He Thinks I’m Ye
Shona wiped away tears as Jeannie gently stroked her back.
“I ne’er heard anything o’ the sort about the Mackinloch laird’s sons,” her aunt said. “I thought he had just two boys. This must be an older brother, but if that were true he’d be the next laird.”
Shona hiccupped. “His name is Fynn. Mayhap he’s a bastard.”
“Saints preserve us,” Jeannie exclaimed. “Kendric will have a fit if that’s the case.”
They glanced at the stricken man in the bed. Jeannie’s face paled. “When he’s better, that is.”
Shona prayed her uncle would indeed recover, but she’d never been one to shy away from confronting a problem. “What if he doesna get better? There’s already speculation among the visitors about who will take over as laird.”
Jeannie clenched her jaw. “All the more reason for ye to wed the Mackinloch quickly. I hate to admit it but a laird with ties to that clan would be the best for the MacCarrons. This Fynn would have a strong claim married to ye, blood kin to the former and current laird.”
“But if he’s a bastard…”
“Ye must ask him, directly,” Jeannie replied. “There’s too much at stake.”
Shona hesitated only a moment before charging ahead. “I canna. He thinks I’m ye.”
*
Fynn perched on a bale of hay in the stables. “’Twouldna be proper,” he muttered.
Ewan clenched his jaw, trying to hold on to his patience. “If my betrothed refuses to leave her uncle’s bedside then the only way to meet her is to visit the laird. His chamber canna be far from yers.”
“Aye,” David agreed, earning a scowl from Fynn.
“They’ll think it mighty peculiar if ye dinna ask to pay yer respects. ’Twill be considered an insult.”
Fynn folded his arms.
Ewan sensed he was wavering. “I’ll announce yer intention.”
“Seems forward,” Fynn remarked.
Ewan rolled his eyes. “We’re Mackinlochs, mon. They expect us to be pushy.”
“I’m a Macintyre,” Fynn grumbled as he followed Ewan out of the stable and into the keep.
It was an irritating reminder.
Entering the main hall, they encountered two groups of scowling men huddled around separate trestle tables. The murmur of conversation ceased abruptly. Ewan sensed tension between the factions who soon resumed exchanging hostile glances over the rims of tankards raised to their lips.
One swarthy giant with a scraggly red beard and unruly hair got to his feet and came to confront Fynn. “What the fyke are the Mackinlochs playing at? Yer laird sends an owd cripple to wed our Shona?”
Ewan fought the urge to laugh at the man’s wheedling voice. He wondered if the fellow was deliberately trying to sound like a fool.
However, it seemed news traveled fast.
To his credit, Fynn didn’t back away. He stuck out his chin and looked the man in the eye—no mean feat since the bully was a foot taller. “I’ll wager I can gi’ a lassie more pleasure wi’ one hand than ye can wi’ them two beefy mitts ye’ve got.”
A strange silence reigned as the giant faltered and looked at his hands.
David studied the banners wafting in the rafters.
Ewan gawked as the man’s face turned as red as his unkempt beard.
Another man from the second table stood. “Seems yon Mackinloch has heard o’ Mungo’s clumsy reputation wi’ the lasses,” he shouted.
Guffaws accompanied the racket of tankards banging on wood.
Ewan might have known. For all they were the age-old enemy, the MacCarrons were like any other clan—teeming with rival factions. He had little doubt they’d happened upon a gathering of power-seekers plotting their next moves should Kendric die.
He pitied the clan if this Mungo became their laird. The brute probably wanted Shona for himself. At least now Ewan knew her name. He hadn’t even met the woman but felt sorry for any lass married to such a bully. Like most of his ilk, he’d backed down, seemingly too dimwitted to come up with a retort to Fynn’s insult.
A peculiar pang of something too much like righteous anger twisted Ewan’s innards. He had the makings of a chief; his father had sensibly groomed both his sons for the role—much to Colin’s chagrin—and better he become The Camron than the weaselly redhead. If he was to marry this Shona…
He shrugged off the notion and touched Fynn’s arm. “The MacCarron laird awaits, my lord,” he said.
The rumble of plotting resumed as they strode out of the hall. Once they were in the passageway leading to the private chambers, Ewan elbowed Fynn. “That was risky. I’m proud o’ ye.”
“Me…me…me…too,” David said.
Fynn shrugged. “When a mon has just the one hand, he learns o’er the years how to deal wi’ bullies.”
Two MacCarron clansmen leaning against the frame of a heavy planked door suddenly stood up straight, folded corded arms across broad chests, and eyed them suspiciously.
“The Mackinloch, come to pay his respects to The Camron,” Ewan announced, stepping back to allow Fynn to enter first.
The guards exchanged a brief glance before one rapped and requested entry.
Ewan was taken aback when the golden-haired beauty he’d met in the bailey opened the door. His unruly cock saluted.
She gritted her teeth and barely glanced at Fynn. “Ye can only stay a few moments. My brother is very ill.”
“We’ll be quiet as mice,” Fynn replied.
“Mm…m…mice,” David confirmed.
Ewan clenched his fists.
A second woman appeared at the door.
“May I present my niece, Shona, yer intended,” the beauty explained to Fynn.
The newcomer glanced at the stump, hesitated only a moment, then smiled. “Come in. We canna keep the door open overlong,” she said.
It registered in Ewan’s befuddled brain that the two women looked more like sisters than niece and aunt, but his arousal fled when his body had no trouble realizing he’d been promised to the one with a lazy eye.