by Alexa Aston
“Just like that?” She snapped her fingers, knowing it would take more than a few words to bring the two clans together. “And this concerns me in what way?”
“We’d have to pledge fealty to the MacNaughtons. In return, they would put our clan to work, tending the sheep, shearing, and spinning wool,” Malachi explained. “This would allow our people to profit from the shearing and the MacNaughtons would increase their weaving production.”
“That still doesna explain why ye need me. ’Tis a man’s work, to be sure, and I have enough to do here. Surely, the three of ye are better for this task than a mere woman.” She said this last bit, looking up at her uncle. Something was amiss, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“I would appreciate yer company when I journey to Dunderave to meet with them.” Her father took both her hands in his. “It seems the MacNaughton has great respect for his wife’s opinion. We hoped if ye made a good impression on her, it would help our cause. If they provided an income for our families, think of the peace of mind it would give us for the next winter.”
This news surprised her, but it made sense. It was a way to help without sacrificing her body and reputation for the clan.
“If ye think I can help, I am obliged to go.” Trepidation still skirted her thoughts, but Da wouldn’t deceive his own daughter. “When were ye thinking to take yer leave?”
“As soon as possible.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I knew ye’d be willing to help.”
“It’s not quite so simple. Lord Fulton gave us until his Twelfth Night celebration to give him an answer. If this doesna work out with the MacNaughtons, we are back to the original offer.” Uncle Enoch stood before her now, towering above her with an intimidating scowl. “I’m warning ye lass, niece or no, we will do what is necessary to preserve this clan. If ye dinna cooperate, every family will ken why they are starving next winter.”
Heat covered her cheeks as she glared at his retreating back. How she’d love to throttle the arrogant old goat. How dare he put the fate of the Craiggs on her shoulders alone. She did not insult the previous earl or cause this situation. A hand squeezed her shoulder.
“He’s frightened for all of us, Peigi. The Craiggs have been here for centuries, and we dinna want to leave our homeland. But no one will force ye into anything.” Her father shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “Now begin yer preparations. I ken ye will be wanting to leave endless instructions, and I dinna ken how long we will be gone.”
Peigi spent the next week organizing and leaving instructions for Mairi. The woman was as efficient as a clerk, and knowing she left her home in good hands gave Peigi some comfort.
“Dinna forget to—”
“The castle willna crumble around us while ye are gone. We will survive a week or so without ye, though I’ll miss ye something fierce.” The older woman wrapped Peigi in a tight hug. “We’ll be waiting to celebrate Hogmanay and drink to a new year when ye return.”
“Or lament our losses. We canna even afford the spices to make the Scottish buns for the First-footing.” She clung to the woman who had taken her mother’s place in so many ways. Peigi’s mother had always loved the Hogmanay tradition of neighbors visiting each other just after midnight, bearing gifts. Peigi had accompanied her mother many times bearing Scottish buns, a cake of currants, raisins, citrus peel, and spices. The sweet treat symbolized good food and a promise that the family would not go hungry over the next year. Another punch to their dwindling hope. Collecting herself, she thought aloud, “Perhaps I should reconsider the earl’s offer.”
“Yer mother will reach down from the heavens and give ye a good skelping if it crosses yer mind again.” Mairi gripped her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Now get some sleep and remember how much we all love ye, lass.”
Peigi slowly made her way up the winding stone stairs. Her inherent optimism was failing her. Her last trip into the village tugged at her conscience. One of the remaining crofters was caring for a sick child and husband. The woman had looked so weary and thin, as had the fevered child. After giving them bread and broth and administering a tea for the fever and a compress for the cough, her heart still ached at their plight and the others. Food was scarce with so little good soil left for planting. Cloth, spices, and salt were expensive.
She had the power to make their lives better. Was her happiness worth more than those suffering souls? The knot in her stomach tightened as her heart told her the answer. If their diplomatic mission in making peace with the MacNaughtons was not successful, she would go to Lord Fulton. But she would have some conditions of her own…
*
Angus MacNaughton sat behind a massive walnut desk in the study. A sliver of light peeked out from the long, heavy drapes that had been drawn against any draft. The cherry wood panels lent a cheeriness to the dark room and glints of red cast from the glow of firelight danced across the walls. The chieftain looked up and grunted, returning his attention to the ledger in front of him.
Calum moved to the hearth and warmed his cold hands. “That doesna sound good.”
“Weel, the balance is good but the loss of lambs is no’. I had planned to give each family a bit of mutton. But now we are down two more.”
“And ye dinna think the wolves picked them off? If the Craiggs were responsible, why would they take the lambies instead of grown sheep?”
“To irritate me and ruin my plans, of course.” Angus scowled at his son. “Did ye come to argue with me?”
“No, Da. I came to cheer ye up, on yer wife’s orders. She’s tired of yer sour countenance.” Calum stopped at the side table, poured a swallow of whisky, and held up his glass to his father with a questioning look. After receiving a nod of approval, he poured another.
“How many families are there now, and how short are ye on lambies?” he asked, settling onto a leather chair across from his father.
“Seventy and sixty-seven. We only started with seventy so there was no room for error—or raiding.” Angus leaned back and blew out a long breath. “However, we’ve done well this year and can afford to purchase a few. Yer brother, Finley, is establishing a tidy tobacco trade in North Carolina. We’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Always waiting for the hammer to fall.” His father had never been known as an optimist. His middle brother Finley, though, was a hard worker and outgoing. They had known he would make the right contacts and quickly establish himself among the colonists.
“The fighting between the English and the colonists is beginning to cause some disruption. Hamish wrote just before they left America. More British troops had arrived along the coast. When they were waiting at port, they even saw a Highland unit disembarking to join His Majesty’s troops.”
“Let’s hope Hamish doesna join them. He always enjoyed a good fight.” Calum had been on the receiving end of his youngest brother’s fist more than once. Though quick-tempered, he rarely held a grudge. Unlike the old goat sitting in front of him.
“It will be good to have all my sons at home for the Hogmanay festivities. We will have much to celebrate.” Angus tipped his head back and finished off the scotch. “They should have made Edinburgh by now and arrive within the week. Yer mother canna talk of anything else.”
“So Da, did ye read the letter from Lord Fulton?” He shook his head as the old man grinned.
The earl had written, informing them of the Craigg chieftain’s death and that the clan now wanted to make amends. If an agreement was made, their own business arrangement might be altered but not ended. For the Craiggs’ sake, Calum hoped a truce was made. He thought of his last conversation with Malachi.
“Aye, the son of a whore will answer to his Maker now.” Angus smacked his knee with glee. “The stubborn eejit let his pride get in the way of doing right by his clan. Good riddance to him.”
“Da, the man’s dead. Ye could be a mite gracious.” He paused and readied himself. “Ye ken his sons wanted to quit this feud long ago. Perhaps—”
> “If that be the truth, they wouldna be stealing my lambs.” Angus spit at the floor. “That is my answer.”
“Now who’s the stubborn eejit? It was an argument between two obstinate chiefs generations ago. There’s at least a dozen different versions of how it started.” He spread out his hands. “Can ye no’ see reason on this point, now that the Craigg is gone? His eldest son wants to help his kin. Surely ye can understand that.”
He narrowed his eyes, and Calum fought the urge to squirm. “And why do ye care so much about our enemy? The upcoming holiday got ye feeling warm and woman-like?”
“Och, Da. I’d just like to see peace for a change,” he scoffed. “They’re Scots just like us and suffering from no livelihood and few choices but leaving.”
“The only choice ye should concern yerself with is which lass ye’ll be marrying. It’s time to stop enjoying the milk and find yerself a cow. I need a grandson.”
“I’m nigh on six and twenty. What’s the hurry?” Again, he struggled to keep himself in the chair. “Stop changing the subject.”
“I’ll make ye a bargain. The day ye decide to marry, I will consider ending the feud between the MacNaughtons and the Craiggs.” Angus nodded with satisfaction at his son’s silence. “Weel, looks as if this conversation is at an end for now.”
Chapter Three
Debts and Diversions
Snowflakes landed on Peigi’s face as she lifted her face to the weak December sun. She brushed the wetness from her numb cheeks and shrugged her shoulders from the heaviness of the wet wool. Her mare’s dark mane sparkled from the snow as her thick neck moved up and down, following the deep double tracks made by her father’s horse. She bent to give Honey a quick pat, thankful for her sturdy Highland pony. She was an odd goldish chestnut, a dun fox color her father called it, and had been given to Peigi on her sixteenth birthday. The breed was known for its endurance and calm temperament. Honey’s compact form plowed through a foot or two of snow as if it were as light and fluffy as the clouds above.
“I’ll be sure ye get an extra handful of oats when we get there, my sweet.” She smiled as Honey snorted in response. “If we get there…”
Her father had insisted on going around a small loch instead of across. Though she understood his fear of crossing the ice that had almost claimed his life a year ago, the delay irritated her. She wanted this trip to be over and return home to her clan where the chores would be piling up.
She fidgeted in the sidesaddle Da had insisted she use. Peigi didn’t have time for social riding. Between running the household, keeping the medicinal herbs stocked, and minding the sick, there was always something that needed tending. When a family summoned her, she needed to get there quickly for they never called without good reason. In good weather, she often asked for a leg up and rode bareback to whatever neighbor needed her.
“We dinna want the MacNaughtons to think I’ve raised a hussy. I want yer mother to look down on us with pride when we represent the Craiggs.” Her father had waggled his forefinger at his fuming daughter before they left. “And no argument. Now fetch yer mother’s cloak with the rabbit lining. The green wool matches yer eyes.”
What in heaven’s name did the color of her eyes have to do with peace between their clans? Her father must be feeling sentimental. He always spoke more often of her mother in December. They had entertained and visited so much as a couple during this month. Peigi drew in a breath of the frigid air, her irritation receding with bittersweet memories. She needed to have more patience with him. This was a hard time of year for him.
“Get the frown off yer lovely face, child. I believe ye’ll like the MacNaughtons. Most of them, anyway.” Malachi grinned. “Calum seemed a handsome enough fellow. And we had like beliefs of peace between us. I only hope he hasna changed his mind.”
“If he’s as sensible as ye’ve said, then we should be able to make a pact and be home by Hogmanay. I want to be with my own clan over the holiday.” Her eyes narrowed. “As should ye, Da.”
“As do I. I gave yer cousin, Jamie, the last bottles of my best whisky to be sure he’d be the First-foot across the threshold after the clock chimes midnight.” He winked at her. “Last year, that redheaded bastard Ian came calling and look how the year went for us.”
Peigi rolled her eyes but remained silent. She did not believe in the old wives’ tales or the magical stories her mother had told her at bedtime. According to this new year superstition, a redhead—or God forbid a blond, reminiscent of the old Vikings—was deemed bad luck. A raven-haired man was a good omen. Peigi chuckled to herself. If bribing the dark and handsome Jamie to make First-foot brought them good luck, then so be it. The next year certainly couldn’t be any worse than the last one.
In January, her aunt’s newborn had died within the month, then her father’s accident in the spring, two more families emigrated over the summer, and then her grandfather, the clan chieftain, was taken by fever just after All Hallows’ Day. Now, for the first time since she could remember, the Craiggs weren’t able to present their families with any of the usual gifts, which told their situation more plainly than any words.
She crossed herself quickly to avoid tempting the fates. Her grandfather’s words echoed in her head. It could always be worse, lass, and ye’d be wise to remember it.
Relaxing on her horse, she decided to enjoy the scenery. The snow-topped mountains were lovely in December, brightening up the gray winter sky. The pine boughs were heavy with their white burden; only a squirrel or bird disturbed the peace by sending small avalanches to the ground below. She took in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, clean air. After a day spent in the stuffy, hot kitchen, being out on her pony invigorated her soul.
They reached the castle in the late afternoon of the second day. As she looked up the lane, Malachi pointed to the rectangular stone keep, three stories high. At one corner stood the original structure, a round tower with crenellations carved along the top. It was much larger than the Castle Craigg. As they entered the courtyard, Peigi took in the well-kept stone courtyard and thick stone walls of the residence. Arrow slits provided light on the lower floors with larger windows on the floors above.
She slid from the saddle, pulled the reins over her mare’s head, and straightened her skirts. She ignored her father’s glare, knowing he’d expected her to wait for assistance as any lady should. A young lad came running from the stable to take their horses.
“We’re here to see Calum MacNaughton,” announced Malachi as he pulled the saddlebags from the horse. “Is he in residence?”
“Aye, sir, as are most all the MacNaughtons.”
Malachi nodded and turned to his daughter. “Shall we?” He held out his arm and they made their way up to the main entrance.
She watched her father as he picked up the heavy brass knocker and rapped it three times against the thick, ancient wood. The handle was circular with a round tower in the center, matching the tower connected to the main building. She recognized it as the MacNaughton crest. Peigi waved away her father’s busy fingers as he tried to smooth her hair and adjust her cloak.
“Quit fussing over me!” What did it matter what the MacNaughtons thought of her? The only time women were included in clan politics was during negotiations for… “Sweet Mary!”
A chill ran down her spine, followed quickly by a flush of anger. “Da, what are ye planning?” She poked him in the chest with her gloved finger.
“Daughter, mind yer tongue—”
The door opened and a young woman in homespun skirts, an apron, and a cap stood before them. “Good day,” she said with a nod.
“We are here to speak with Angus and Calum MacNaughton,” her father answered.
“And who are ye, may I ask?” She opened the heavy door wider and stepped aside.
“Malachi Craigg and my daughter, Peigi.”
The woman covered her thin cheeks with her palms, her brown eyes wide. She crossed herself, curtsied, and hurried away. Halfway down t
he hall, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Weel, are ye coming?”
They entered the dark entryway and followed the maid up a narrow stone stairway to the first floor. She passed the large dining hall and stopped before a set of double doors. “Please wait in the parlor, and I’ll tell the MacNaughton ye’re here.” With another curtsy, she disappeared up another set of steps.
They entered an elegant room with red and blue woven carpets and colorful tapestries covering the walls. Her feet sank into the thick soft rugs as she took in the rest of the furnishings. Small tables for games and cards sat at one end of the long room, a cluster of chairs in another corner and also in front of the hearth. Two loveseats upholstered in deep red damask, and probably stuffed with expensive horsehair if she were to venture an opinion, flanked each end of the room. Crystal decanters with wine and amber liquids on a side board, an open book resting on a cushion, and a chess board left in mid-play indicated this room was a favorite for quiet, intimate evenings and entertaining. A collection of musical instruments took up one shelf and a bagpipe leaned upon a cushion next to a harp.
They stood before a great hearth, flanked with oak panels painted with a thistle design, waiting to be announced. Peigi clutched her rolling stomach. A family lived here. A large family who read, talked, played games, and made music together. A family like she’d once had before her mother died. She silently cursed her burning eyes and forced back the ridiculous tears.
Her father had to make this right. He stood with his hands clasped behind him, warming his backside from the long journey. A smile tugged at his lips, which set her suspicions twirling again. Before she could open her mouth, the door banged open.
“Now Da, dinna twist my words to get yer way.” The deep, resonant voice held a twinge of exasperation.
An older man with graying red hair strode in, the flap of his belted plaid billowing behind him as his long legs covered the distance of the room in a few steps. The round MacNaughton castle was engraved on the jewel-encrusted buckle at his waist. He waved a careless hand at the younger man, then stopped, squinting at Peigi as if sizing up cattle at an auction. His fingers scratched at his red-bearded jaw before turning to Malachi.
