Page 60 of Highlanders for the Holidays
“Never!” Page swore, laughing. “But I promise never to tell your children.”
All three laughed at the memory of Page’s first task upon arriving atChreagach Mhor. Having found Broc and his company full of biting fleas, Page set out to bathe them all, including Broc and his dog—God rest the poor beast.
“Where is Elizabet?” Page asked.
“Dressing the wee ones a little warmer,” Broc said. “She’ll be down soon. She’s eager to see ye.”
“As I am to see her,” Page allowed. “’Tis been far too long.” She peered around, searching the crowd. “There are so many here! I have yet to greet them at all.”
Iain smiled down at his wife, reaching out to flip a lock of hair behind her back. “There are far worse complaints, my dear.”
“Indeed, there are,” Page agreed, looking back at Broc. “I am certain the children have grown so much I shall hardly know them!”
“Like weeds,” Broc confessed. “Although none so much as that knuckle lad o’er there.” His gaze shifted toward the gangly group of youths laughing by the fire—all save one.
Malcom MacKinnon stood near Constance and Aidan’s son Kellen, reacquainting themselves. But Malcom, off to one side, seemed to be brooding, lost amidst his own thoughts, while Constance made goo-goo eyes at their newly arrived young guest.
With hair the color of his mother’s, and eyes as dark as freshly tilled soil, Kellen dún Scoti was on the verge of becoming his own man.
All three fell silent, watching the pack of youths, until Iain sucked in a weary sigh. “I dinna ken how to reach him anymore,” he said.
Page moved away from Broc and into her husband’s embrace. “We’ll find a way,” she said softly.
“He looks well enough,” Broc suggested. “What bedevils him?”
The MacKinnon’s eyes never left his son. Worry lines etched his brow. Next in line to lead the MacKinnon clan, Malcom was full of ire and full of fear.
“An old wound, let us say.”
* * *
As the bonfiredwindled into the wee hours, the sound of hammering persisted. Malcom MacKinnon stood apart from his friends, staring into the dying flames.
How many bonfires had they built in his lifetime? Two thousand? Mayhap three?
Not once had they ever failed to contain the flames. One year it had been so dry that crops withered on the vines, yet fire had never once threatened their homes. Not once had it decimated stores or crops. Not once had his kinsmen ever been so careless. In all his seventeen years this was the first such wildfire he could recall.
While everyone else laughed and celebrated the company of friends, Malcom couldn’t help but feel alone. At least it seemed he was alone in his trepidation.
Who would benefit from such a heinous act?
Most of his life he’d had an affinity for sensing danger—mayhap, in truth because of what had happened to him as a boy. (His own uncle abducted him from his bed and then bartered him to the English.) But far more likely to be, Glenna, the midwife, always said Malcom, like his grandmother, had a knowing. He felt it now deep in his bones…
His gaze skidded from one face to another, most of them familiar, trying to determine why he felt so ill at ease.
There was Catrìona Brodie, who seemed to adore her husband more than she did herself, doting on him as he did her. It was embarrassing to watch. Even now the two were huddled together, feeding each other morsels of food.
And then there was Piers de Montgomerie, who was getting fat and happy—at least no longer quite so fit, with arms that seemed wider than his thighs. Nay. But he seemed pleased enough with his lot in life, chasing after a passel of kids. For Malcom’s part, he saw those children as simply more to lose—more bait to lure the wicked into perfidy.
And here was Broc … who now had his own demesne. If there was one man Malcom doubted would ever betray his Da, it was Broc Ceannfhionn. The man had generously brought along with him half his grain, and every last piece of unused cloth he’d had in his possession—along with his dutiful wife, who was already promising to sew everyone new clothes.
Old friends and new were congregated about the bonfire, sharing the antics of their children, comparing details about the past year’s crops and discussing at length the unfortunate circumstances of a lass left to her own devices. This last discourse was no doubt about Malcom’s cousin Constance, who by the by, appeared to be smitten with the dún Scoti’s black-haired son.
Of course, once again, Malcom’s grandfather was nowhere to be found. The rumor was that Old Man Maclean was on his deathbed now, and it must be true, because Leith Mac Brodie had arrived without his aunt Alison—who must surely be keeping vigil over her father’s bed. Malcom didn’t like to think of himself in Alison’s position—keeping vigil over a dying father, but that day must surely come.
For his part, he did not wish to see the day arrive, but he was bored beyond being, without a purpose in his life, save to look for danger in the shadows.
He thought about his mother’s father—a man who rarely opened his hearth and home to strangers. Did he truly wish to end like that?
