Читать книгу The Highland Laird's Bride - Nicole Locke - Страница 13

Chapter Seven

Trying to remember it would all be over soon, Lioslath suffered through the hanging of tabards and flags. She grimaced as her clansmen built hay men and targets, as they argued on markers and where to pin them to trees. It was all so wasteful.

Dog reappeared and walked next to her, his keen eyes taking everything in. Unlike her, he seemed happy about the proceedings. Probably because he was finally fed and had roamed the forest last night.

She wished she was as content as him. But she continued to feel yesterday’s turmoil of telling her clan about the competition and waiting for Bram to surprise her in the night.

Needing to remain calm, she knelt, keeping her head just above Dog’s, and waited until he leaned into her so she could put her arms around him. She never squeezed, though she wanted to. She never forgot he was a wild animal, so she kept their hugs brief and infrequent. But she needed it and was glad he gave it. He was her familiar when everything around her was unfamiliar.

Standing again, she noticed her brothers busily making hay men. At least Eoin made them, while Gillean undid them. There wasn’t enough hay for large ones. She knew it had to have been a Colquhoun who suggested using the hay. The Fergusson clan knew they needed it. Every stalk would have to be picked up and stored before winter.

The cold would be upon them soon. This was a day wasted when her clan needed to work, not to play.

Her clan. Only since her father’s death had she started to think of them this way. Amongst all her Fergussons, the Colquhouns stood out. Not only because they were strangers. It was because of the sharp contrast between the clans.

The Colquhouns were properly dressed, their shoes worn to comfortableness, their clean weapons at their sides. Her own clansmen were too thin from the siege and English greed, and what bows and arrows they had left were greatly mismatched.

Even if this was a friendly competition, it was not fair. Already Bram’s clansmen had the advantage and she seethed with the comparisons.

‘Aren’t these celebrations fine, sister?’ Fyfa skipped to her.

Fyfa glowed with an eagerness and shyness to her eyes and voice. Even while she was skipping, her mannerisms were ladylike and full of grace.

‘These aren’t celebrations.’ Lioslath watched Dog slowly walk away. He was as unused to her siblings as she was.

‘There are flags and hay men. I’m told there will be music afterwards and Donaldo is already making her sweetened oatcakes.’ She sighed exaggeratedly. ‘I’ve heard tales of faires like this.’

‘It’s not a faire.’ To be a faire, there would need to be trade and commerce. They had nothing but air to give away here, and with all the people, even that seemed precious little. Now Donaldo made her honeyed oatcakes, which had to be using the last of their hidden supplies. They’d fall to further ruin before the day was over.

‘Where are your brothers?’ Lioslath asked instead.

‘Our brothers are arguing and muddying themselves as usual.’

‘Have you talked to them?’

Lioslath knew Gillean couldn’t possibly have said anything about what he wanted from Laird Colquhoun in return for keeping quiet. Whilst she knew little of them, she was sure the children couldn’t have forgotten the bribe. But if Bram had given the children their gifts, Fyfa would surely be beaming with the news. Bram probably had ribbons hidden in his camp for just such a manipulating purpose. Just as he hid that well-calculated feast.

‘As little as possible now that we’re free.’

Lioslath felt a pang. The confinement had been hard on her. At Fyfa’s age, it would have been unbearable. Still, she hadn’t expected her siblings to feel the same way. She thought them too different from her. But Bram said they wanted to scamper... Bram, again, and his too-observing eyes. ‘We’re not free while the Colquhouns plague us.’

‘Plague, when there’s a feast and festivities? Although I will have to bring Eoin and Gillean under my wing again. I’ve told them the dangers of stilt walking, but I do believe they weren’t taking me seriously.’

Oh, Fyfa and her flourishing speeches. She acted very much like the lady of the manor. No doubt when she was grown, she’d make a fine lady.

It was one of her father’s dearest wishes. One of the reasons Busby married the Colquhoun’s sister had been to obtain a mother for Fyfa. One who would raise her gently to be a lady.

But Gaira fled and their father was killed. Looking at Fyfa only reminded her of the loss of her own mother and the horrible years of pain and banishment in between.

‘You need to find work,’ she retorted. ‘You and the boys are too idle.’

She worked when she was their age. What did they think made anything better? Hard work. That was what she’d done all her life. All she got was meagre results, but she got them. Play earned nothing. These festivities were as useless.

Fyfa’s expression fell flat and the light died in her eye. ‘Work again.’

‘Aye, work again.’ Even as Lioslath said the words, there was something in her heart that ached as Fyfa’s smile faltered.

‘Someone has been stealing my oatcakes.’ Donaldo took great strides towards them.

Fyfa’s expression immediately changed to outrage. Clenching fists to her sides, she declared, ‘Those boys! I haven’t had any!’ Without looking back, Fyfa stomped away.

‘Did those boys truly steal oatcakes?’ Lioslath asked.

‘Do you think they’d dare?’ Donaldo said.

No, they wouldn’t have dared cross broad-shouldered, broad-hipped Donaldo. No one would.

Donaldo had been Lioslath’s mother’s closest friend, and while she couldn’t call Donaldo a friend, she didn’t feel as awkward with her as she did with the rest of her clan. When Lioslath’s father died, it was Donaldo who had first given her loyalty to Lioslath, who stood beside her when the English came. She was always fierce, but now Donaldo’s usual scowl was deeper.

Lioslath felt a fissure of worry. ‘What has happened?’

‘Preparations for the celebrations are going well.’

‘That isn’t it.’ Lioslath couldn’t care less about the celebrations and Donaldo would know that. ‘What didn’t you want Fyfa to hear?’

‘All day he’s been watching you.’

Lioslath knew what she meant. She knew Bram was watching her, just as she kept watching him. Had their watching become a habit because of the siege? No, it felt different this time. She wasn’t only observing him from a distance. This close, she felt as though she participated in his preparations.

Everything about him was vibrant, his smile ever ready. He talked with his clansmen, attempted to talk to hers. There was an energy about him she’d never felt before. A purpose.

She frowned. He had a purpose she admired. But she wouldn’t admire the Colquhoun. His purpose here was to play foolish games.

She shrugged. ‘Should it matter?’

‘Aye, it matters when he gazes at you like a man does a woman,’ Donaldo said.

‘He’s probably only checking to see if I’m going to stop the competition.’

‘Are you?’ Donaldo knew her well.

‘It’s wasteful when so much has been prepared.’

‘Ah, then you intend on showing off.’

Lioslath more than intended. Although weakened, she was still the best marksman of her clan.

‘He won’t like it,’ Donaldo warned. ‘There will be consequences.’

‘He’s not the English.’

‘You took too many risks then as well. Facing them the way you did. Not consulting with any of us before you ran out of those stables. Offering them everything, when some of the men would have fought.’

‘If they had done so, they would have died. I gave them everything and nae one was hurt.’