The Highland Laird's Bride. Nicole Locke

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СКАЧАТЬ she had practically ran here, but he kept his pace with her and wasn’t out of breath. To everyone, they probably did look as though they walked away from the village. Again, she made a foolish choice. She was unused to wondering what others thought or what appearances should be.

      She had been hidden away most of her life, and for the rest of it, she hid herself away. She was hiding now, but the Colquhoun wouldn’t leave her alone. She clenched the blade she’d hidden in her clothes.

      ‘So we talked privately and now you can go!’

      ‘Nae, we must truly talk. We must come to an agreement.’

      The competition again. His tone changed until it was as blunt as hers. It wouldn’t make her change her mind on its futility, especially when he used the word ‘must’. The very word curbed her freedom. She had heard it from her stepmother and in the end from her father.

      She knew he would continue to argue about the games until she couldn’t refuse. However, what Bram couldn’t control was how the competition would go.

      Bram might bring his food and his supplies. He might order this competition. But she would choose who the winner would be.

      Bram didn’t move. He didn’t even realise he needed to move, until she threw the knife just past his left ear.

      She knew he hadn’t seen the blade, but there was no mistaking the fury and the shock in his eyes when he heard the thunk of it embedding in the tree behind him.

      Brutal silence as storm-grey eyes stared at her.

      Lioslath smiled. ‘That’s my agreement to your competition. Satisfied, Colquhoun?’

       Chapter Seven

      Trying to remember it would all be over soon, Lioslath suffered through the hanging of tabards and flags. She grimaced as her clansmen built hay men and targets, as they argued on markers and where to pin them to trees. It was all so wasteful.

      Dog reappeared and walked next to her, his keen eyes taking everything in. Unlike her, he seemed happy about the proceedings. Probably because he was finally fed and had roamed the forest last night.

      She wished she was as content as him. But she continued to feel yesterday’s turmoil of telling her clan about the competition and waiting for Bram to surprise her in the night.

      Needing to remain calm, she knelt, keeping her head just above Dog’s, and waited until he leaned into her so she could put her arms around him. She never squeezed, though she wanted to. She never forgot he was a wild animal, so she kept their hugs brief and infrequent. But she needed it and was glad he gave it. He was her familiar when everything around her was unfamiliar.

      Standing again, she noticed her brothers busily making hay men. At least Eoin made them, while Gillean undid them. There wasn’t enough hay for large ones. She knew it had to have been a Colquhoun who suggested using the hay. The Fergusson clan knew they needed it. Every stalk would have to be picked up and stored before winter.

      The cold would be upon them soon. This was a day wasted when her clan needed to work, not to play.

      Her clan. Only since her father’s death had she started to think of them this way. Amongst all her Fergussons, the Colquhouns stood out. Not only because they were strangers. It was because of the sharp contrast between the clans.

      The Colquhouns were properly dressed, their shoes worn to comfortableness, their clean weapons at their sides. Her own clansmen were too thin from the siege and English greed, and what bows and arrows they had left were greatly mismatched.

      Even if this was a friendly competition, it was not fair. Already Bram’s clansmen had the advantage and she seethed with the comparisons.

      ‘Aren’t these celebrations fine, sister?’ Fyfa skipped to her.

      Fyfa glowed with an eagerness and shyness to her eyes and voice. Even while she was skipping, her mannerisms were ladylike and full of grace.

      ‘These aren’t celebrations.’ Lioslath watched Dog slowly walk away. He was as unused to her siblings as she was.

      ‘There are flags and hay men. I’m told there will be music afterwards and Donaldo is already making her sweetened oatcakes.’ She sighed exaggeratedly. ‘I’ve heard tales of faires like this.’

      ‘It’s not a faire.’ To be a faire, there would need to be trade and commerce. They had nothing but air to give away here, and with all the people, even that seemed precious little. Now Donaldo made her honeyed oatcakes, which had to be using the last of their hidden supplies. They’d fall to further ruin before the day was over.

      ‘Where are your brothers?’ Lioslath asked instead.

      ‘Our brothers are arguing and muddying themselves as usual.’

      ‘Have you talked to them?’

      Lioslath knew Gillean couldn’t possibly have said anything about what he wanted from Laird Colquhoun in return for keeping quiet. Whilst she knew little of them, she was sure the children couldn’t have forgotten the bribe. But if Bram had given the children their gifts, Fyfa would surely be beaming with the news. Bram probably had ribbons hidden in his camp for just such a manipulating purpose. Just as he hid that well-calculated feast.

      ‘As little as possible now that we’re free.’

      Lioslath felt a pang. The confinement had been hard on her. At Fyfa’s age, it would have been unbearable. Still, she hadn’t expected her siblings to feel the same way. She thought them too different from her. But Bram said they wanted to scamper... Bram, again, and his too-observing eyes. ‘We’re not free while the Colquhouns plague us.’

      ‘Plague, when there’s a feast and festivities? Although I will have to bring Eoin and Gillean under my wing again. I’ve told them the dangers of stilt walking, but I do believe they weren’t taking me seriously.’

      Oh, Fyfa and her flourishing speeches. She acted very much like the lady of the manor. No doubt when she was grown, she’d make a fine lady.

      It was one of her father’s dearest wishes. One of the reasons Busby married the Colquhoun’s sister had been to obtain a mother for Fyfa. One who would raise her gently to be a lady.

      But Gaira fled and their father was killed. Looking at Fyfa only reminded her of the loss of her own mother and the horrible years of pain and banishment in between.

      ‘You need to find work,’ she retorted. ‘You and the boys are too idle.’

      She worked when she was their age. What did they think made anything better? Hard work. That was what she’d done all her life. All she got was meagre results, but she got them. Play earned nothing. These festivities were as useless.

      Fyfa’s expression fell flat and the light died in her eye. ‘Work again.’

      ‘Aye, work again.’ Even as Lioslath said the words, there was something in her heart that ached as Fyfa’s smile faltered.

      ‘Someone has been stealing my oatcakes.’ Donaldo took great strides towards them.

      Fyfa’s СКАЧАТЬ