Page 89 of The Highlander's Auctioned Hellion
Lydia smiled as Tommy stuck out his hand to him, as if they were old friends.
“Goodbye, Laird Murray, thank you for letting us stay,” Tommy said politely, and Callum shook his hand with a very serious expression.
“Ye are welcome, Master Tommy, ye take care of yer mother won’t ye?”
“I will,” he said, climbing into the carriage. Her brother was being very brave, but once the door shut behind them, Lydia could see the tears forming in his eyes.
“It will not be so long until I see you again,” she said, and Tommy leaned out of the window, waving as the carriage moved off.
They watched it all the way down the path toward the hills in the distance. Lydia sighed sadly, missing them both already, but when she turned to Callum, his expression was grim.
Alexander was on alert behind her. Neither man was watching her mother’s carriage any longer, and Lydia stiffened, following the direction of their eyes.
From the other direction, another carriage was approaching. It was black with a team of four horses in front of it and held a crest that Lydia did not recognize. Behind it rode several men wearing armor, their swords gleaming in the sunshine.
“Summon the guards,” Callum said to Alexander, but before he had finished his command, seven or eight guards appeared at the entrance, their swords drawn.
“Is it Moira?” Lydia whispered.
Callum’s jaw worked angrily as he watched them draw closer.
“Aye, that is the McCarthy crest.”
Callum drew the girls toward him as they all watched the carriage approach. Lydia could feel the tension rolling from him in waves and watched nervously as the men on horseback fanned out behind the carriage as it made its way to the entrance.
There were ten of them, but the castle was well defended.
Surely, McCarthy does not mean to start a war.
Lydia held her breath as the carriage came to a stop. Every guard dismounted, the horses snorting. They were large beasts with deep black eyes, their flanks steaming from the long ride.
Callum didn’t move; his eyes fixed on the door of the carriage.
Lydia knew that she should be more concerned about the armed guards, but a part of her could not tear her gaze away from Callum. She could not help but wonder about his relationship with Moira.
She was a beautiful woman; she had seen so herself when she had seen the portrait in the gallery.
Is there really nothing between them?
The carriage door opened, and a large man with a portly belly stepped down. He was wearing a long cape of thick fur, looking about him as if the land he stood upon was his own.
Behind him, a pale hand emerged, held expectantly, as Laird McCarthy took it between his thick fingers.
A blonde head appeared, with a veil hiding much of her hair. The pointed, sharp features were narrow and elegant, but held a cruel edge.
Lydia waited for Callum to greet her, for him to move at all, but he said nothing, his body rigid with tension, fists clenched.
Lydia felt a shiver pass through her. If she had ever seen a man look at another person with pure hatred, the look on Callum’s face encompassed it completely. She had never seen such an expression on his face before, and she hoped she never would again.
Moira stepped down, resplendent in a dark green gown that hugged her slender figure. Unlike Callum, whose attention had moved to McCarthy, Moira only had eyes for the Laird.
“What dae ye want, McCarthy?” Callum asked, his voice booming out effortlessly across the quiet lands before them.
As one man, every guard behind him took a step forward. Behind McCarthy, his men mirrored the movement, and Lydia’s heart began to beat wildly in her chest.
A tiny hand touched her own as Amy reached for her, and Lydia held her tightly, trying to reassure her in a world that was falling apart.
“I have come for my grandchildren,” McCarthy said. He had a strong accent and a pompous, plummy voice that did not carry as well as Callum’s. Lydia had to strain to hear him.
