Roderick reined in his horse. Ahead, Castle Finvreck stood like a stone sentry guarding the MacLeod estate. The land sloped away gently to the west, towards the sea. He could smell the moorland as surely as if he’d raked a patch of grass and held it beneath his nose.
In the distance, waves crashed into the steep jagged shoreline. Sea spray carried on the wind, the moisture settling on his face. He licked the tangy taste of salt on his lips.
Farmland extended to the north and south, dotted by turf-roofed stone houses. Smoke from pungent peat fires spiralled into the late afternoon air through holes in their roofs. To the east, more farmland met forests. Beyond lay treacherous rugged mountains.
Overhead, dark clouds cracked with thunder. The threat of rain drew closer as daylight waned. A rider’s nightmare. Roderick glanced over his shoulder, relieved to sight his aging uncle following at a safe distance.
Roderick pressed on. Once outside the gatehouse, he barked his name and an order to be granted access to the keep. There came several startled gasps. A pale, disbelieving face appeared through a slot in the wooden door. Excited shouts followed and the portcullis rose. Roderick rode through two more opened inner gates and dismounted.
The courtyard was empty but for a handful of servants who moved with purpose.
Guards left their stations eager to receive Roderick. Their smiles and back-slapping made for a merry reunion. Roderick gratefully accepted their words of welcome, surprised by the humbling effect it had on him. He’d not expected such a stirring homecoming.
‘Leave the gates open,’ he instructed. ‘Angus follows close behind me.’
‘Aye, Laird.’
The salutation echoed around him, leaving Roderick ill at ease. His uncle had been right in saying the clan saw him as their new laird. He neither rejected nor acknowledged their claim as their leader and continued on towards the castle entrance.
One man led his horse to be stabled, another rushed ahead of him to open the heavy door. Roderick nodded his thanks and stepped inside the front hall.
He shivered from the cold. No fire burned in the grate to welcome him. The once highly polished oak-panelled walls had fallen way to a dull lustre. Mounted heads of stags with their dark, glass eyes stared accusingly at him. Wall-hung tapestries needed to be taken outside, the dust beaten from every stitch.
In the corner stood a grandfather clock, a wedding gift to his parents from his mother’s side. As a wee lad there’d been enough room to squeeze into the space between the wall and the back of the clock and hide when playing games with cousin Iain. Roderick smiled. His mother had often joined in on their game, feigning no knowledge of their hiding places and pretending great surprise when finally they’d jump out to reveal themselves. He savoured the happy memory.
Silence drew him back to reality. The castle’s entrance had lost its heartbeat. No longer did the pendulum swing back and forth. The clock’s face read one minute after twelve. Had it stopped marking time after witnessing the neglect of its surroundings?
Stark reality reminded him of the circumstances prompting his departure. He suppressed loathsome memories as quickly as they surfaced and went to look for the castle’s servants.
How many of them had abandoned the troubled Highlands in search of a new and better life abroad? Did their absence explain the disrepair of a home once impeccably maintained under the rule of its long-serving resident housekeeper? The weight of despair fell in with his heavy stride.
Roderick exited the front hall and rounded the base of the main tower. The strident tones of a mature female voice lightened his step. His heart knew hope. He quickened his pace along the stone-floored passage and past the spiral stairs leading up to the first floor. The flavoursome scent of a hearty broth made his belly grumble like a poor man starved.
He halted on the threshold of the sprawling castle kitchen. Everything was just as he remembered. Heat from the blazing hearth chased away the chill in his bones. A big iron cauldron hung on a hook over the naked flames. Small logs and brushwood were neatly stacked to the side, ready to refuel the fire.
How many times had he and Iain filched freshly baked bread as soon as the under-cooks took it from the oven? His mouth watered the instant he sighted pies and pastries laid out on the scarred working bench.
He swallowed and rested his gaze on the plump housekeeper, now well into her years. She stood with her back to him. In true form, she spouted off at the kitchen staff about being frugal with dairy and game larder supplies.
The staff had long since shifted their attention away from the housekeeper, staring wide-eyed at Roderick leaning indolently against the doorframe. Sensing she was no longer the focus of their attention, she whirled around to see who had usurped her command. A pottery jug fell from her grasp and shattered at her feet. She screamed, jumped back, and swore in Gaelic.
Roderick laughed and replied in their native tongue. ‘Och, Morag. You’ve a scream to frighten a ghost and words to make even the likes of me blush.’
‘Roderick MacLeod, dinnae ye ever be sneaking up on me again like that or I’ll …’
Roderick waited for her threat to be voiced. His gaze took in her scolding finger and the way her lips moved with unspoken words. He raised an eyebrow and let his joy at seeing her show in his smile.
Morag let go another blistering expletive, stepped over the broken pieces of pottery and threw herself against his stomach. Pudgy arms wrapped around his waist.
Air whooshed from Roderick’s lungs. ‘Careful now. You’re squeezing the very life out of me.’
She let go, set herself apart and swiped at tears. ‘’Tis a blessing indeed ye’ve returned to us, lad. Things have not been the same since ye left and yer puir father—’
‘Is at peace now.’
Roderick hadn’t meant to sound so abrupt. He refused to discuss family affairs in front of servants. Morag being the exception, the castle’s loyal housekeeper long before his birth and before his parents’ marriage. She was as close as kin to Roderick.
He acknowledged each servant and enquired after their families. In turn, they expressed words of support at having him return to the clan.
Morag chastised them. ‘Dinnae stand there ogling. Prepare a plate for yer new master.’
Roderick held up a hand. ‘No. Later. I’ve a certain matter to deal with.’ He turned and left the kitchen.
Morag scurried close behind. ‘Roderick, wait. There be something I must tell ye.’
He tipped a glance over his shoulder. ‘Spare me. I’ve already spoken with Angus.’
‘Ye have?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then ye ken ye be married.’
He turned around and caught the housekeeper before she barrelled into him. ‘I’m not married.’
‘Oh, but ye are, Roderick, and—’
‘Just tell me where the lass is,’ he urged.
Flustered, Morag shook her head. ‘’Tis hard to say. She be a sweet lass but disappears like a squirrel up a tree.’
So the MacDonald lass was high-handed and evasive. ‘No matter. I’ll find her.’
Roderick nodded and then bounded up the stone stairs two at a time. Prowling the upper floors and passageways, he passed a small bedchamber. There, a woman dressed in serviceable attire knelt on the floor beside a bed.
He stood in the doorway and quietly knocked. ‘Servant.’
The young woman turned reproachful eyes on him. She pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Shh.’ Her attention returned to whomever lay abed.
Roderick waited. ‘Servant,’ he asked again.
‘Shhh.’ She shot him a second look—lethal this time—quickly rose and ushered him out.
She stepped into the corridor and gently pulled shut the wooden door. With hands on hips, her direct gaze reprimanded him. ‘I’m not yer servant. And who are ye to be storming the castle and bellowing like a bull?’
She stood almost eye to eye with Roderick. The anomaly caused him to stare. He didn’t recognise her. Without lowering his gaze, he could see her body boasted a woman’s curves. Yellow-green eyes reminded him of a Highland wildcat. They stood out in remarkable contrast to plain features and pale skin.
‘Weel then,’ she said, ‘speak up! I havenae all day to be tarrying in these draughty corridors.’
Corkscrew curls poked out from beneath the tatty scarf wrapped around her head. The colour of her hair offered a clue to her temperament. Fiery red indicated a feisty spirit and this lass did not disappoint.
Her critical words hit a raw nerve. Roderick’s protective nature awakened in favour of his mother. She’d loved this castle, her home, despite its discomforts. He spread his arms wide, looked about him and back at the young woman. ‘Is the castle not up to the standards of a serving lass then?’
Her eyes narrowed. Fearless, she stepped closer. He caught the briny scent of the sea, like that on the shoreline at low tide. She poked his chest with her finger. ‘Mind yer manners. I’ll not tolerate insolence from any man.’
‘Nor will the Laird of Clan MacLeod. Especially from a servant who dares criticise he who offers her a home and protection.’
‘The laird is dead!’
The snap in her insensitive tone, together with the cold hard truth of her words, rushed through Roderick as if she’d mercilessly stabbed him clean to the heart. Reality hit its mark. Intense and unyielding, it pressed heavily upon him.
If Roderick thought it unlikely he’d ever shake his father’s hand and resolve their differences, then reconciliation was impossible now. His father was indeed dead.
Here, now, Roderick made the decision to uphold tradition and duty and grudgingly accept, temporarily, his fate as laird. If only to honour the memory of his mother.
The servant lass muttered darkly to herself and turned away. With his emotions raw, Roderick’s hand shot out to capture her wrist. He gave a tug and spun her around to face him. Words, razor sharp, were out before he could retract them. ‘Never … turn your back on your laird.’
Her eyes flared a fraction. He knew in that instant she’d registered the implication of what he’d spoken in his half-English, half-Scots accent, a legacy of his upbringing.
‘Unhand me,’ she said.
His grip tightened.
Her steady gaze didn’t waver. ‘I said, unhand me.’ Spoken with the authority of a king.
Roderick glanced down at her slender wrist. Skin as soft as silk warmed his palm. Strange. He didn’t want to let go, until he sensed his father mocking him from the grave. Roderick released her and took a step back.
Her arm fell gracefully at her side. ‘Then ye are Roderick MacLeod.’
He recognised disdain in her voice and indifference in her eyes. He’d expected her to curtsy, perhaps lower her gaze, yet reminded himself he no longer stood in the company of an insipid, subservient English mistress or wife.
She was proving to be a proud Scotswoman, the kind to speak her mind at will, even if not invited to do so. She was no chattel to be owned and ordered about, to obey without question. She would swear allegiance to her laird but not bow down to him.
Her gaze assessed him from head to toe. ‘Laird? I’d hardly have guessed it.’
Roderick accepted the challenge of her bold opinion. ‘Why so?’
‘People speak of the late laird’s son as a man of honour. A man of impeccable manners and appearance.’
Roderick glanced down at his boots caked with mud, and at the dirt smeared on his breeches where he’d wiped his hand when visiting his father’s grave. He touched the stubble on his cheeks and chin. He could only imagine how his unruly hair had been whipped into shape during his long ride. Adding to that, his clothes had long lost the scent of freshly laundered linen. In its place, he reeked of horse and sweat.
If, as she’d said, there’d been any draughts where they stood, he would never have noticed, for beneath her scrutiny he felt uncomfortably warm.
He noted the bloodstains on her apron. ‘Who lies abed?’
She made no effort to hide her contempt. ‘Yesterday, Redcoats happened upon a young boy hunting rabbits. They saw fit to tell him he was the rabbit and if he didnae run fast enough they’d shoot and skin him. Dead or alive. They fired at him.’
Roderick hastened to move past her, towards the room. Her swift hand caught his.
‘Clever lad dodged death, except one shot grazed his thigh.’ She snatched her hand back as if she’d touched a red-hot poker. ‘He made his way to the castle. For protection.’
Roderick felt pity for the boy. ‘What of his parents?’
‘It seems they may have abandoned him. So he tells me. I’ve just redressed his wound. Now he sleeps. Best he remains so.’
Roderick’s gaze drifted past her shoulder to settle on the closed door. ‘Finvreck is his home for as long as need be. Until his parents return or … are found.’
‘Or until I find his next of kin. Life can be lonely without the love of one’s family.’ Haunting sadness flashed in her eyes.
‘I’m looking for the MacDonald lass. Do you know her whereabouts?’
She looked puzzled. ‘The MacDonald lass?’
‘Aye.’
Her hands settled on her hips, her expression said she now understood. ‘I ken exactly where she is.’
‘Then if you value your station in this keep, you’ll ensure she reports to the drawing room in one hour.’
She nodded. ‘Aye. I’ll tell her the new laird has returned in a grubby state with a foul temper and wishes to introduce himself.’
‘You’ll tell her nothing. Only that her presence is required.’ Lips the colour of a ripe cherry drew his gaze. ‘You’d do well to curb your tongue, lass.’
‘As ye wish, Laird.’
Roderick did not miss the deliberate inclination of her head. He spun on booted heels, his coat-tails swirling about his knees, and took leave of her.
‘My lord?’
He stopped, without turning. Did she appeal to his Scot’s blood or simply mock his mixed heritage? ‘What is it?’
‘The MacDonald lass. Yer … wife. Her name is Annabel.’
Roderick glanced at her over his shoulder and caught the defiant glint in her eyes. Her chin lifted a fraction. He entertained an irrational thought, only to have it swept away by the sudden chill of a draught. Without another word, he disappeared into the corridor from which it blew.
* * *
Annabel’s gaze bore into Roderick MacLeod’s back. She was no stranger to being made to feel insignificant. Yet even a servant, had she been one, deserved respect. He’d treated her with no more regard than the troops had towards the innocent lad lying abed. Her name he’d not cared to ask and he’d talked at her, not to her. How typically English of him.
Worry followed feelings of anger. The new laird’s arrival threatened her recently acquired freedom and independence. His presence jeopardised her coming and going as and when she pleased. How could she continue to secretly hide and abet the escape of her fugitive clansmen with her husband looking over her shoulder? She’d not thought he’d return at all, despite Clan MacLeod’s optimism.
The late laird’s prediction had come true. His death had drawn his son home.
Annabel would force him to leave again.
In the privacy of her bedchamber, she summoned courage to examine her appearance in the looking glass. She bore the hallmarks of a lesser. Dowdy, grey clothes hugged the long line of her body. The coarse weave abraded her skin. A woollen scarf had concealed her hair when she’d set out along the coastline this morning. Now, at day’s end, and in her haste to return to the injured lad, springy red curls around her forehead and temples had popped free of the scarf.
She stood far from the vision of beauty her late mother had predicted she would one day become. No amount of finery or fancy stitched garments would enhance her plain features and ungainly height. Riotous hair would not be tamed with scarf, braid or ribbon.
In her reflection she imagined her father’s cruel eyes glowering at her, reminding her she possessed nothing a man would desire in a wife. His constant scorn beat like a drum in her head. Make good with what you have.
Untying a bow should be a simple enough task. Nerves got the better of her, fingers fumbling with the apron strings tied at her back. The more she flustered and wound her thoughts into knots, the tighter the tangle became.
She swivelled it around to her stomach to pick at the knot. When loosened, she flung it aside and stepped out of the skirt. She rolled down her stockings and stripped bare of her bodice and shift. Chilly air turned her skin to goose flesh. Hugging herself was not enough to ward off the cold.
Warmth came in the form of a memory, when Roderick MacLeod had locked his hand about her wrist. Something inside her had leapt in response to the strength in his grip.
She braved another glimpse in the looking glass. Would he demand to see her naked tonight? Dare she allow his eyes and hands to explore that which no other man had? To trace his fingers over the swell of her breasts and where waist meets hips? Might his hands cup her bottom and venture between her thighs?
The idea of him consummating their marriage tonight left her weak with dread. Would he treat her as a tender lover or take her without feeling, like an aggressive warrior come to conquer and possess? She supposed the latter, given his belligerent manner in seeking out the MacDonald lass.
Annabel knew what it was to be afraid. The nature of this fear sent her heart racing for a different reason. Twenty years old, she grasped the mechanics of rutting. Countless times she’d stumbled upon couples weakening or succumbing to their urges amidst the moors. Their moans and grunts sounded anything but euphoric and Annabel cared not to encounter the pleasures said to be had between a man and woman. The very thought of coupling heated her cheeks with shame.
Perhaps she could block it from her mind when it came time to sealing the business end of the marriage.
She was accustomed to rejection. Another glance at her nakedness and she knew why no man would give her a second glance. Not even her husband.
In despair, Annabel turned from her reflection. Castle Finvreck gave her sanctuary, a place of peace and unexpected acceptance. The MacLeods willingly took her in as one of their own, disapproval absent in their eyes. Unlike her father, disinterest didn’t colour their words when engaging her in conversation.
Conversely, she was not such a fool as to believe their hospitality was without purpose. They’d accepted, unconditionally, the MacDonald bride. Whatever it took to retain their laird in the bargain. And if she succeeded in sending him away again?
She’d be as good as dead. Of that she had no doubt. She was a MacDonald, after all.
Roderick MacLeod would not find her desirable. In honouring their marriage contract he might at least endure the act of procreation, feeling obliged to perform his husbandly duty for the purpose of producing an heir. After that, he would no doubt tolerate her presence, and avoid her bed. Better still, let him return to England.
Annabel poured water from the pitcher into the basin. She cleansed her skin of the ocean’s scent and salt and scrubbed sand from beneath her nails. She snatched the towel from the dresser to dry herself and deliberated over what to wear.
Before she could respond to a frantic knock on the door, her maid and companion burst into the room and slammed the door closed.
‘Have ye heard, mistress? Have ye heard the news?’ Jessie barely caught her breath. ‘Roderick MacLeod is returned and requests an audience with ye in the drawing room!’
‘Requests?’ Annabel scoffed. ‘He made nae polite request. He spoke to me as if I were his personal soldier to command and ordered I report to the drawing room in one hour.’
Jessie’s mouth fell open. ‘Ye’ve seen him?’
‘Aye.’
An enamoured smile lit the maid’s youthful face. ‘Then ’tis true what they say?’
‘About what?’
‘The colour of his eyes rivals the Highland summer skies.’
‘I didnae notice.’ In truth, Annabel recalled the precise moment her world had shifted when first she looked into those eyes.
‘I hear tell every lass would gladly lift her skirts to feel his body press her down amongst the heather and—’
‘Hush now!’ Guilt mocked Annabel. Hadn’t she just imagined Roderick’s hands caressing her body when standing naked before the looking glass?
Jessie stepped forwards. ‘What’s wrong? Ye’ve gone as red as a berry.’
‘’Tis nothing.’
‘Then what does he look like?’
‘Like every other man. And if my will be done, he’ll return to England where he belongs.’
Jessie’s gaze found the discarded bloodied apron and her mistress’s clothes lying on the floor. ‘Dinnae tell me he saw ye dressed in them rags?’
Annabel pulled on her shift. ‘I was attending young Thomas when he happened upon me. He thought me a servant. If I didnae jump to his command, he’d cast me out.’
‘The rotter! But ye did tell him who ye are?’
‘He’ll realise soon enough. Help me dress. His lordship awaits.’
* * *
Roderick wandered the corridors. Today he’d encountered one obstacle after another. This latest challenge, in the form of an uncommonly tall, over-assertive lass had left him in want of a fortifying drink.
The hide of her! He’d have Morag seek out the sharp-tongued lass and educate her in the ways of civility and conversation. It was enough to have witnessed the lack of upkeep at Finvreck Castle. He’d forbid its occupants to degenerate in the same fashion. The lass would be given the benefit of the doubt. He, of all people, understood there was perhaps just cause at the root of her ill-mannered temperament.
Only when his hand registered the familiar grip of a cold iron door handle did he realise where he stood. A moment’s hesitation prevented his opening the door and proceeding further. His mind’s eye saw the anger in his father’s face. The energy of unkind words lingered in the atmosphere. Had his father fulfilled his promise?
Roderick turned the handle and pushed the door wide, expecting to see a room with heavy drapes drawn and breathe air as musty and stale as a sealed tomb. Instead, twilight illuminated his old bedchamber and through a window slightly ajar wafted a brisk breeze.
He stepped forwards, taking in the quilt-covered bed, perfectly made. Plump feather-filled pillows beckoned he rest awhile. His fingers trailed over a neatly folded nightshirt resting at the foot of the bed.
He walked to the washbasin, surprised to find the jug beside it held water. Atop the dresser sat a comb, shaving needs, soap and a fresh towel. Further exploration revealed clothes neatly folded in the chest of drawers. The rug underfoot showed evidence of its pile being recently brushed.
Roderick went to the hand-carved oak coffer in the corner of the room. Ingrained habit had him lift its lid. He’d expected to find the chest empty, given the outlawing of Highland dress, and was taken aback when he laid eyes on his great kilt. He touched the familiar homespun wool and then the lace-trimmed wrist frills of the accompanying fine lawn shirt. Woollen hose and a sporran lay beside shoes worn for special occasions, the leather polished to a sheen.
Beside his circular brooch lay another. His father’s. Roderick slammed the lid on the coffer’s contents and the ill memories they evoked.
Nothing in his room had changed. The orderly fashion of everything remained in its place as if he’d never left. Confusion held him fast. His bedchamber had been kept clean and looked to be lived in, with no accumulation of dust or neglect in its upkeep as evidenced in other parts of the castle.
At the sound of Angus’s voice, Roderick turned towards the door. ‘Yer father insisted the room remain exactly as ye left it. Its cleanliness has taken priority over any other room. The water is changed daily, the bed linen, monthly. Nae person has slept here in the year that ye’ve been gone.’
It took a moment to sink in. ‘Why?’
Angus stood mute.
‘Uncle, you heard his parting words to me as clearly as I did. He vowed to rid this castle of everything and anything that reminded him of me.’
‘Words, Roderick. Spoken in anger.’
Roderick flung his arms wide. ‘What point was there in keeping all this?’
‘’Twas all he had left of ye.’
Roderick laughed, bitter and derisive. ‘Don’t deceive yourself. My father disowned me, as I did him. He was not a man to harbour regrets. You and I stand in this room observing the conscious actions of a man who would have me, his son, writhe in self-reproach. ’Tis he who owns the shame of his thoughtlessness. Not me. ’Tis he who sent his wife, my mother, to her grave. For that, I’ll never forgive him.’
Roderick strode to the window and pushed it wide. The blast of cool air stung his face like salve to a deep wound.
Angus’s palpable silence echoed louder than the cracking thunder of darkened skies over Finvreck.
‘If you’ve something to say,’ ground out Roderick, ‘then speak your mind.’ He swung around and dismissed what he saw. ‘Wipe the pity from your eyes. I’ll not have it!’
Angus limped forwards. ‘Yer father had many faults, for sure. But make nae mistake, he loved yer mother. And he loved ye. In time, ye’ll see that the upkeep of this bedchamber was his way of honouring ye, nae shaming ye.’
Manservants entered the chamber carrying a metal bath. No sooner had they set it down by the window than more servants followed, each carrying pails of hot water. Another servant closed and secured the window against the sudden downpour of rain. Candles were lit before the servants exited the room.
‘Ye’d best prepare to meet yer wife,’ warned Angus.
A clap of thunder ensued, the vibrations felt underfoot.
‘If she can be found,’ said Roderick. ‘I’ve all but scoured this castle, yet she’s proving to be an elusive bride.’
‘’Tis hard not to notice this lass. Now dig deep within yer black heart and retrieve the charm we all ken ye possess.’
‘Charm has nothing to do with telling the lass I don’t want her for a wife. Diplomacy is what it will take.’
Angus shook his head. ‘Best ye get about yer business. I hear ye’re to meet the lass within the hour.’
‘And you heard this from whom?’
‘Jessie. Yer wife’s maid.’
So this was the lass Roderick had encountered. ‘Gossip travels faster here than in the King’s court. Where does the lass hail from? I didn’t recognise her.’
‘She’s a MacDonald.’
Roderick rolled his eyes. ‘That explains it then.’
‘Explains what?’
‘The lash of her tongue.’
Angus looked surprised. ‘Ye must have deserved it then. She barely speaks other than in the presence of her mistress.’ He turned and left the bedchamber.
Roderick called after him. ‘She has you fooled, Uncle.’
Left alone to bathe and change, Roderick could not fathom why his father wished to keep the room as it always had been. Why would he continue to honour and acknowledge his son in this way? His father’s sentiments were at odds with his parting words when Roderick had galloped away from the keep. Nae longer yer home … nae welcome here … nae son of mine.
Those thoughts brought him back to the maid. All things considered, he’d found her prickly attitude refreshing. London’s courtly circles bred women who, in his experience, spoke guardedly of themselves, yet chose their words to stroke his ego.
They tolerated his mixed heritage, with his half-English, half-Scots accent. A minor handicap to overlook, knowing he stood to inherit a title—an earl, at that—and fortune from his English grandfather.
Conversely, the lass had been bold and brave enough to speak her mind. She showed spirit, asserting herself in standing up to a man—her laird—with no hint of being intimidated in his presence. That passionate, broad brogue tumbling from her lips stirred something in Roderick.
Her scent had triggered forgotten memories, of turning his face into the wind, breathing clean air along the coastline. To experience the invigorating cold wash of sea water and sand beneath bare feet.
He couldn’t deny his admiration of the tall, willowy slip of a woman despite the flash of annoyance in her eyes, and the way she’d ordered his silence. It was as if she’d cast an invisible line and landed her hook beneath his skin. He’d be damned if he’d let her reel him in.
She’d managed to rouse his temper and bring to the surface never-to-be-resolved issues with his father. He should have harnessed his irritation and not reacted when she’d turned her back on him, just as he’d done to his father when abandoning Finvreck.
Roderick recalled the way he’d latched onto her wrist and hauled her back to face him. Regrettably, he’d uttered the very words spoken in anger to him by his own father. Ne’er turn yer back on yer laird!
The lass had not asked to be at the receiving end of his frustrations when clearly, she’d been struggling with her own. He thought of her kind attentions to the injured lad, and the undeserved threat from His Majesty’s troops to all Highlanders’ safety. Little wonder she might abhor any man, like Roderick, whose veins circulated English blood.
He’d treated her unkindly. It was his duty, not Morag’s, to speak with the maid. The lass deserved an apology.
He would deliver it.