Feast
Watching the folk of Clan MacKeegan boisterously enjoying the feast thrown to mark the signing of the trade agreement, Corbin had to admit the islanders knew how to celebrate. The music was deafening, the dancing as wild and flamboyant as he’d expected.
His expectations of Highlanders had been low, especially with regard to food. He suspected the chief’s wife had a lot to do with the excellent quality of the meals he’d enjoyed throughout his visit. She apparently hailed from Dungavin, a remote castle in North Skye he had no wish to visit, though Kyla’s tales of the Faerie Flag kept there since the Crusades were intriguing. Such a relic would be worth a small fortune.
He’d hoped to be seated next to the tantalizing young woman but found himself wedged ’twixt his host and Lady MacKeegan. The redhead sat next to her stepmother, the chief’s four younger sons to their father’s right.
“So Lochwoods and Maxwells have been feuding for many a year,” Darroch suddenly yelled in his ear.
The question—if indeed it was a question—took Corbin off guard. “Yes,” he shouted back, wondering where the discussion was headed. He’d learned during the negotiations not to assume MacKeegan was dimwitted.
“Like the MacKeegans and the MacRains,” Darroch said.
Corbin had never taken much interest in the myriad feuds between Highland clans. Every Lowlander knew they were a rough-and-ready lot who relished murder and mayhem for the sake of a few livestock and tracts of land too bleak, barren and boggy to grow any sort of crop. “But isn’t your wife a MacRain?” he asked, immediately regretting the words.
He struggled for breath when the chief slapped him heartily on the back. “Dinna pretend ye ken naught o’ how our clans reconciled,” the grinning man quipped.
“Ye canna think everyone is aware of our history,” his wife interjected, coming to Corbin’s rescue. “Our marriage ended the feud,” she explained. “For the most part.”
Corbin considered what he knew of the only female Maxwell of marriageable age. By all accounts, Lily was painfully thin, only eleven years old, and a simpleton. He liked women with meat on their bones, in the right places, of course, and bedding a child didn’t appeal. “There’s no prospect of that in our case,” he said.
“We fought over land,” Darroch continued. “But that’s nay the issue with ye and the Maxwells, I understand.”
Corbin chose his words carefully, still convinced the chief was on a fishing expedition. “No. We Lochwoods are the most influential clan in the region, so it’s only right we should serve as the king’s Wardens of the West March.”
Darroch raised an eyebrow. “And yer family has held that high honor in the past, but it no longer exists now James rules both kingdoms.”
“Yes, but the office changed back and forth over the decades between my family and the Maxwells, even though that despicable clan is nothing but a bunch of criminals. Indeed, the current laird is the son of the assassin who murdered my uncle, yet the Royal Court has given him the right to ward the Solway.” He stopped short of offering an outright opinion of the king’s decision. That might smack of treason, and he wasn’t among trusted friends.
MacKeegan scraped fingernails through the stubble on his chin. “Seems a good idea to make sure vessels plying the Solway Firth are nay carrying opium and the like up to Dumfries.”
The hackles rose on Corbin’s nape. The normally astute Highland chief had obviously missed the point. The appointment gave the Maxwells power over cargoes that entered and exited the border region. The Warden of the Solway controlled access to the lucrative English markets.
His host chewed a piece of mutton for what seemed long minutes before he continued. “When ye say criminals, do ye mean they’re reivers still?”
Corbin cursed inwardly. He’d walked right into the trap. He could hardly deny his own clan’s reiving history. “As I told you before, Lochwoods only stole from the English.”
His indignant outburst coincided with a sudden lull in the music. He felt his face flush when heads turned to look at him. Blushing was something coy maidens did.
“Commendable,” Lady MacKeegan retorted with too much sarcasm for Corbin’s liking. She smiled at Kyla who rolled her eyes and snorted.
He deemed it advisable to make no reply. Let these backward folk think what they liked. After he’d dealt with the redhead’s mode of dress, he’d turn his attention to instilling respect for her betters. It was an arousing prospect.
*
Covering a yawn with the back of his hand, Laird Lochwood rose from the table. “I beg leave to retire, Lady MacKeegan,” he said, bowing slightly. “I understand my ship departs on the morrow’s early tide.”
Isabel nodded. “Of course. A servant will light the way to yer chamber.”
“I thank you for this sumptuous repast,” he added. “Goodnight.”
Kyla’s father had risen and summoned a servant. He shook Lochwood’s hand. “Goodnight.”
Once the Lowlander was safely out of earshot, Kyla scoffed. “Sumptuous repast! The mon is trying hard to deny his Scottish roots.”
Her eldest half-brother agreed. “Stuck up.”
Isabel glared at her son. “Stewart MacKeegan, that’s no way to speak of a guest. ’Tis past yer bedtime. Take yer brothers and say goodnight.”
The ten-year-old lad grinned conspiratorially at Kyla, but did as he was told and the four boys went off to bed after kissing their mother.
“We can speak freely now the young ones are gone,” Darroch said. “I would say Corbin sees the title of Warden of the Solway as a stepping stone to his ultimate ambition—a post at His Majesty’s court in London. They say the Scots there dinna speak like Scots, and ’tis evident Lochwood has striven to rid himself of his brogue. ’Tis reported King James Stewart himself sounds more like an Englishmon, and the Gaelic is frowned upon.”
The three sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, contemplating how the rich language spoken in the Isles for hundreds of years could be considered inferior.
Isabel took Kyla’s hand. “Are ye sure ye want to captain the voyage?” she asked. “I ken ye’ll enjoy the adventure, but…”
Kyla recognized she was fortunate to have a stepmother who understood her unconventional nature and had never tried to thwart it. “Aye,” she replied truthfully. “The laird’s company? Nay so much.”
“I’ve picked a loyal crew,” her frowning father assured them. “They’ll soon dissuade him if he decides to make advances.”
She’d known her father would do his utmost to ensure her safety, but the news was reassuring nonetheless. Lochwood was tall, fair of face and bonnie to look at, though she’d never encountered a young man with hair so gray. However, she had a feeling there was more to him than met the eye.