on his face.
They went as fast as they dared in the uncertain terrain of the moor, but their plaids were soaked by the time they reached the small hunting lodge. Ewan had camped in the rustic cabin many times before and knew the friendly clan that owned it would have no objection to their seeking shelter there.
They took care of their horses in the wee stable, and fed them the oats they’d brought. Fynn soon had a peat fire glowing in the hearth. David fetched water from the loch and set it to heat on the hob.
When the lad disappeared without a word, Ewan assumed he was seeing to his needs. His spirits lifted when the youth returned a short time later, his long red hair plastered to his head, water running in rivulets down his face, and a plump rabbit in each meaty fist.
Fynn drew out his dagger and pointed to a small wooden table. “There,” he said gruffly.
David obeyed.
Fynn had the rabbits skinned and skewered on the spit in less time than it would have taken most men with two good hands.
Ewan spread his wet plaid out near the hearth, then sat cross-legged close to the fire to dry his wet hair, inhaling the tempting aroma already rising from the roasted game. A spark of hope glimmered in his heart that the two misfits might prove their worth after all.
Reluctant as he was to strike up a conversation, it seemed churlish to remain silent. He pointed to a roughly hewn wooden chest built into the wall. “They usually keep that well supplied wi’ blankets,” he said, hoping the caretakers hadn’t let things slide since the last time he’d been by this way. The unpleasant alternative was to sleep wrapped in damp plaids.
David eagerly thrust open the lid, pulled out a blanket, and grinned, holding it aloft. When he didn’t utter a word, Ewan worried he and Fynn had been too harsh on the lad.
“They might need a good shaking,” he advised, wishing he’d been more explicit when the air in the confined space filled with dust motes and several moths startled from the bedding.
“S…s…sorry,” David said sheepishly, carrying the bundle to the door and giving the whole lot another shake.
Fynn rolled his eyes when the wind blew more dust back into the cabin.
“Set them here close to the hearth,” Ewan told the lad.
David obeyed, then took over turning the spit.
With the heat of the fire on his face, Ewan closed his eyes, listening. Rain danced on the roof, flames hissed when grease spattered, the spit squeaked in protest.
It came to him as the chill receded and he relaxed that a melodious masculine voice was singing.
Nae doot ye’ve heard o’ Jenny Shaw,
Who lives doon by the burn;
That winsome lass few can surpass,
Who daily works the churn.
An’ tho’ she’s but a dairymaid,
She’s a’ the world to me;
She is my jewel, my Jenny fair,
Wi’ modest grace to see.
He hummed along through several verses of the well-loved tune, feeling the tension drain from his body. Sorry when the song came to an end, he opened his eyes, astonished to discover David was the singer.
He couldn’t help himself. “Ye can sing without stammering.”
David shrugged. “Aye,” he replied, apparently as unsure of the reason as anybody.
“Meat’s ready,” Fynn announced, deftly carving the food directly on the scarred table. Ewan pulled up a stool, took out his dagger and skewered a choice piece, his right as the laird’s son. Fynn and David waited until he’d savored the first bite and indicated his approval before taking their share.
“Well done, lads,” he said with his mouth full.
“Aye,” Fynn replied, licking the grease off his stump.
David nodded.
“I expect we’ll reach Creag Castle by the afternoon on the morrow,” he told them between bites. “From what I hear o’ the place, this might be our last good meal for a while.”
Fynn stabbed his dagger into the wood of the table.
David’s eyes widened and Ewan regretted alarming the youth. “Dinna fash, I meant it as a jest,” he explained.
A short time later, he lay on the dirt floor in front of the hearth wrapped in a musty-smelling blanket. Staring up at the rafters, he resolved to accept he’d be living in less than ideal conditions for a while. However, they were hardy men fulfilling an important mission for their clan. He’d tried to reassure David, but his expectations of Creag Castle were low. The MacCarrons weren’t wealthy.
Sleep proved elusive as worry tormented him. Once the MacCarron wench got her claws into the son of a Mackinloch laird she might not let go. He was, after all, considered an eligible bachelor by the lasses of Inverness.
His bride’s interest would wane quickly if he was missing a limb, like Fynn. He chuckled at the notion that if he stammered like David it would likely drive her mad.