The whimpering hound cocked his head.
“We live on the sea. My brothers talk incessantly about the places they’ve sailed to, yet I’m nay allowed to set foot on a boat.”
It was pointless to explain to a hound that the sea called to her. The rougher the water, the more certain she became that she was born to ride the waves. If someone would only teach her. “’Tis in my blood, just as much as in my brothers’.”
She gently pushed Bo over so she could tickle his tummy. “They dinna have the first idea what being a lass is all about.”
She sometimes wondered herself. Her body was changing alarmingly fast. “If I had a sister, ’twould perhaps be different, but how can I ask any of my brothers about womanly things?”
She smoothed her hands over her breasts. “I fear they’ve grown too big but the last time anyone mentioned the word breasts, my brothers guffawed and made lewd jests.”
Bo groaned with pleasure, all four paws batting the air.
“’Twas a good thing Mammie was still alive when my courses began. I thought I was dying until she explained. Beathan and the others would have been no help at all. When I have wee lasses of my own…”
Bo rolled to his feet when she stood abruptly. “’Tis useless to think on such things. I’ll probably die a crotchety auld spinster unless my brothers find a suitable husband, which I fear is unlikely.”
Saddened by the reality she might never know the joys of a happy marriage that her mother had constantly boasted of, she retrieved the hated snood from her pocket and jammed her tangled hair within its confines. “’Tis simply to avoid another argument,” she explained to the dog. “Beathan refuses to accept snoods are auld-fashioned.”
A terrible thought crept in. “If he insists I marry someone I dinna like, I’ll have to leave this place. Run away.”
Her stomach churned. Where would she go? Castle Robson was close, but she could never go there. “Nay. I have to stand my ground and be just as stubborn as my laird,” she declared, mounting Geal for the ride across the stone bridge.
*
By the time Marshall reached the beach, exhausted survivors were being pulled out of the water by men from the two boats that had docked successfully.
The loss of a birlinn and her cargo was the biggest catastrophe the clan had faced in years, yet a quick glance showed the laird was making slow progress down the hill. Tamping down his anger as he barked orders, Marshall strode up and down the beach, frustrated when his boots sank in the wet sand. It made for slow going, but it was a relief most of the crew had survived. Wet and dispirited, they huddled in blankets brought from the supplies stored in sheds near the dock.
When Elgin finally arrived, Marshall gritted out what should have been obvious to the laird. “The loss of a boat means unemployment for her crew.”
“Especially since Clan Robson already has a surfeit of expert mariners,” his brother replied, seemingly untroubled by the disaster.
Elgin’s apparent lack of concern added fuel to Marshall’s anger. “It means they willna share in the rewards. Families will go hungry if the menfolk dinna work.”
Elgin shrugged, looking out to sea. “Naught much we can do about that now.”
Inhaling deeply, Marshall walked among the shivering survivors. “Where’s yer captain?” he asked.
Most were clearly in shock and didn’t seem to know where the man was. “Pierce must have gone down with her,” one bedraggled soul finally told him.
“Pierce?” Marshall shouted. “Who appointed him captain?”
“That would be me,” Elgin replied. “I liked the mon.”
It would be useless to berate his brother for favoring one of his drinking cronies. Nor would it be good for clan morale if Marshall ranted and raved in public. “The cargo from the two birlinns that made it home safely still has to be unloaded,” he declared to no one in particular. “Get these men into a wagon…”
He lost his train of thought when Elgin wandered off along the beach. “Just keeping an eye out for any of the Norwegian timber that might come ashore,” his brother shouted.
Marshall held on to his temper. As usual, his laird had found a way to avoid the heavy work of unloading the cargo into waiting wagons.
The village of Cèis was never intended as a port. Its flimsy wooden dock had been constructed more than a century before for small crab boats. Constantly at the mercy of wind, waves and salt, it had rotted in several places. Goods brought from Norway had to be carried a considerable distance to the wagons. Furs and skins were one thing, soapstone and timber quite another.
Marshall relished hard labor and understood it was a chieftain’s right, his responsibility even, to assign others to various tasks. Nevertheless, Elgin’s crafty avoidance of the more arduous jobs was irritating—other clansmen clearly resented it. Every sailor knew it would be hours before the tide turned, and then there was no guarantee the lost cargo would be carried back to this beach.
Two hours after the survivors had been transported home in one of the wagons, Marshall surveyed the goods they’d piled high onto the remaining wagons, hoping nothing tumbled off during the trek to Castle Robson. Feeling the bite of the wind on his overheated skin, he donned his plaid, lifted a stone jar of Norse ale to his lips and quenched his raging thirst with several gulps. “Good,” he exclaimed, inhaling deeply to catch his breath.
Elgin, who’d claimed the right to sample the imported brew first, shrugged. “Middling, I’d say.”
Perhaps, if ye’d actually worked up a thirst…
He left instructions regarding salvaging any cargo that did come ashore with the skeleton crew assigned to remain with the birlinns. Satisfied they had sufficient supplies and were appropriately armed, he waited for Elgin to give the signal to begin the journey home to Castle Robson.
He tethered Beau to the back of a wagon and climbed up to the driver’s seat. Mounted atop his gelding, Elgin led the way up the incline to the track along the cliffs.
Once they reached the clifftops, the going was mostly flat, the majestic views across the Moray Firth good for the soul. However, the overloaded carts made for irritatingly slow progress. The ten-mile journey took three hours and dusk was falling by the time they pulled into the courtyard of Castle Robson.
Yawning, Elgin dismounted. “We’ll unload on the morrow.”
Marshall held on to his temper. Rain clouds threatened. “Ye go in,” he replied. “I’ll see to it.”
Elgin hefted the jar of Norse ale and went inside.
Two hours later, when everything was safely stowed, Marshall made his way to the dining hall, not surprised to find his brother had already supped. Elgin had passed out in the laird’s chair, snoring loudly. It was likely the stone jar on the table in front of him was empty.
“Welcome home,” Marshall muttered to the deserted hall before heading off to the kitchens, hoping Annie Cook would find some tasty leftovers to satisfy his ravenous appetite.
*
Back in the stables of Castle MacCray, Teagan chatted with the ostler while the old man unsaddled and groomed Geal. “Thank ye for taking good care of my horse,” she said.
“’Tis my pleasure, Mistress,” Jock replied gruffly. “Ye’re the only one shows any appreciation.”
His words were troubling. It cost nothing to thank folks, but clearly her brothers didn’t consider such praise important. The ostler had spent a lifetime caring for MacCray horses. “I’m sure our laird appreciates everything ye do,” she assured him, annoyed she’d referred to her brother as our laird. “He has a lot of responsibilities,” she added lamely.
Resolved to discuss with Beathan the need to make people feel valued, she stroked Bo’s head. “My dog’s impatient for his lunch,” she mumbled as an excuse to take her leave.
As usual, Katie was ready to help her change out of her riding togs and boots when she reached her chamber.
“Good ride, my lady?” her maid asked.
“Aye. Bo loved it too.”
It was a familiar and comfortable conversation. The maid was the closest thing she had to a confidante, but the diminutive twelve-year-old orphan knew less than she did about growing from a lass to a woman.
Katie assisted her to don a muslin day gown, then brushed the tangles out of her hair and adjusted the snood. She looked her mistress up and down like a woman who’d been in service forever, and pronounced her ready.
Teagan’s reflection in the mirror confirmed it to her own satisfaction, except for the snood. “I hate this thing,” she declared, digging her fingers under the tight velvet band.
“Why do ye wear it?” Katie asked with a grin.
“Ye ken very weel why,” she retorted. “But, someday, I’ll find the courage to defy Beathan and make my own decisions.”
Katie’s smile fled from her freckled face. “I sometimes wish I had a brother to look out for me.”
Guilt flooded Teagan. She’d suggested to Beathan that the lass become her lady’s maid after Katie had lost her father and brothers to the sea a few months before. “Ye’re right. I should be grateful for my siblings. Are ye sure ye’re only twelve? Ye’re too wise by far.”
Best Laid Plans
After wolfing down a heft slab of cold pork pie, Marshall drew on the last of his energy and visited the homes of the men pulled from the waters of Sinclair Bay. They all agreed Pierce had been an incompetent commander, a jovial fellow but someone who should never have been given the position of captain. A few grudgingly admitted they’d feared for their lives throughout the voyage.
Sitting in cozy but cramped whitewashed cottages, surrounded by anxious wives and wide-eyed bairns, Marshall thanked the Good Lord none of these men had drowned. But he blamed himself for not being aware Elgin had promoted Pierce.
By rights, Elgin should be the one to console Pierce’s widow, but he was still sleeping off the effects of the Norse ale. Marshall hadn’t known the dead man all that well but one look at his widow’s bruised face told him the rumors were true—Pierce was a brute. “I canna understand why he didna lower the sail,” he told her as she wept. “Several of the crew have said they urged him to do so.”
“He could be stubborn,” she murmured in reply, her eyes betraying relief.
“The clan will help ye,” he promised, feeling more than a little responsible for the tragedy that had left her alone to raise six mucky-faced bairns.
It was well after midnight by the time he reached his chamber. Exhaustion carried him into sleep as soon as his head finally hit the pillow.
He rose later than usual the next morning, dressed quickly and took the steps up to the battlements two at a time, worried he might have missed the MacCray lass.
He fretted that the drizzle might keep her indoors but breathed again when she appeared, galloping recklessly along the clifftop as usual. “Take care yer horse doesna slip on the wet grass,” he cautioned, casting an anxious glance around to make sure none of the sentries had heard him.
He chuckled at the antics of the dog. “’Tis a fine hound ye’ve got there,” he whispered.
Aye. Mistress MacCray would make some man an excellent wife. He sensed it. If it wasn’t so important for Elgin to sire bairns…
He raked his fingers through damp hair. “Wheesht, mon, the MacCrays wouldna be interested in ye as a husband for their sister. Ye’re nay a chieftain.”
It was for the best. As the only girl in a family of boys, she was probably a spoiled brat, although, watching her play with the dog, he doubted that was true.
Galling as the prospect was, for the good of his clan, he had to think of a way to negotiate with the brothers of the bonny lass he couldn’t take his eyes off.
*
Arriving in the hall for luncheon, Teagan took her place at the high table. Beathan had no wife, so, as the only female in the family, she was allowed to sit next to him. It wasn’t unusual for her to be the last to be seated. All her brothers had healthy appetites and were rarely late for meals. Only a handful of clansfolk had gathered in the hall.
“Good day, my laird,” she breezed, pecking a kiss on Beathan’s forehead.
“Oh, oh,” Finlay warned from the other end of the table. “Look out. She wants something.”
She smiled sweetly at the brother who was closest to her in age, then stuck out her tongue when he looked away.
Rubbing her toes against Bo who lay at her feet in his favorite spot, she kept silent while her menfolk slurped their way through the leek soup. She leaned close to Beathan’s ear during the short wait for the next course. “I wanted to have a word with ye about clan morale.”
“So, ye do want something,” he crowed, slapping his thigh, “but I’ve nay idea what ye’re on about.”
Twins Lachlan and Ethan snorted. “None of us ever do,” they chimed in together.
Irritated Beathan hadn’t kept their conversation private, she pouted.
“There’s that funny face again,” Archie declared.
Only Seth refrained from joining in the laughter they enjoyed at her expense as the teasing continued.
Deciding the best course of action was to ignore the jibes, she fisted her hands in her skirts and explained to Beathan, “I’m told folks dinna feel appreciated.”
“Appreciated by who?”
She suspected his outrage would only worsen if she pointed out her tutor had made it abundantly clear it should be by whom. “By ye, and the rest of these gentlemen.”
He brought his massive fist down hard on the table, sending utensils bouncing.
Bo scrambled to his feet, barking loudly.
“Nay appreciated?” Beathan shouted, drawing the attention of every last soul in the hall. “What am I supposed to do, go around thanking folks for performing their duties? Who complained?”
Feeling her face heat when seven pairs of eyes bored into her, she shrugged. “People work harder and are more loyal when they feel valued.”
She had no intention of revealing who had spoken to her but saw several nodding heads among those eating in the hall. Not that the stubborn Beathan would notice.
Surprisingly, her reasonable retort seemed to confuse the rest of her brothers, but she refrained from telling Beathan he was too touchy. A good laird listened to suggestions. Her father had always said so. Instead, she continued, “And another thing…”
“Here it comes,” Cooper warned.
She ignored the sarcasm. “I want to learn more about our fleet.”
Satisfied when her roundabout way of obtaining permission to go to Wick met with puzzled stares, she waited.
“Do ye mean the boats?” Seth asked.
“Of course she means the boats,” Beathan snorted, as usual belittling the brother who sometimes took a while to grasp things.
She took advantage of the distraction. “So, ye agree, ’tis reasonable for a member of the MacCray family to ken all about the birlinns.”
Beathan shrugged. “But, ye’re a la…”
He evidently paid heed to the anger in her glare and stopped talking.
“I’ll need an escort to Wick,” she announced.
“If ye insist,” he mumbled. “I’ll arrange it on the morrow.”
Bubbling with excitement, Teagan finished her meal and left the hall to seek out her tutor in the library. “The decision to assert myself was the right one,” she told Bo as she put her hand on the door handle. “’Tis time my brothers learn they must stop bossing me about and treating me like a bairn.”
With a groan, he slumped down outside the library, resigned by now to being barred from entering.
“Ye seem in good spirits today,” Master Halkirk said as she breezed in and slid into the chair behind the small desk set aside for her studies.
It was tempting to boast of her fledgling independent spirit to her tutor. She liked him. He made learning interesting, even tedious mathematics. They’d recently embarked on reading some of the works of Sh
akespeare on the library shelves, though the Englishman seemed to write nothing but depressing tragedies. She’d loved Romeo and Juliet until the terrible ending had her weeping buckets. It seemed nothing good came from feuds.
William Halkirk was older than she by at least ten years, and often struck her as rather effeminate in his speech and mannerisms. He was easier to talk to than her own brothers, and never made her feel education was wasted on a lass—something she’d overheard Lachlan and Cooper say.
However, her tutor was in Beathan’s employ, so trusting him might be a mistake. “I’m simply excited about the Latin conjugations ye plan to teach me today,” she lied.
He eyed her suspiciously. “I doot that. Ne’ertheless…”
An idea blossomed as he opened the Latin primer. “Can we have history today, instead?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I sense ye have something particular in mind.”
“Aye. Tell me of the history of Wick and how the feud with the Robsons began.”
*
Marshall spent most of the day plotting then rejecting one plan after another.
He could send an emissary to invite the The MacCray to Castle Robson, but it was unlikely he would come and the messenger might pay with his life.
Riding to Castle MacCray would be risky. He’d have no means of escape once he entered the gates—if they allowed him entry.
He could take an armed escort. But then he’d endanger other men’s lives and possibly ignite a clan war.
Unless Elgin came with him. Even Clan MacCray wouldn’t slay another clan chieftain. Or maybe they would. In any case, it wasn’t a good idea to take Elgin to a first meeting. One look at the Robson laird and the lass would hold her nose and dismiss the suit immediately.
That was assuming she had a say in the matter.
The notion troubled him. It didn’t seem right that such a spirited lass should be forced…
Crivvens! Ye’re talking yerself around in circles.
In the end, after staring at the ceiling above his bed for hours, he decided the best course of action was to take a skeleton crew, risk sailing into Wick and request a meeting. He’d stay on his birlinn and, if the plan didn’t go well, turn tail and sail out of the harbor quickly.
Kilts Ahoy! Page 2
