A Saint at the Highland Court: A Friends to Lovers Highlander Romance (The Highland Ladies Book 6)

by Celeste Barclay

  “I can tell,” Blair nodded. “I ken we both have thick skins after serving at court. But that doesn’t mean his insensitivity should put you and your bairn at risk.”

  The group of guards and the two ladies worked through most of the morning, gathering more fruit than Robena could have done in a sennight. One of the king’s guards helped Robena to the ground where they all sat in the shade, each munching on an apple and passing around a waterskin.

  “What the devil is going on?” Artair bellowed as he wove his way through the trees. Artair noticed his wife’s red face and sweaty brow, but it didn’t seem to affect him since he hadn’t asked how she fared. Four guards had acted the moment they noticed how overheated the pregnant woman was; she was the first to drink from the waterskin. “Lady Blair, a word.”

  Blair rose and dusted off her skirts. She suspected there would be quite a few words. She clasped her hands in front of her and offered a serene smile.

  “You may not understand the importance of men training, but I’m certain the king does. His men should not be picking fruit like a peasant when they should be in the lists training.” Artair’s voice rose with each word.

  “I wasn’t aware you married a peasant,” Blair said blandly.

  “I what?” Artair demanded.

  “If you believe it’s peasants who should pick fruit, and you expect your wife to do that job, you must have married a peasant. Otherwise, why would she be left to do the work of field hands?” Blair asked innocently.

  “You know very well that I married a lady,” Artair huffed.

  Blair leaned forward and hissed, “Then treat her like one.” Blair made to step around the angered chieftain, but he reached out to stop her. Twelve men rose to their feet in what appeared to be one swift choreographed move. Hands reached for swords, but Blair shook her head. She looked back at Artair before walking around his hand. “I believe my men are already well trained.”

  Left standing alone, Artair stormed back toward the keep. Blair watched him, ruing her sharp tongue. She feared making Robena’s life miserable, and she hadn’t intended on antagonizing her host within a day of her arrival. She frowned at Robena as she offered her apologies. Robena smiled and thanked Blair for arranging the help. She admitted she never would have finished the harvest before the fruit spoiled and fell from the trees. She thanked the men for their help before the men carried the baskets to storerooms and the ladies retired to the cooler air within the keep.

  Twenty-Five

  Hardi had always looked forward to riding through the gates at Tor Castle, returning home to the people he knew and the land he loved. But as he entered the bailey, he was torn between regret and suspicion. He hadn’t thought of anything but Blair during the brief ride to Tor. He worried about whether he made the right decision entrusting Artair with her protection. He feared bringing her to Tor when he hadn’t been home in over a month, and so much had happened while he was away. He worried that she would regret agreeing to marry him if he lost his position as laird. And he feared Hamish and Amelia would refuse his suit.

  The bells clanged above his head announcing the laird’s return. He’d waved to families in the village as they left their homes to cheer his arrival. As he entered the bailey, men and women stopped in the middle of their tasks to gather around him. He noticed that Faolán and Drostan were conspicuously absent from the group of older men who made up the clan council. He wondered if the brothers were away from the keep or purposely insulting him by not making an appearance. He even considered whether they were hiding. He’d passed the enlarged flock of sheep as they approached the keep, and he’d gripped the reins so tightly that Uaill sidestepped and shook his head.

  “Laird Cameron, ye’ve returned,” Mordag, the housekeeper cum chatelaine greeted him. She’d run the keep for as long as Hardi could remember. She’d terrified him as a child, but he’d relied on her heavily while his uncle grew sicker and then in the early days of his lairdship. She offered sage advice and couldn’t stand Faolán, which raised Hardi’s opinion of her.

  “Aye, Mordag. It is good to be home. I have missed being here,” Hardi grinned.

  “We wouldnae ken from how long ye were gone.” Faolán’s voice reached Hardi from behind, and the hair on Hardi’s neck stood on end. If he’d been a dog, his hackles would have been standing straight up.

  “Aye, well, I’m sure ye ken why the taxes werenae as simple as they should have been,” Hardi’s piercing gaze made Faolán flinch. Hardi handed the reins to a stable boy and moved toward the keep. “The council will meet me in ma solar. Now.”

  Hardi didn’t wait to see how anyone reacted to his abrupt order. He kept his tone even, but his purposeful stride led many to scurry out of his way. He nodded to those who welcomed him, but he did not stop until he was seated behind his enormous desk. As the council filtered in, the men took seats around the table in the center of the chamber, but there was no doubting Hardi sat in the position of authority. Before his journey to court, he’d sat at the table amongst his advisors, hoping that an egalitarian approach would ease his transition. He was too angry to care much about how the council received his newly acquired confidence. He pictured what Blair would say and do if she were him. He watched each man, observing their expression, mannerisms, and with whom they shared a glance. He considered how Blair would assess what he noticed. He knew she would warn him to trust no one.

  “We owe the king one hundred and three pounds, nine shillings,” Hardi announced. He held up his hand to silence the raucous response. “The king has allowed me time to return here and organize our finances. We are expected to pay that in coin. That is only the outstanding geld and tax on the cattle. That doesnae include what we shall have to pay in kind for the grain and whisky.”

  “That is outrageous,” Drostan declared.

  “Is it, Drostan?” Hardi pulled the king’s missive from his sporran. He opened it and smoothed it on the desk before glancing at Drostan and Faolán. He read aloud the parts that hadn’t been read to him. He’d practiced over and over until he was able to recite it from memory, but he made it appear as though he read it from the parchment in front of him. “Drostan, ye were aware of this since ye were the first to read the missive. Faolán, can ye explain why neither of ye informed us of the entire contents of the king’s missive? Why ye didna tell me or the council the accurate amounts?”

  Drostan stammered and Faolán glared at Hardi. He refolded the document and returned it to his sporran. He looked at each member of the council, noticing the levels of shock, disgust, and mockery. He waited until the men quietened, refusing to speak over them or to try to make them listen to him. “I can only imagine one of two things: Faolán, and Drostan by his side, have lied aboot their ability to read, or they wished me thrown in debtors’ prison.”

  “Hardwin, that is ridiculous,” Faolán spoke to him as though he were a child.

  “Until I determine whether ye should be thrown into a cell or the oubliette, ye will refer to me at Laird Cameron,” Hardi corrected “Ye may have aimed to humiliate me, but ye nearly bankrupted our clan and made fools of us all. I was exceptionally lucky to be granted an audience with the king in private. Word hasnae spread that we couldnae pay our taxes on time. Nae because we dinna have the resources, but because more fool was I to trust two men who have been advising the clan since before I was born.”

  “I’d like to ken which it was,” Paul, a man only a few years older than Hardi, spoke up. “Was the goal to embarrass our laird and even have him imprisoned? Or have we all been fooled for years by two men who dinna have any business making decisions in any laird’s stead?”

  Hardi sat back as the bickering among the men began. He remembered the suggestions Blair offered him when they discussed how he should proceed with his first council meeting. She’d advised him to stir the pot enough for it to boil over and then watch how the men reacted to one another. She instructed him to remain quiet and allow the meeting to move in whichever direction the men carr
ied it and to listen rather than participate. He hadn’t believed her, fearing the meeting would spiral out of control. She grinned and said that was half the point.

  As Hardi listened to the men before him, he quickly noticed the factions that broke apart. There were those who silently backed Faolán and Drostan, those who invoked his uncle’s name and the shame cast upon their clan, and those who were ready to plan for how they should proceed. The smallest group was the last, and that caused Hardi concern. The number of levelheaded and even-tempered men was far smaller than the hotheads who insulted one another.

  “Enough,” Hardi’s voice remained calm, but the clipped tone broke through the arguing voices. “Drostan and Faolán, neither of ye have denied either suspicion—”

  “Why should we?” Faolán demanded.

  “I wouldnae interrupt me again, Faolán, unless ye care to dine off of rats for the next sennight,” Hardi warned. “Since neither of ye denied ma speculation, and neither of ye have explained yer behavior, ye are both removed from the council effectively immediately.”

  “Ye canna do that!” Drostan rose from his seat and pounded on the table.

  “I can. Just as the council can vote a laird in or out, the laird can remove any members he feels doesnae work with the clan’s best interest in mind. Ye were the only two who could read after ma uncle died. Ye were trusted, and ye broke that trust. Nae only mine, nae only this council’s, but the entire clan’s trust. Men who canna be trusted canna be members of the council.”

  “Were?” Faolán sneered. “Memorizing what someone tells ye isnae reading. How do the others ken ye arenae the one telling falsehoods?”

  “Because Laird Cameron never attempted to be laird, but accepted a position thrust upon him,” Paul broke in. “He hasnae been whinging on aboot how unfair the succession was. He stood before the king and bore the brunt of our failure as a council to advise a young laird, our failure to protect our clan’s finances.” Paul stood and leaned over the table on his knuckles. “To ma eye, we should all be on our knees thanking the good Lord and Laird Cameron that we still have land to call our own.”

  Hardi held up his hand, and the men fell silent. “Before I forget, there is also the matter of recompense owed to the Macphersons. I received the most troubling news from ye,” Hardi nodded to each of the men. “That the Macphersons and Mackintoshes raided our villages, razing our fields, and killing our people only to make camp on our land. Can ye imagine ma surprise when I had another audience with the king where I intended to voice ma concerns only to learn that the Macphersons were already demanding a return of the sheep this clan stole?” Hardi’s hand slammed on the desk.

  Hardi rose from his seat and crossed his arms. “Faolán, ye endangered the lives of our men leading them on an unsanctioned raid, claiming ye acted in ma stead. If there is a mon in this chamber who believes I would agree to—nay, order—a raid on the Macphersons so soon after our battle with the Mackintoshes, then ye dinna ken me at all, and ye’re just as daft at these two.” Hardi jerked his chin in Faolán and Drostan’s direction.

  “Those were our sheep,” Faolán argued.

  “I dinna give a bluidy damn if they were sheep God handed down to us from on high. Ye risked our men’s lives and weakened our position in the king’s eyes. We’re bluidy lucky King Robert didna strip us of the land he awarded our clan after the Wars or demand we pay a fine to the Macphersons. He’ll be satisfied with us returning the livestock. And willna that be an enjoyable meeting. ‘Good day, Laird Macpherson. Nay, I didna ken ma clan council is made up of bumbling eejits who want to get us all killed. Nay, I didna ken ma council care so little for our clan that they would act of their own accord with a complete disregard for the consequences. And nay, I didna fucking ken that I’m the biggest eejit for trusting any of them.’” Hardi slammed his hand onto the table again.

  Hardi looked around the table at the stunned faces. None had seen him lose his temper since becoming laird. He’d always been even tempered, but he was known for his unforgiving and unrelenting drive in battle. The clan council was witnessing that determination away from the battlefield, and more than one face registered shock.

  Hardi understood that this shock was caused by the realization that he wouldn’t be as easily manipulated as many imagined. He studied the men who said the least, but seemed to favor Faolán and Drostan. They were the men who caused Hardi the most concern. The brothers’ outward defiance was easier for Hardi to address. It was the men who gave nothing away that made Hardi the most suspicious.

  “Faolán and Drostan, ye will gather the required sacks of grain and barrels of whisky and deliver them to the king. He is aware of what we owe, so King Robert will ken if aught is amiss. Be prepared to leave in the morn. I will return to Stirling at a later date with the coins. Paul, ye will gather a score of men to accompany ye to the Macphersons to return the sheep. Ye will depart in two days. Good day,” Hardi sat back in his chair and pulled a sheaf of parchment toward him. He took a quill from the top drawer of the desk and dipped it into the ink. When no one moved but rather stared at him, he grinned, but it only made his expression more menacing. “I filled ma days learning to read and write while I waited to learn if I would rot in debtors’ prison or have ma head cleaved from ma shoulders.”

  Hardi studiously ignored the men as they filed out of the chamber. Before they arrived at Tor, Hardi asked Bran and two of the king’s men to stand as his personal guards once he sequestered himself with the council. He didn’t trust any of them not to attempt to kill him. He knew he’d made the right choice not to bring Blair to his home until he sorted out the clan’s inner politics, but he wished she was within the keep offering her advice. He even wished she’d been beside him in the solar to witness his first true meeting as the leader of Clan Cameron. He hoped she would be proud of him.

  Hardi waved Bran over and kept his voice low not trusting the walls not to have ears. “Ride back to Inverlochy. Inform Lady Blair that we arrived safely and that she offers sound advice. Ask her to meet me tomorrow at dawn at the standing stone. If she says aye, find her guards—her Sutherland guards—and tell them where we will meet. Return to me before the evening meal.”

  “Aye, ma laird,” Bran nodded and hurried from the chamber. Hardi leaned back as he looked at the table where the angry men had sat only minutes ago. He put the quill away and put the stopper back in the ink. He would take the writing utensils with him when he met Blair the next morning. They’d been merely props for him, but they would be tools for Blair. He quit the chamber soon after, his stomach demanding a meal.

  Twenty-Six

  Hardi stood beside the ancient Pict standing stone with the soft pink and purple rays of early morning sun at his back. He heard the pounding hooves before Blair and her guards came into sight. He watched as her hair flew behind her with each lunging step her galloping horse took. Her fluid movements reminded him of their first ride together after he arrived at Stirling. He grinned as he accepted that Winner was an apt name for her horse as the gelding led the rest of the party by a head. When they reined in, Hardi helped Blair from the saddle and pulled her into his arms. It had been a day since he’d last seen her, but that was the longest they’d been apart in over a month. He swore to himself that once he had Hamish’s approval and their betrothal was official, nothing would keep him from kissing her, audience or not.

  “Thank ye for meeting me, lass,” Hardi murmured as he inhaled lemongrass.

  “I told ye I would come as soon as ye asked. How did things go when ye arrived?” Blair asked.

  “Just as ye suspected. I took yer advice to offer just enough information to let them squabble, and I watched. There were those who said little but nodded when Faolán and Drostan spoke. Those who swore and cursed, demanding answers to why I’d been misinformed. And the smallest group were those who proposed solutions for how to move forward.”

  “Are you watching Faolán’s comrades the closest?” Blair wondered.

  “Aye. W
hile I spoke to Paul, a councilman close in age to me, during the evening meal, I could tell he was also straining to hear Faolán and Drostan’s conversations with the men who sided with them. Faolán purposely kept their conversation light, discussing the lists and training.”

  “What aboot the taxes? What did they have to say aboot the amounts still owed?”

  “That’s what gave me the chance to gauge their reactions. I’m sending Drostan and Faolán to court with the grain and whisky. I want them away from the keep to see how people behave without Faolán there to usurp ma authority or plot behind ma back. Paul will return the sheep to the Macphersons. I trust him nae to embroil us in another battle and to be honest with both the Macpherson and me. I would take the sheep maself, but the infighting among the council makes me hesitant to ride out.”

  “Do ye need me to write a missive to Laird Macpherson?”

  “Aye. I brought parchment, ink, and a quill for ye,” Hardi offered.

  “I brought ma own, thinking ye might need a scribe,” Blair grinned. She looked around for a flat surface and spotted a boulder not far from the standing stone. She had no intention of touching the ancient marker, unwilling to test whether it possessed the magic of lore.

  “How repentant should I sound?” Hardi asked.

  “Ye canna be weak and submissive, but ye must acknowledge yer clan’s wrongdoing. Is there aught ye can offer besides returning the livestock? Some peace offering? Whisky, mayhap?”

  “I could, though I’d rather nae send it kenning it will go to waste. They willna drink it, fearing we’re trying to poison them,” Hardi explained.

  “Can ye spare a heifer and calf?” Blair wondered.

  “Aye. I dinna want to give those away either, but they are more likely to be well-received. It would be easier if ye just wrote the missive for me,” Hardi mused. “But I canna palm ma duty off on ye. I must learn how to be a laird. I’m damned lucky to have such a bright and bonny teacher.”