Page 1 of Kidnapped By her Highland Enemy
1
Spring, Scottish Highlands
Inbhir Èireann
“LairdBarclay! Damned be thy son!”
The shatter of Laird Gunn’s pewter goblet on the stone wall of their great hall had Maisie Hendry flinching. Even worse, the tirade of curses her father let out, damning Laird Barclay from his ancestors down to his fifth grandson, made her want to curl into herself in shame.
They had lost another skirmish with their neighboring clan, and the wounded warriors, nursing fresh injuries seated along the long trestle tables in the hall, showed it.
“Fergus!” her father hollered. “Get ye up here, McCrie, and tell me why we lost,again!”
Her father’s war chief stood and went to the table, his auburn hair still thick despite his sixty years. With one hand on his sword, Fergus knelt at the foot of the dais. “Me laird.”
“Why have we lost to those braggarts, thrice in a row!” her father, Angus, demanded. “Answer me!”
“We were taken by ambush, me laird,” Fergus said calmly, utterly unfazed by her father’s blustering. “We’d expected a frontal assault, but they came from the west. Our men were taken by surprise and were trapped by the barricade we’d erected to stop them instead.”
Angus’s face went mottled red with fury. “Utterly ridiculous! Ye ken better than that, McCrie! Are ye getting too old to lead me men? Tell me now so I can have ye replaced!”
As much as Maisie wanted to tell her father to temper his rage, she knew it would be fruitless; her father never listened to her. Hanging her head, she kept her eyes down on her stew and forced herself to eat.
“Nay, me laird,” Fergus said calmly. “I assure ye, we’ll nae lose again.”
Angrily sloshing more elderberry wine into another goblet, her father huffed. “Ye said that before and we still lost to those peasants!”
“We will nae lose anymore,” Fergus vowed.
“By the King, ye’d better not,” the laird snapped. “If Barclay gets to gloat again and gains more favor with King Balliol, I will not be happy.”
“‘Tis about time this foolish feud ended,” Maisie muttered under her breath. “Years an’ years of war and we’re not getting any closer to a result.”
“Did ye say something, girl?” her father snapped.
“Nay, Faither, nay,” she rushed.
“Hmph,” he snorted before turning back to his men. “Get out of here, all of ye lot. I’m ashamed of ye.”
The three dozen men filed out, some limping, and others having to loop their arm over another to hop away. When the room emptied, Maisie swallowed her nervousness, “Faither, do ye nae think it’s time to stop this war? What has it brought us other than injury and more hate?”
“Be quiet, girl,” he snapped. “This is a matter of honor and clan pride. If anyone will stop it will be the blasted Barclays when they cower under me blade.”
“But Faither—”
He slammed the goblet down and the wine sloshed over his hand. “Ye ken nothing about war, girl. For half a century, thedamned Barclays have tested me faither and his faither before him. They’re a lot of entitled fools.”
If they are fools, how is it that they have won five battles this year and we only gained one victory?
“Faither—”
“Nay, girl,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Get ye to yer quarters and go sew something.”
Maisie clamped her lips shut and with a swallowed huff of disconcert, she stood and hurried out of the wide chamber and up the stone staircase to a higher level. Hurrying to her quarters, she slipped through the doorway and into the bedchamber.
The meager light from the curtain-covered windows revealed a spacious room with a large, heavily-draped poster bed in the corner and a thick carpet before it. Tables, laden with books and scrolls, were scattered around the room, and two chests of drawers, both filled with dresses and riding clothes, with two other standing wardmantles were at the end of the room. A large marble fireplace commanded a third wall, and stacks of wood sat in the corner near it.
“Me lady?” her maid, Heather Cowie, said while Maisie swept into the room. “Are ye all right?”
