The Laird's Choice

by Amanda Scott

  “If you truly want to see Father, looking like a scruffy poacher, I will take you to him,” she said. “But you’d do better to eat and furbish yourself up a bit first.”

  “I have salve to put on your scrapes, sir,” the lady Lachina said. “Also, that plaid is wet and your sark is badly torn. I can improve them, as well.”

  “I’d be grateful, my lady,” he said, realizing that it would be daft to avoid Andrew Dubh and dafter yet to present himself looking like something their wretched cat had dragged out of a bush.

  Andrena hoped that Magnus had decided to be sensible. But as had been the case from the moment she’d found him blocking her path, she could tell nothing about his thoughts or feelings. She was more accustomed to men—and women, too—who wore their feelings on their faces and in their voices.

  Leading the way into the tower with Magnus and Lina following her, she wondered what he had made of Murie’s comments.

  She had little time to ponder such thoughts, though, because when they reached the main stairway, Lina said, “Let us go to the solar, Dree. That sark I mended for Malcolm’s Peter still sits in my mending basket. Peter is large enough, although not as tall as Magnus Mòr. Moreover, Peter has two other sarks, so he will not mind if Magnus wears his until I can provide Magnus with one of his own.”

  Nodding, Andrena led the way up the winding stairway to the second landing above the great hall. Two rooms opened from the landing. One was their parents’ bedchamber, the other the ladies’ solar.

  Inside the solar, Lina went to her usual place and opened the woven-willow kist that sat beside her stool. “Here it is,” she said, taking out a large, gray tunic. “Before you put it on, sir, scoop some of the salve from this pot and smear it on the worst of your scrapes. It will speed their healing.”

  Andrena watched with amusement as Magnus warily took the wee pot and lifted the lid to sniff its contents.

  Murie, entering as he did so, laughed and said, “It won’t poison you, sir. Lina’s potions always do exactly what she says they will do.”

  “I’m sure they do,” he said. “But, I must also hope that the contents will not permanently stain this borrowed sark.”

  “Any stain will wash out,” Lina said. “I just hope that Peter’s sark is long enough to protect your modesty, sir.”

  “I haven’t got much left to me these days, my lady. I would be grateful, though, if you have a place where I may see for myself if it will do.”

  “Stay here,” Andrena said. “We’ll go onto the landing and return when you declare yourself properly clad.”

  “Wait,” Lina said, diving into another kist. “Try this, as well, sir. It should be long enough to wrap round yourself and kilt up in the usual way.”

  The length of gray and cream-colored fabric she held out to him was one that Andrena knew Lina had intended to make into a dress for herself. But Lina’s offering it was no surprise. Nor would it trouble her to have done so. She enjoyed weaving and sewing and was always thinking of new patterns to create. She and Murie talked often of possible dyes for the threads and yarns that Murie spun and Lina wove into fabrics and stitched into garments. Both were highly skilled.

  Visibly stunned by Lina’s kindness, Magnus accepted the length of wool fabric that she held out to him, and the sisters went out to the landing. Shutting the door, they stood quietly until he bade them enter again.

  When they did, Andrena saw that the sark was long enough, barely, and that he had arranged the gray and white plaid and kilted it up with his belt.

  “This wool is exceedingly soft,” he said, stroking it.

  “We have our own sheep and do our own carding,” Andrena explained. “Lina is particular and will not accept wool that does not feel right to her. That length of fabric is lambs wool.”

  “I thank you for lending it, my lady. I’ll see that it gets better treatment than my last one did.”

  “If you are ready now, sir,” Andrena said, “I’ll take you to my lord father.”

  “I am, aye,” he said.

  “He’ll be in his chamber,” she said. “It lies just downstairs.”

  She led the way and rapped on a door at the next landing. Hearing her father’s voice from within, she pushed the door open.

  “We have a guest, sir,” she announced as she entered the small room. A large rectangular table took up most of the space, and her father sat behind it with his book of accounts. “This is Magnus Mòr Galbraith,” she said. “He has been a—”

  “—a prisoner of Parlan’s for this past year and a half,” Andrew Dubh said, pushing back his stool and getting to his feet. “Come ye in, lad, and tell me all about yourself. By the size and look of ye, ye should have escaped that villain eighteen months ago. But afore ye explain yourself, tell me this: Are ye married?”

  Chapter 3

  Hesitating briefly at the threshold, Mag decided that for the moment, he would be wiser to ignore Andrew MacFarlan’s provocative question than to answer it. Accordingly, keeping a wary eye on his host, he entered the chamber, saying, “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.”

  Despite MacFarlan’s welcoming demeanor, Mag remained cautious, knowing that Andrew Dubh, in his prime, had been one of the Highlands’ greatest warriors. He still looked fit and a decade younger than the fifty years he was surely nearing. His dark brown hair showed no hint of gray, and the only evident wrinkles were laugh lines at the outer corners of eyes that were as dark blue as the lady Andrena’s.

  Hoping that he faced a friend and not a foe, Mag assured himself that MacFarlan’s greeting had not been a challenge, despite having had the ring of one. After all, his daughters had offered hospitality. That fact alone would prevent the laird’s treating him badly. Highlanders extended hospitality as a matter of honor, offering it even to their worst enemies. He would be safe enough while he ate and slept under MacFarlan’s roof. But that would not stop the man, if he were so inclined, from ordering him killed the minute he left Tùr Meiloach land.

  “How came ye here to us?” MacFarlan asked.

  Andrena said, “He escaped from one of Cousin Parlan’s galleys during last night’s storm, sir. He dove into the loch and came ashore below our cliffs.”

  “Did he, indeed?” her father said, beaming at her. “Then ye’ll ken fine why I would talk privily with him. Forbye, your sisters will want to hear the whole tale from ye straightaway.”

  Meeting Andrena’s gaze and reading the query in it, Mag gave a slight nod to show that he was content to be alone with her father. So obviously was she a lass who knew her own mind that he half-expected her to ask MacFarlan to let her stay. But she curtsied and left without another word, closing the door after her.

  Andrew Dubh raised his thick eyebrows. “D’ye think she fears I’ll eat ye, lad?”

  “I doubt that, my lord. What I do think, because she said so herself, is that she suspects you will urge me to marry her.”

  “I see that ye be a plainspoken man,” Andrew said with a chuckle. “Well, I be another m’self. I’ll tell ye to your face that if ye be willing, I’d urge that very course. Ye’re Arthur Galbraith’s fourth-born son, are ye no?”

  “I am, aye, sir, although only three of us remain now.”

  “Aye, ’tis true. I’d forgotten that your brother Will died in the fracas your lot had two years ago with Parlan, or Pharlain, as the traitor likes to call himself.”

  “Nineteen months ago, to be exact,” Mag said.

  Andrew’s eyebrows rose again. “Ye say that with nae expression, lad. I’d expect ye to show bitterness, even fury, toward the villain who killed your brother.”

  “I don’t like Pharlain, sir. But I have a more vital matter on which to expend my energy now. Also, I learned quickly as a prisoner that one is wiser to conceal one’s emotions. Otherwise, one’s captors will exploit them.”

  “Ye’ve gained wisdom then. That be nae bad thing for a man. Forbye, your father still has two other sons. But I’m thinking our Dree may no have told ye
of the impediment for others that I’ve approached on her behalf, fathers and sons alike.”

  “She mentioned only that you seek a marriage for her.”

  “I thought so. Sithee, when I came to Tùr Meiloach, a number of me own lads followed, if not straightaway, then as soon as they’d taken Parlan’s measure. Ye ken the man, so ye’d ken fine that he’s nae one for a sensible man to trust.”

  “I’d never trust him. But tell me about this impediment of yours.”

  “ ’Tis just that I’ve only daughters now—that traitor, Parlan, having stolen Arrochar and murdered my three sons, not one of them yet of age to fight. So—”

  “He tells everyone that you abandoned the place to him.”

  “Aye, sure, he does. And what else was I to do, with my sons already dead in a surprise attack by an army greater than mine and our wee Andrena a newborn babe in arms? I had a bolt hole, o’ course—as any man of sense must in these perilous times. So my lady and I snatched up our babe and fled here to Tùr Meiloach, which has ever been a sacred and safe haven for true MacFarlans.”

  “As Pharlain tells the tale, he saw you plunge into the river, which swept you over the falls. He suggests that only the magic of wee folk or witches could have seen you to safety after that.”

  With a wink, Andrew said, “Aye, well, it was dark with but a sliver of a moon. He didna see all that he might have seen.”

  “I’ve not come this way before,” Mag said. “From Inch Galbraith, the usual way to the Highlands is along the west shore of Loch Lomond. One then crosses the narrow tarbet to the Loch of the Long Boats and goes through the pass northwest of Arrochar. I do know of a pass west of Glen Luss and an ancient one from the tarbet itself. But both routes are apparently so treacherous now as to deter travelers.”

  “I ken the Lomondside routes well, lad. As chief of the MacFarlans, I used to be keeper of that pass and controlled the tarbet of Ballyhennan, too.”

  “As Pharlain does now,” Mag said. “But, I tell you, sir, I’ve heard talk about the river guarding your north boundary and know that it is as wild as the one I saw for myself that serves as your south boundary. I’d like to know how you forded the northern one with only a sliver of moon to light your way.”

  “I’ll tell ye one day,” MacFarlan said. “But now, about the impediment… Sithee, with only daughters to inherit, and being determined to win back my lands and chiefdom as I am, I need powerful allies and warriors to aid me. The Earl of Lennox wields great influence despite his arrest and allies himself with Murdoch, second Duke of Albany, and his thievish elder sons. At Lennox’s order, all of my neighbors save one have as good as joined Murdoch in his quest to unseat our King.”

  “That one being the Laird of Colquhoun, or so I have heard,” Mag said.

  “Aye, and even Colquhoun prefers to keep the peace and takes no side in any fight. Your da were like that at first, too, seeking to please all. Now he seems fixed with Murdoch, Lennox, and Parlan. As I see it, I owe allegiance as chief of Clan Farlan first to the King of Scots, not to the treacherous dukes of Albany or their equally underhanded kinsmen. That includes Lennox, be he my liege lord or none.”

  “Years ago, according to my father,” Mag said, “the first Duke of Albany governed the kingdom legally in his brother the King’s stead and did so for much of his reign. Then Albany continued to rule after the English captured Jamie Stewart and the old King died. Noblemen believed that they had to follow Albany then and his son, Murdoch, after Albany died. Both men dealt ruthlessly with defiance.”

  “Aye, but now Jamie has come home, taken his rightful place on Scotland’s throne, and has shown us all that he means to keep it,” MacFarlan said. “So, I owe my allegiance to him. Forbye, he has ordered all landholders to produce their charters to justify possession of their lands. Parlan cannot produce one, because I hold the royal charter for Arrochar and other Clan Farlan lands.”

  “Then you need only show it to the King.”

  “That willna be enough, lad. In any disagreement over estates or a chiefship, the weight of judgment will most likely go to the man with a string of strong sons to support him. As I have none, I must have strong, loyal good-sons who will take the MacFarlan name. That be the impediment I mentioned.”

  “I can see that it would be,” Mag said dryly.

  “I ken fine that I canna expect the eldest son and heir of another laird to agree to such a demand. But a younger son with ambition and knightly skills… Och, I’ve put me foot in it, though. The lass didna call ye Sir Magnus, did she?”

  “Nay, although two years ago, Lennox did offer me a knighthood but only if I would agree to serve him and Pharlain. I refused, which may be what annoyed them and how I ended up rowing Pharlain’s galleys.”

  Eyeing him speculatively, MacFarlan said, “Then, what d’ye say?”

  Mag met his steady gaze with ease. “I have no immediate objection to marrying your daughter, sir, or to allying myself with your clan. But there is one matter that we must discuss before talking further of a marriage.”

  “Sakes, lad, I’ll tell ye plain, I’d have little respect for a man who accepted such an offer without discussion. Yonder stool will bear your weight, so pull it up. Then sit ye down, and we’ll talk of this thing. Ye’re no married already or ye’d have had an objection. So that canna be the hitch.”

  “Nay, but it will mean postponing any marriage for a time, at least.”

  “Spit it out then.”

  Mag wondered if he was making a mistake. But his long experience with men and warriors told him MacFarlan had been sincere about his loyalty to young Jamie Stewart. So he pulled up the stool, sat, and said, “It’s like this, sir…”

  Andrena returned to the ladies’ solar, and as she opened the door, she heard Muriella say, “Dree, at last! Now tell us just what happened!”

  “You might at least wait until I am in the room,” Andrena said.

  Lina said, “You told us when you left that you were just going out to see what you could see. But Murie sensed sometime after that that you had run into trouble. You must have seen them. Why did you let them see you?”

  Muriella chuckled. “Dree wanted to know why they were in our woods, of course. You had your wee pipe in hand, did you not, Dree?”

  “Aye, sure,” Andrena said. “So I knew I could summon our men. But when one of the louts grabbed my right arm, I could not raise the pipe, so I whistled instead. You may imagine my astonishment when the hawks swooped down. I suspect they sensed my anger and indignation just as I had sensed their distress. We know that animals here do sense that we mean them no harm. Those hawks amazed me nonetheless. The osprey came down, too, but I’d wager that it was just curious.”

  “Aye, or feared that the goshawks had developed a taste for fish,” Murie said. “But tell us about Magnus Mòr.”

  “You said he was Parlan’s prisoner,” Lina said. “Was he one of the three that you met, or were they seeking him?”

  “Wait now,” Murie said. “You must tell it just as it happened to you, Dree. We want to learn about Magnus Mòr as you did. The story will make more sense that way, and I will more easily remember all the details.”

  “You never forget anything,” Andrena said.

  “I know. But I remember things the way I hear them. So prithee, do tell it just the way it happened to you.”

  “Aye, sure,” Andrena said. Taking her customary back-stool, she ignored the basket of mending that sat beside it and began with her departure from the tower. In telling her tale, she skimmed glibly over her warning to Magnus that Andrew would urge him to marry her.

  Even so, Lina said, “Father will likely ask him to do that unless Magnus is Galbraith’s heir.”

  “He is not,” Andrena said.

  “Go on,” Murie urged. “This will be a grand tale to tell at ceilidhs.”

  “Have the goodness to wait until I am actually married to the man before you tell such a tale to anyone,” Andrena said.

  Murie stared at
her. “Do you want to marry him?”

  Lina said, “We need not discuss that now. First we should know that Father has asked him and that Magnus Mòr has agreed.”

  “Nay,” Murie protested. “One wants to be prepared! If the notion is a horrid one, Dree must be able to say so without inflaming Father’s temper.”

  “Do you want me to tell my tale, or would you rather plan my future?” Andrena asked in a tone that told Murie which choice would be the wiser one.

  “I want to hear all that Magnus and you said and did before we met you.”

  Andrena told them what she could, trying to remember just what they had said to each other. Her ability to repeat an entire discussion verbatim was not as exact as Murie’s was, but she thought she acquitted herself well.

  “You have told us what you said to each other,” Lina said when she had finished. “But what did you think of him, Dree? And what does he think of you?”

  “And how could you have just turned and found him standing in your path as you say you did?” Murie demanded. “Surely, you knew he was in that tree.”

  Andrena grimaced. “I must have had my senses so narrowly attuned to those three men that I failed to realize he was there,” she said. “I failed to notice that your cat had climbed up to him, too, Lina.”

  Lina frowned. “That is unlike you, Dree. Of the three of us, you have the keenest ability to sense when others are near, especially when you are alone in the woods. To hear that a man as large as Magnus is could lie on a tree limb right over your head without your knowledge disturbs me.”

  “It would disturb me, too, if he had wished me ill,” Andrena said. “I do think I’d have sensed him then.”

  “Mayhap your abilities are fading as you get older,” Murie suggested.

  “Do you think that yours have?” Andrena asked her.

  Murie thought briefly before she said, “In troth, my memory has grown stronger. But I get chances every day to test it, and you don’t often meet strangers. My awareness of what others may be feeling or thinking seems to be as it always has been. But, in that respect, my ability has never matched yours.”