“Ye only paid me two sheep instead of four!”

“Two was what I owed ye, and two is all ye deserve!”

Reid pinched the bridge of his nose, barely managing to bite back a curse.

Rabbie MacRae and Dillon Mackenzie continued their squabbling, seemingly unaware of the stares they were drawing in the great hall, or of their Laird’s increasing annoyance.

“Ye lie, Dillon!” Rabbie spat. “We agreed on four, but ye’re too much of a bloody arse—”

“Silence!” Reid barked. Both men’s heads snapped to him, at last remembering their place.

It had already been a long day, and it was only just past noontide. Reid had spent all day yesterday in the village, meeting with shopkeepers and farmers who’d come into town to settle disputes now that he’d returned. For those cases that were not easily settled, he’d invited the disputants to Eilean Donan so that they could air their grievances and he could rule on them.

Of course, that meant several long days like this one stretching ahead of him, days spent listening to farmers quarrel about sheep and shopkeepers argue over transactions that happened months ago.

Reid shifted in his large, carved wooden chair, eyeing the two men from the dais.

“Rabbie, ye lent yer three lads to Dillon to help with the harvest season,” Reid began.

“Aye,” Rabbie replied.

“And ye claim that the agreed-upon payment in exchange for their labor was four sheep.”

“Ye said so yerself, Laird.”

“Nay, Laird,” Dillon cut in, “ye said two. I distinctly recall—”

“Quiet, the both of ye,” Reid snapped. He ground his teeth, dragging a hand through his hair.

Damn it all. He vaguely remembered helping the two quarrelsome neighbors reach an agreement earlier that spring. Dillon had only daughters and needed help in his fields during the harvest season. Rabbie had strapping lads, yet that meant many mouths to feed and the constant need for either grain or sheep’s wool to trade for it.

The problem was, Reid couldn’t recall exactly what ruling he’d made so many months past. So focused had Reid been on fighting the Bruce’s battles and maintaining peace along his own borders that these smaller disputes often fell through the cracks. But this was the work of a Laird—if he overlooked his people’s troubles, they would soon lose trust in him.

“Did Rabbie’s lads work hard and get yer harvest in?” he asked Dillon.

“Aye,” Dillon said grudgingly, looking sideways.

“Ye dinnae have any complaints about them, then?”

“Nay, Laird, but—”

“And ye, Rabbie,” Reid cut in. “How many sheep now fill yer flock?”

Rabbie scowled. “Nigh on one hundred, Laird.”

“I have come to a decision. Ye’ll split the difference. Dillon will pay three sheep to Rabbie. Three sheep for three lads’ labors, nay more, nay less.”

“But Laird!”

“It isnae fair, Laird!”

Reid held up a hand for silence, and the two men reluctantly bowed in acknowledgement of the decision, though he heard both of them muttering under their breaths.

As he watched them slink from the great hall, Reid drummed his fingers in annoyance on his chair’s arm. He’d either shorted one man a sheep he’d been promised, or made another man pay one sheep more than they’d agreed back in spring. Either way, he’d been unfair. But he couldn’t very well admit that he’d been too preoccupied to remember their original bargain.

As one of the village’s blacksmiths and the stable master approached, preparing to air out their disagreement over a faulty horseshoe, Reid rose.

“That is all for today,” he said. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

As the hall emptied, Reid let a long breath go. He needed to hit something. Though he knew it was a foolish, juvenile thought, he wished that more of these disputes could be settled with fists rather than words. It was no way to lead, of course, but Reid had always been a man of action.

He stepped down from the dais and crossed the hall. What he needed was to train with his men. It would release some of his pent-up energy—and mayhap distract him from thoughts of Corinne.

Yesterday in the village, his mind had kept conjuring forth images of her pale skin, her parted lips, her moans of pleasure. And today, he felt like a damned green lad, achy between the legs and daydreaming about her when he was supposed to be focusing on settling disputes.

He’d returned so late from the village last night that she’d already retired. He found her sleeping in his wide bed, her face covered by a mass of unruly red locks and her breathing slow and deep. She must have been exhausted. Though he longed to pull her into his arms and taste her mouth, he couldn’t bring himself to disturb her.

That morn, he’d risen well before dawn and slipped out before she’d awoken, intent on busying himself else he find a reason to linger with her all day in their bed. Instead, all he’d managed to do was fumble his way through several disputes, his mind on her lips, her breasts, her sweet, wet—

Cold blasted him as he yanked open the hall’s doors and stomped into the yard. Aye, this was what he needed—to run himself ragged before he did something foolish like hunt her down and take her against the nearest hard surface like a brute.

As he approached the training grounds, he found a clump of his men standing on the hard-packed dirt, but instead of sparring, they were talking.

“…see that hair? It can only mean one of two things,” one of them was saying, his back turned.

“She was making her way to a nunnery,” Leith, the fresh-faced lad who’d been along for the Bruce’s mission, said firmly.

“So I heard,” the first man, Galen, murmured conspiratorially. “As I said, one of two things.”

“Go on, Galen,” another urged.

“She’s either a cold English fish meant to be a nun,” Galen said. “Or no’ a virgin at all.”

White-hot anger blinded Reid for a moment. He quickened his pace, closing in on the group like a charging bull.

“Dinnae ye disrespect our lady, Galen,” Leith retorted.

“Shut yer flap, Leith,” Galen retorted. “Everyone kens a virgin is supposed to have long, flowing hair. That English chit is naught more than a—”

Before he could finish, Reid rammed into him, shoving him so hard that he was thrown into the others gathered around him. Before Galen could right himself, Reid grabbed a fistful of his tunic and spun him around. With all his might, he drove his fist into Galen’s dumbfounded face.

The crack of Galen’s nose breaking cast a stunned silence over the group of men.

“How dare ye speak ill of my wife—yer lady!” Reid roared, shaking Galen so hard that blood from his nose spattered onto the sleeves of his shirt.

“Do ye see that?” he demanded, yanking Galen up and pointing to the top of the keep, where the white sheet from their matrimonial bed hung from the battlements. Though it was four storeys up, the tiny red spot could be made out from the yard. “That is my wife’s innocence. The lady of the Mackenzies. Yer mistress.”

“Forgive me, Laird,” Galen mumbled through the stream of blood running down his face. “I didnae see ye. I never would have—”

“It doesnae matter if ye saw me or no’!” Reid bellowed. “Ye disrespected her all the same.” He cast his gaze around the lot of them. “Ye all did. I only heard Leith speak in her defense.”

The men lowered their heads in shame, all except Leith, who glared at the others.

“Laird,” one of the men said tentatively. “We were wrong, and we beg yer forgiveness. It is only…”

“Out with it,” Reid barked.

“We thought ye were as unhappy as we to have an Englishwoman as yer bride,” he mumbled. “We thought ye shared our sentiments, seeing as how the only reason ye married the lass was out of duty to the King.”

Reid’s blazing rage was doused so quickly by surprise that his mouth fell open and he involuntarily loosed his hold on Galen. Galen stumbled back, holding his broken nose gingerly.

Bloody, stinking hell. Was this what his clan thought—that he detested his union with Corinne so much that they had leave to disrespect her?

He knew he’d hurt her before, speaking more of duty and obligation than aught else when he’d introduced her and told his people of their impending marriage. He’d been an arse, aye, but now he saw that it was far worse than that.

He’d thought by presenting a stony façade to the clan, he’d shown his strength as their leader—he would do whatever it took to protect them and serve their King, including marrying an Englishwoman. Yet now he saw that by acting so cold, cruel even to Corinne before them, he’d done naught to stop their frosty reception of her. Worse, he’d led by example.

She was already in an impossible situation as an outsider, an Englishwoman among Scots. Through his own selfishness and inattention, he’d failed to lead his people as a Laird ought, letting their displeasure fester.

It wasn’t too late, though. Only a day and a half had elapsed since their wedding, and two since they’d arrived at Eilean Donan. Reid could show them with his own actions how Corinne deserved to be treated, and how fortunate they were to have such a strong, smart, spirited woman as the lady of the clan.

Reid leveled a hard stare at the waiting men. “I should have ye lashed—all of ye. And ye,” he pointed at Galen, “could have yer tongue cut out for what ye said about yer lady.”

Galen blanched, his face appearing all the whiter in contrast to the blood running from his nose.

“Instead,” Reid went on, “ye’ll all go to the village and muck out the stables for a fortnight. Except Leith.” The young lad straightened under Reid’s assessing gaze. “Ye’ll help me train the real warriors for a fortnight.”

“Ye are merciful, Laird,” Galen said, dropping his head. “I am sorry I shamed ye.”

“Ye shamed yerself,” Reid growled. “Dinnae do so again, for if ye—any of ye—disrespect my lady wife again—if ye even think ill of her—I’ll rip ye limb from limb and banish what’s left of ye from ever setting foot, or arm, or head, on Mackenzie land again. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Laird,” they replied in crisp, decisive unison.

Turning his back on them, Reid strode toward the keep, his legs moving faster and faster.

He needed to make this right, to show his people just how lucky they were—how lucky he was—to have her.

Which meant he needed to find Corinne—now.