The Highlander's Promise

by Heather Grothaus

  “Finley, Mother Carson,” Kirsten said breathlessly. “Forgive me. But the men are back. The…the Blair, and Dand is with him.”

  “Who?” Finley asked.

  “Dand,” Kirsten said. “The Blair’s brother.”

  Finley felt her mouth quirk and cast a knowing look at her mother before strolling to the table and taking a seat, picking up her mother’s discarded knife and a bunch of the parsley from the pot of water on the table. “Oh, aye. Dand. What’s he want?” She began stripping the leaves against the blade.

  “Sure, he wishes to check on his brother’s welfare,” Kirsten insisted.

  Finley placed a sprig of the wet herb in her mouth to chew before selecting another stem for the stew. “Making certain the crazy Carsons haven’t killed him?”

  “Finley,” Ina chastised. “We would never do such a thing, and Marcas Blair knows it.”

  “Marcas Blair doesn’t give a fig what happens to Lachlan now that he’s not his problem,” Finley said. “And just yesterday I thought of dropping a boulder on his head myself.”

  “Finley!” Ina exclaimed. “You did not.”

  “Did too. But it was only because I thought he wanted to push me down the stairs at the old house. Well, mostly because of that.” Finley looked up at Kirsten, whose sweet face bore a wounded look at such violent talk. “Why did you run all the way here to tell us Lachlan Blair’s foster brother has come to call?”

  At this, Kirsten’s face pinkened prettily. “He might stay for supper, might he nae, Mother Carson? I thought you’d want to know. In such a case.”

  “Och, well sure he might, and ’twould be grand if he does,” Ina said with a smile, and reached once more for the hunk of meat. “You must eat with us, too, Kirsten, for your thoughtfulness.”

  Finley jumped at Kirsten’s squeal, nearly cutting herself with the small blade. The girl rushed forward and embraced Ina.

  “Thank you, Mother Carson,” she gushed. “I’ll get to the house straightaway and make the bread.”

  “You’re a lamb,” Ina said.

  “Goodbye, Kirsten,” Finley called out the door after the girl’s retreating form.

  Kirsten rushed back in. “I’m sorry, Finley. How are you today? Well, are you? You look well. Goodbye, then.” Then she turned on her heel and dashed out the door once more.

  Finley sighed. “She’ll break her foolish neck getting home.”

  “The way Dand Blair couldn’t drag himself from her at the wedding feast, there may be reason for high spirits.”

  “Well, I hope she’s not too disappointed when she finds out someone else at Town Blair has already set her cap for the wee Brother Blair,” Finley said and stood from the chair, tossing the handful of parsley in the pot and choosing a basket from a hook. “I’ll go see if there’s barley for the stew.”

  “See if there’s a better attitude for you while you’re there,” Ina said with a roll of her eyes.

  “I like my attitude just fine, Mam,” Finley said with a grin and a lift of her chin and then strolled through the door.

  “Sure, and you’re the only one who does!” Ina called after her.

  Finley kept her smile as she walked down the narrow path toward the village. She thought she could say with some certainty that Lachlan Blair didn’t mind her attitude at all; he was the only one in all the town to not find her useless. But poor Kirsten was a fool if she thought Dand Blair’s clan would allow him to pay any mind at all to a meek little Carson girl without two sheep to butt heads, now that Dand was in line to be chief. Finley was quite sure the Blairs would hold the opinion that they had lost just about enough of late to the little town on the bay that had caused them so much trouble.

  She paused at the rise in the path as she spotted the handful of men entering the town from the direction of the bridge path. There was no way Kirsten had just happened to see them return. She’d had to follow the grazing party all the way to the Blairs’ with hope of catching sight of Dand, and then run all the way back to town ahead of them. It explained why she had been so frightfully breathless.

  There was her father, Rory, and Murdoch Carson; the flame-haired Dand and Lachlan. The Blair was taller and wider than his companions, his shawl hanging long and billowing behind him like some Roman conqueror of old.

  He was the handsomest man Finley had seen in all her life. Even more handsome than that English knight who’d happened upon her at the bridge. Handsomer by at least half.

  She shook herself with a private, outraged frown at her disloyalty. Sure he was handsome and braw; the men of Carson Town would be the same if they’d been raised with such plenty. Finley had no business admiring him for what was clearly none of his doing, and was perhaps a result of Carson misfortune. He was probably only a pretty, pampered dunderhead with delusions of being chief and he hadn’t been here long enough for it to show. He’d fallen right off his own horse not even going at a trot, hadn’t he? Likely his morbid suspicions were bollocks, and he’d reveal himself a lunatic creating delusions of people conspiring against him: his grandfather, his betrothed, his own brother, perhaps. Then where would Finley be when it all fell apart?

  “Humiliated,” she answered herself aloud. “And married to an idiot. Just as I feared.”

  She must help him succeed, then, and quit thinking of him in terms of “handsome” or “braw.” So what that he didn’t wish to remain married to her? The sooner he was gone, the better for them all.

  Finley turned on her heel and strode in the opposite direction, trying to summon to her mind any image at all that wasn’t Lachlan Blair without his shirt.

  * * * *

  Lachlan and Dand parted from the elders on the path, and Lachlan led his foster brother toward the wide, sandy delta where the Keltie slid into the bay. Dand began stooping almost at once to pick up bright shells and smooth pebbles tumbled into glassy spheres, but Lachlan didn’t waste any time once they were out of earshot of anyone from the town.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded of the younger man, standing on the other side of a long, twisted trunk of driftwood, letting there be a physical barrier between them to mimic the one Lachlan felt in his heart.

  Dand didn’t hesitate in flinging one of the rocks in his hand at Lachlan’s head; it would have taken his right eye had he not dodged it.

  “What are you arsing about?” he demanded. “I come all the way down here to see that the Carson lass hasna parted your big head from your shoulders and you accuse me of spying?”

  Lachlan felt a twinge of remorse, but not enough to extinguish the surprising pain his brother’s presence had brought to him.

  “Was it Marcas? Harrell?” He raised his eyebrows pointedly. “Searrach?”

  Dand’s ears reddened and he turned away to look out over the rippling water, skipping the remaining stones into the breakers, one after the other. Lachlan heard the answer in the crashing waves before Dand could bring himself to reply.

  “Nae one knows I’ve come,” he said.

  Lachlan, too, turned his gaze to the bay. Somehow, the idea that no one had sent Dand was worse. “I can handle Finley Carson just fine,” he said. “Obviously, nobody at Town Blair would raise a finger to help me even if the Carsons decided to draw and quarter me on the green, thanks to Thomas Annesley.”

  “That’s nae true,” Dand scoffed. “The Carsons doona have a green now, do they?” Lachlan didn’t take the jovial bait and so Dand continued. “Da misses you, as I do. You know he couldna go against the chief’s wishes. Had you been in his place, you’d hae done the same.”

  Lachlan was shaking his head before Dand had finished speaking. “Nay.” He turned to look at his brother. “I would never have supported stripping my son of his birthright through no fault of his own.”

  Dand’s clear eyes held no bitterness when he answered. “I’m his son as well, Lach. Da did the best he could by you
. The fine—”

  “Marcas is the fine now.” Lachlan looked back over the water. “He knew I should have taken Archibald’s place the morning he died.”

  “If he had let you do that, the other elders would have run you out of the town, and well you know it. You would never have been allowed back. Ever. Maybe Da as well. Maybe me.”

  Lachlan sighed. “Damn me. Forget I said anything. None of this is your fault. I was wishing for your company just yesterday, and now here you are and I’m arsing it up, just like you said. Ow!” He flinched at the pebble that bounced off the side of his skull with a distinct crack. He brought up his hand to rub at his head as he looked at the grinning younger man. “That’ll leave a lump.”

  “You’ll nae be able to ken it from the others,” Dand said, and Lachlan knew he was forgiven, although he still felt the idiot.

  Dand then reached into the sack he was wearing against his hip. “I’ve brought you something, although perhaps I shouldna give it to you. I doona know if it shall please you or set you off in a rage again.” He withdrew a long, slender object, wrapped up in a dingy old piece of cloth—Lachlan recognized it as one of Mother Blair’s rags—and offered it to Lachlan.

  Lachlan took it with a frown, and he could tell it was a blade by the feel of it even before unwinding the cloth revealed the shallowly engraved, dinged, and darkened metal sheath. Several grubby knobs of frazzled cording hung from the back edge of the sheath and at the grip, as if it at one time had been decorated with tasseled fringe. It was obviously quite old. He looked up at Dand.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Archibald’s house,” Dand said, resting the sole of one boot on the trunk of driftwood still between them, leaning forward to cross his forearms over his thigh. “Ma’s nae shut up about moving into Archibald’s since he died. I was taking some things over for her last night, late, when who do I come across inside by lamplight?”

  Lachlan shrugged and looked down to examine the sheath’s engravings.

  “Harrell,” Dand said. “Near to tearing the place to splinters where the chief slept. I surprised him, coming in on him like that. He made some nonsense about losing a brooch at the funeral.”

  “Hmm.” Lachlan ran his thumb over the swirls and angles cut into the metal and turned to sit on the driftwood facing the bay. Although he’d never laid eyes on the dagger before, the design seemed familiar.

  The trunk dipped as Dand sat down next to him, facing the town. “He ran out of there like his hair was afire—you know Harrell. I saw a dark place in the wall behind a post of Archibald’s bedstead; Harrell had just been shoving at the thing when I got there, and I don’t think he’d seen it yet. It was a hidey-hole, and that was in it. It had to have been what he was searching for.” He paused in his account. “Lach, look at your wedding brooch.”

  Lachlan stilled and then rested the dagger across his thigh while he reached up for the metal that fastened his shawl across his chest. He unhooked the pin and held down the sizable disc next to the sheath, then looked up at Dand.

  “The pattern is the same,” Lachlan said. “This is Carson steel.”

  Dand nodded. “So the question becomes, why would your grandda have a Carson dagger hidden in his house?”

  “Sure, and why would Harrell be looking for it?” Lachlan added.

  The driftwood shuddered again as Dand found his feet. “Someone here is bound to know.”

  Lachlan half-turned on his hip. “What did Marcas say about it?”

  Dand shook his head and said quietly, “He’d have had to show it to the fine.”

  Lachlan realized what his brother had done for him then, and felt doubly like an ass.

  “I’ll be getting back,” Dand said.

  Lachlan, too, stood as a foreign wave of disappointment washed over him. “Stay. Come up to the cliff house with me; I’ll show you what I—”

  But Dand was already walking backward up the damp, brown flat, shaking his head. “I’ve more to do than daylight left to do it in. Harrell’ll be suspicious when he discovers I’ve come, and Searrach’ll surely tell him when she canna find me. He mustn’t think I’ve found what he was looking for, else I’ll nae be able to shut my eyes in me own bed.”

  “Even as his future son-in-law?” Lachlan couldn’t help the barb.

  Dand’s face screwed into a mask of distaste. “Searrach’s too eld for me. Like tonguin’ Ma’s sister.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, then grinned. “There’s nae betrothal for his dear gel now, and it’s put him in a humor of sorts. He’s leaving soon to take some of the sheep down the valley with the younger men to sell at market because Carsons are grazing half our pastures now. He seems eager to go, but Searrach is quite disappointed that her da’s forbidding her from making the trip.”

  “Kirsten Carson will be sore disappointed herself that she didna get to see you today,” Lachlan baited.

  “Sure, she saw me,” Dand called back. “And see more of me she shall, have I my way.” He raised a hand, showing Lachlan a glowy pink shell before placing it carefully in the jagged end of a buried trunk sticking out of the sand. “If you should happen to see her.” Then he turned away from the beach, trotting up the flat, hopping over driftwood, zigzagging around boulders on his way to the path. From Lachlan’s point of view, he still appeared to be the young man just out of boyhood he’d been a moon ago.

  But he was no longer a boy, and Dand’s journey to Carson Town this day to give Lachlan the dagger proved it.

  “Thanks, brother!” Lachlan called out, too late he knew, but Dand raised a hand in acknowledgment even if he didn’t turn around again.

  He had one friend yet then, at Town Blair. And one here on the edge of the sea in Finley Carson. Lachlan looked down at the dagger again.

  “The truth will come,” he murmured to the waves, and he didn’t know if it was excitement or fear that caused the seabirds on the beach to start to the low, gray sky with shrieks.

  Chapter 9

  Finley didn’t oversleep again, but when she joined her father and Lachlan Blair in the barn the next morning, she was promptly dismissed, by Rory Carson himself no less.

  “You go on back to the house and help your mam with the meal,” he ordered gruffly, barely sparing her a glance as he and Lachlan struggled with the yearling lamb. “We’re nearly done here.”

  “But I’ve come to do the milk—”

  “I’ve already done it,” Lachlan said distractedly, his eyes closely watching Rory’s hands at the hoof as he made sure to hold the animal perfectly still in his muscular arms. The lamb’s eyes were wide and rolling, its blunt muzzle parted in its pants and frightened bleats. Finley knew all too well how deceptively strong the animals were.

  “Well…the sow?” she offered, and sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

  “That, too, lass,” her father said on a sigh and then tossed the trimmers into a wooden tray and stood with a groan as Lachlan slowly turned his body and carefully let the animal find its feet before the gate before turning it loose in the paddock. “Eight piglets in the night. He’d most of it sorted before I was roused.”

  Finley looked to the large man again, trying to keep the look of resentment from her face but obviously failing if Lachlan’s smug expression was an indication.

  “Well, isn’t he just the pet?” she said through a condescending smile. “I’d like to know what I’m to do all the morn.”

  Rory sighed again and looked up to the rough barn ceiling again, this time as if praying for patience.

  Lachlan Blair responded instead. “Butter.”

  Finley was thrown off her tangent by the odd response. She frowned. “What?”

  “It’s the richest of cream from a milking,” he said slowly, “Beaten with a paddle. I like butter with my bannocks. Be a good lass and put it on the table.”

  Finley glared at him, and she could
n’t be certain it wasn’t a sneeze, but it sounded very much like her father had muffled a laugh at her expense. He was taking to the friendly banter a bit too well, to Finley’s mind.

  “Sure, I will,” she said sweetly. “You just be certain to eat all the sparkly bannocks. They’re a special recipe I’ll make just for you.”

  If anything, Lachlan’s grin grew more sensual. “Mmm,” he said with a waggle of his brows. “Butter and crunchy oatcakes? I’m a lucky man.”

  Finley could still hear her father’s laughter echoing in the barn as she stalked back to the house, jerking her shawl tighter around her against the stinging chill and her throbbing pride. But she wore her own conceding grin. And she wouldn’t smell like an animal at breakfast.

  It wasn’t an unpleasant way to start the day.

  The next several days took on new routines not only for Finley and the farm, but for all of Carson Town. The first project Lachlan had proposed was the repair and expansion of the storehouse, and for the better part of a week, all the able-bodied men in the town were set to hauling rock from the north end of the beach to the center of town with one of the new Blair carts, until the man-made mountain was nearly as tall as the store roof itself, and in arguably better condition.

  Sections of the existing wall were rebuilt where hastily erected stone had leaned and buckled beneath years of storms and wind and neglect. The roof was stripped entirely to its bones, many rafters replaced as a new main beam was laid above what was once the rear exterior wall, and supported with new posts dotting the shallow trench where the expanded stalls were being laid. The storehouse would be exactly twice its original size when finished, and was designed in a way that the town could use the building for several purposes. Once the thatching was in place, the women set to work sorting and organizing the bounty of provisions they’d received from the Blairs, and Finley tingled with a foreign pride as the women—both young and old—marveled not only at the windfall Finley’s husband had brought to Carson Town, but at his impressive physical prowess.