Page 26 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
“You cannot eat here!” Ramsay protested, looking at Ailsa in horror.
“Why not?” she asked nonchalantly. “You are.”
“But you are a lady and I am—” he began.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Ailsa cut across him firmly. “I do not want to hear you tell me again what an unworthy person you are. I make my own judgments about people, and if I did not think you were worth my time I would not be here.”
Ramsay nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he breathed. Then something else occurred to him. “Ailsa, you know that as soon as they discover that John is missing the Ormonds will send a party of armed men over here to investigate.”
“I know,” Ailsa agreed. “But that is for my father to deal with, not me. There is no point in worrying about it, Ramsay. It is out of our control, so let the Lairds deal with it.”
11
Laird Broderick Ormond was not happy. He had gathered some of his closest advisors around him to settle a few minor squabbles within the clan and he needed his oldest son to be there. However, both his sons were late, and after having eaten breakfast and made small talk for a while, his ire was growing stronger by the minute.
Ormond was almost seventy years old and looked every day of his age. He was stooped and walked with a stout oak cane because the joints in his hips and legs were often so painful he could hardly support himself. It usually took him around an hour to walk from one side of the castle to the other, and even longer to climb up to the turrets, because he was so stubborn that he would accept no help from anyone.
The Laird’s face was so seamed with wrinkles that his deep grey eyes were almost hidden behind folds of flesh and his mouth drooped downwards as though he was perpetually sulking. His nose had been broken in a fistfight during his youth and was now permanently skewed to one side. However, if he had one claim to any sort of handsomeness, it was his head of snow-white hair, which was still as thick as that of a man a fraction of his age.
Now he was standing at the head of the table in the Great Hall with a ferocious scowl on his face; it was an expression that left no one in any doubt of his feelings. He was beyond unhappy. He was absolutely furious and not afraid to show it, and if the Laird was angry then everyone else backed down, because he was mean-spirited in the extreme, and anyone who said the wrong thing to him would receive a tongue-lashing of note.
Now he did what he normally did in such situations; lashing out at whoever upset him first. Accordingly, when a young maidservant brought him a pitcher of ale and spilled some on his jacket, he yelled at her at the top of his voice, startling her into stumbling backward and almost falling on the floor. Fortunately, one of his guests was passing behind her and steadied her before a catastrophe happened.
“Broderick!” His sister Moira came up to him and gave him a sharp slap on the hand as if he were a naughty child, then she hissed into his ear, “You cannot treat the staff like that in front of people. no one is impressed. Calm down, please.”
The Laird looked down at his sister with contempt in his eyes. He hated being reprimanded, especially by women, since he had always thought of them as inferior creatures.
Moira was fifteen years younger than he was, but still a reasonably attractive woman with long, greyish-brown curly hair and dark eyes like her brother. Even though she was in her early fifties she had the figure of a much younger woman, and her patrician features hardly showed a wrinkle.
After she had been jilted by Malcolm McBain, she had married the first reasonably well-off man who had asked for her hand, a wool merchant called Andrew Jamieson. Jamieson was a widower with two grown children, but he loved her and spared no expense for her comfort, but although he was a reasonably kind and generous man, she disliked him.
It had nothing to do with his personality, but the simple fact that he was not Malcolm McBain. Malcolm had been and still was the love of her life, whom she had tried desperately to hate because of his betrayal, but never could.
Moira had been left embittered, deeply scarred, and incapable of affection except for her only child, Laurence, or Larry for short, who had been born when she was in her mid-thirties. He was everything to her and could do no wrong in her eyes.
She was now a widow, her husband having died only a year prior, and although she had had one offer of marriage from another widower who was slightly younger than she was, she had refused. She was determined to live her life on her own terms from that point on; she would never be beholden to another man.
Moira hated all the McBains; her deepest animosity was reserved for Lady Davina, who had stolen her beloved from under her nose only a week before they were due to be joined in matrimony. She had fantasised for years about what she would do to Davina McBain had she been given half a chance, but she knew that would never happen. One of the many benefits of being a Laird’s wife was being guarded around the clock. Still, she could dream.
Moira looked around the big chamber to see that all the guests were seated and waiting for business to start. She turned to her brother and said, “Order them some more to drink. Maybe another glass of whisky will calm them down a bit. I will organise a search for my nephew. He cannot have gone too far away.” She paused, frowned, then said bitterly, “No doubt it was that mongrel half-brother of his who was trying to make trouble for him.” Her tone was venomous.
The Laird did not contradict her. His sister was a force to be reckoned with at times like this, and her organisational skills were legendary. She quickly commandeered a few of the guards and set them to work finding John and Ramsay. Of course, no one was really looking for Ramsay. If they found John first that would be enough; he was the only one who mattered.
Now he forced himself to calm down, although it took great force of will.
“Where is your son, M’Laird?” one of the other men asked, looking irritated. “I believe we are waiting for him, but we do not have much time to spare, and I am afraid my men and I cannot wait much longer.”
There was a murmur of agreement all around him and Broderick Ormond had to push down the urge to yell at the man and remind him where he was and who was in charge. However, he managed to hold himself in check by taking a deep breath and pasting on an insincere smile.
“Forgive me, Master MacLellan,” he said in a smooth and oily fashion. “You know what young men are like. Wine, women, and song are what they live for. I think there may be a new young lady on the scene, and I am sure you know what that is like.”
Allan MacLellan was a prosperous horse breeder in his forties and a good reader of character who could spot a lie a mile away. Although he felt that his intelligence was being insulted, he chose to indulge the Laird just this one time.
“Very well, M’Laird,” he answered. “We will wait until noon, then we must leave.”
Broderick Ormond gave him a curt nod then turned away, but waited till no one could see his face before assuming an ugly scowl. Nothing was going as he had wished, and he was not good at coping with disastrous situations that were not of his making.Wait until I see you, John Ormond,he thought viciously.I will make you very sorry for making me look a fool.
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