Page 63 of Highlanders for the Holidays
Chreagach Mhor’sgreat hall had never seen such an audience—not even during trials. Presiding from his dais, Iain MacKinnon contemplated the faces surrounding him. Quite literally, everyone he knew was present here today, along with the lairds and families of many of the neighboring clans. Some who did not fit inside the hall were listening from the hall. His son straddled the dais steps, suspicion hardening his usually gentle features.
Iain leveled his question directly at his firstborn. “There is no proof anyone set the fire, son, and if they had, why the devil would they burn the village and then rally to rebuild our homes whilst we slept? It makes no sense, Mal.”
Malcom gave a half shake of his head, as though he too could scarce fathom the reasons behind such an act. “I dinna ken, Da. All I know is I’ve this feeling in my bones.”
“I had a feeling in my bone this morning, too,” Angus quipped.
Laughter erupted throughout the hall.
Iain shot the old man a quelling glance and Auld Angus had the good sense to look chagrined. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said, casting Malcom a contrite glance.
Malcom’s jaw set tight, ignoring the old man’s apology. “Ye take me lightly,” he complained. “I have never cried wolf, Da.”
This much was true.
His son was not the sort to go running about half-cocked, yelling to anyone who would listen that the sky was falling. But Iain also realized his son distrusted everyone he barely knew. He had little notion how to relax amidst so many guests. He searched the shadows for traitors and watched in vain for betrayals at every turn. This truth had only worsened as he’d aged. Glenna, the old bat, had only encouraged him with her claims that Malcom had the sight—as recompense from the Gods for all the travails he’d endured.
Broc stepped forward to place a hand on Malcom’s shoulder. He did not have to climb the steps to do so, for at Broc’s height, he could easily peer into Malcom’s face, had the boy merely turned. “Your Da has never taken you lightly, Mal.”
Malcom shrugged Broc’s hand away. “What do ye know?” he said, without looking back at Broc.
“Malcom!”
It wasn’t often Iain raised his voice. The occupants of the hall visibly started, some retracting their necks well into their shoulders.
Broc stepped back, out of the way, looking pained.
Iain glowered at his firstborn child. “You’ll not speak to your elders in such a manner. Do I make myself clear, son?”
Malcom barely nodded. Still, he said, “I’m sorry, Da.” And he cast a short glance over his shoulder at Broc.
“No offense taken,” Broc allowed.
Malcom turned once more to address his father, his expression tormented. “Iknowsomething is amiss, Da. I sense it in my bones. Dinna ye ken?”
Iain sighed portentously, weighing the facts. This is what he knew: The village had burned a few days ago. No cause had yet to be found. It appeared to be a random fire that began in precisely the wrong spot. Although, even were it set apurpose, there could be no rational connection to the sudden and immediate completion of their homes.
“Did anyone spy anything at all?” he asked the crowd at large.
A sea of faces peered back at him. “Not I,” said a few. “Nor I.”
“We heard hammers cracking all through the night, but we dinna think to look to see who was still at work.”
“It’s thebodachan sabhaill!” suggested Glenna, raising her hand. The auld woman was ever inclined to believe in faerie folk and brownies, too.
Iain furrowed his brow. The last time she’d claimed there was a haunting in their barn, it turned out to be Aidan’s sister Cat, who’d stolen a palette of candles, along with a lot of thatch from Montgomeries farm.
“Nay,” Iain said. And yet, inasmuch as the two events could not be connected—at least not in his measured opinion—it was nevertheless a mystery as to how so much work could have been completed in so little time. It was true they had a large company of new faces—certainly more than enough to have seen the job done if they so pleased, but no one seemed inclined to take credit for the work. Nor, in truth, did Seana’suisgeever seem to inspire such acts. “No one?” he asked again.
“Laird!” someone shouted at the back of the hall.
Iain turned to spy his man Kerwyn shouldering his way inside. He was dragging in a shamefaced Constance behind him, hair mussed and filled with bits of straw. “Constance, here, has something she would like to say…”
Iain frowned at the sight of his niece. Dear, God, that’s all he needed now—to hear she’d bedded one of their guests. The chance of it turned his gut.
Looking entirely too contrite, Constance stumbled forward, and Iain mentally counted all the available lads she might have seduced.
He cast a glance at Aidan dún Scoti, searching for his son. To Iain’s memory, Kellen was the one his niece seemed most drawn to.
