The Laird's Choice

by Amanda Scott

  But I do, aye,” he insisted, looking both earnest and guileless. “Even the lad Pluff warned me that ye’ve a mighty sharp tongue on ye when ye’re wrathful, lass.”

  His eyes were twinkling.

  She shook her head at him and said, “You are gey glib, sir. But you do not answer my question. I did not smile or, I think, reveal my thoughts in any way. Yet you did notice my change of mood. I want to know how you did that.”

  Chapter 14

  Mag yearned to hug her, and more, but they needed to talk. He said hastily, “Lass, everything that you think or feel reveals itself on your face. I don’t need special powers to tell me when your mood alters. However,” he added before she could protest, “just as I learned to curb my temper whilst enjoying Pharlain’s notion of hospitality, I learned other things, too. And my senses became more acute.”

  “So you do sense things in ways of your own,” she said.

  “I have always been good in the woods, and I learned much in training for battle. But my hearing has grown sharper, and I see more than I used to see.”

  “How? In what way?”

  “In many ways. Before, I tended to heed only what lay ahead of me in a forest. At Arrochar, I learned to heed everything around me, just as I do in battle. It became second nature to note the slightest look or gesture, because danger could come from any direction. My field of vision expanded. I began to see things on each side of me almost as clearly as I see straight ahead.”

  “Sakes, I can do that.”

  “Many women seem to have that skill, aye, doubtless because they must ever be watchful for their own safety. I don’t mean that I could not see to the sides before, just that I was not as aware of seeing as much as I do now.”

  “What else can you do?”

  He thought for a moment. “I can get the gist of more than one conversation at a time now. Before, if others began talking whilst I was listening to someone, I’d likely have to ask that person to repeat his or her words.”

  She said, “I can heed several conversations at a time, too. But it disturbs me that you can sense what I am thinking or feeling, whilst despite my usual ability to sense such things, I can rarely discern your moods or thoughts in any way.”

  Grimacing ruefully, he said, “Concealing my thoughts and feelings became a matter of survival. It was dangerous to reveal them by as much as a look, a gesture, or a sound. Pharlain could decide on a whim to hang a man or cut off a foot or a hand, which made us all try to appear as harmless as we could.”

  “I expect it must have had that effect. But you are no longer a prisoner.”

  “Habits, once formed, are hard to break, lass. But I promise to try.”

  “That is not what you wanted to talk to me about though, is it?”

  Reaching for her, he drew her close and looked into her eyes. “There is more,” he said. “Sithee, I saw that you were displeased when Andrew said he would talk alone with me. But that is the best course for now. I’ll tell him what happened with Colquhoun and his grace, and how we met Dougal MacPharlain’s boats. I’ll also tell him that I must go to Inch Galbraith and learn where my father stands.”

  “And that I am going with you.”

  “That, too, aye,” he agreed. “But Andrew knows something that you do not. I came here instead of going with him, because I’d liefer he not blurt that information out at supper or somewhere else before I can explain it to you.”

  “Then, tell me,” she said, tilting her head.

  Wishing he did not feel as if he were a bairn again, confessing to a sin that would earn him a skelping, he said, “I told you that my father and I argued.”

  “Before your capture, aye.”

  “I also told you that I had nowt to bring to this marriage of ours.”

  She frowned but said only, “Aye.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair, wishing that he could read her as well as she thought he could and know what her reaction would be before he told her.

  Then, bluntly, he said, “What I did not tell you is that my father disowned me. So I doubt he’ll want to see me now, despite his grace’s command. In troth, he’s unlikely to welcome either one of us.”

  “Why did he disown you?”

  “I dared to argue against his so-called neutrality. He was just playing Jack-of-both-sides, and I said it put him with Murdoch and Lennox against Jamie’s return.”

  “As it did,” she agreed.

  “His argument was that because Lennox is his liege lord, he could not defy him. But he’d taught me that our strongest fealty must be to the King. Murdoch and Lennox were as one in thinking that Jamie’s capture kept Scotland from suffering through another governorship during his childhood, as if his capture were a boon to Scotland. When people began trying to bring him home, others insisted that his long English captivity had made him too English to sit on Scotland’s throne. They said it was Murdoch’s duty to keep the reins of government in his own hands.”

  “Murdoch’s father did govern Scotland for many years before his death.”

  “Aye, but Murdoch is not his father. The first Duke of Albany was ruthless. But he was also politically astute. Murdoch is politically deaf and a fool, as well. People support him only because they fear to do otherwise.”

  “Do you think your father fears Murdoch?”

  “Nay, and I’d never accuse him of such a thing. What I argued was that Albany, Murdoch, and the others should have done all that they could to free him from the English. Instead, they did what they could to keep him in England.”

  With a gentle touch to his arm, she said, “But that is all true, is it not?”

  “Nevertheless, I was defiant, speaking so. I also threatened to do all that I could to bring Jamie home. My most grievous fault, though, is that I persuaded Will to come with me in search of men who might agree that Murdoch was a villain and Lennox a fool for supporting him. Before then, Will had agreed with Father. But Will was a fair man, willing to heed others and learn from them.”

  “Did your father think Jamie would be bad for the country?”

  “I don’t know.” He covered the hand she had placed on his arm with his own hand, gripping hers as he said, “He was too angry then to make sense. He did believe in honor, though. I doubt that that has changed.”

  “You are his son, no matter what he may have thought of you then,” she said. “If he is honorable, he will not abandon you. Nor will he abandon his King.”

  “You can say that about your father,” he said. “You don’t know mine.”

  “True, but my father does. What did he say?”

  Mag hesitated. Then he said, “Andrew hasn’t seen him in years. He cannot know him now any better than I do. Other things will likely stand between us, too. But the disowning is the worst. I wanted to tell you about that myself.”

  “And you have,” she said, putting her free hand gently against his chest. “You believe he blames you for Will’s death, don’t you?”

  “I know he does,” Mag said, unable this time to suppress the ache in his soul as fast as he had before.

  She moved her hand up to stroke his cheek. “Nay, then,” she murmured. “You cannot know that. Did you not tell me that Parlan captured you in the same battle that killed your brother?”

  “I did, but I also know my father,” Mag said. “Sithee, one of the accusations he hurled at me in his temper was that I was going to get Will killed.”

  She gasped, her hand fell, and he felt the ache at his core grow stronger.

  Andrena knew she had revealed her shock. She could see the pain that Mag felt written on his face. She also sensed brittle stress in him of strong and perhaps warring emotions. For once, she felt only relief that he could fight them down. Seeing his hurt and his grief was enough.

  Had she been able to sense the full strength of his feelings, she might have burst into tears for him. Instinctively, she knew that such a reaction would not help.

  Seeking the gentlest way to express herself—aware th
at he might suspect pity instead of the sympathy she felt for the deep pain his father’s unfortunate words had caused him—she said as matter-of-factly as she could, “How dreadful it must be to carry such a memory. But I can see how you came by that hot temper you once described to me. Because of your own temper, though, you must know that all men—all people, come to that—say things in anger that afterward they wish they had not said. Until we can talk with him, you cannot know how he feels.”

  “Art sure you still want to go with me?”

  “If you tried to leave me here now, I would give you your head in your lap,” she said in the matter-of-fact tone she had used before.

  His lips twitched, and she was relieved to see it. She had meant to startle him, but making him nearly smile was better.

  “Where did you come by such a vulgar expression?” he demanded.

  “It is what Annie Wylie threatens to do to Malcolm whenever he displeases her,” she said. “I think he believes her, too.”

  “I have not met Annie Wylie yet, have I.”

  “Nay, for you would remember her. She is half Malcolm’s size, and skinny, with graying red hair that must once have been as bright and as frizzy as Pluff’s is. But that threat always pulls our burly Malcolm into line. Sithee, Annie is also something of a bard, which is why Murie visits her as often as she can. Annie knows all the old stories. Murie’s goal is to learn them all and as many more as she can learn from other seanachies.”

  With a hint of amusement, he said, “Muriella is not at all my notion of a seanachie or bard. The ones I’ve met have all been old men with long gray beards or young minstrels with lutes or harps.”

  “Well, if you value your reputation, sir, don’t say that to Murie. She not only memorizes the ancient tales but makes up her own. She rarely uses anyone’s name unless a tale is flattering and true. But her descriptions are terrifyingly apt, so many of her listeners can recognize themselves or others if she thinks they should.”

  The twinkle faded. “That, my lass, is a dangerous pastime,” he said sternly. “You tell young Muriella that I’d better not hear her doing such things. Does Andrew know that she does?”

  Andrena began to shake her head, then caught herself and said in surprise, “I don’t know if he does. Unless Mam has told him of an occasion when Murie told such tales to amuse Mam’s kinsmen during a visit, he would not know that she does it anywhere but here. And everyone here knows her and loves her.”

  “Knowing and loving her may not excuse a tale that falsely redounds to someone else’s discredit.”

  “But Murie is not malicious, sir, just mischievous. People nearly always laugh, even at themselves, when she tells such tales.”

  “A man may laugh and be nonetheless furious, a woman even more so. If Murie strikes near the truth of something that her victim wants to keep secret…”

  “I understand, sir. But I doubt that such a thing could happen here. We all know each other too well.”

  “Likely, you are right,” he said. “But you should talk to her.”

  “I’ll talk to Lina,” Andrena said. “Murie listens to her about serious things. She rarely heeds me, except when she detects a story in something I say. In any event, my father is likely pacing the floor by now, wondering what is keeping you. And this is not getting either of us ready for supper.”

  “I’ll just tell him my naughty wife kept me. I’ll wager he’d understand that.”

  “Aye, perhaps, but he’d still scold you for keeping him waiting,” she said with a smile. “Do we leave in the morning for Inch Galbraith?”

  “I should discuss that with Andrew before deciding,” he said.

  Grimacing, she said, “Then prithee go and discuss, sir. I can tidy myself. But you might pull a comb through your hair and straighten your plaid before you go.”

  Smiling now, he obeyed, giving her hope that she had diverted his thoughts—for a time, at least—from Galbraith’s likely reception of them.

  Mag found Andrew in his chamber. If the older man had expected him any sooner, he said naught of it. Gesturing for Mag to take the stool, he said, “Tell me everything, lad. What did Jamie say about me charter?”

  Mag had anticipated the subject that would be paramount in his good-father’s mind. Hoping to delay a discussion about Jamie’s possible support until they had more time to talk privately, he said, “His grace said the same thing about your charter as he said about the plot against him, sir. Because his mind is wholly on establishing his rule of law, he demands to see the charter and requires similar evidence of the plot’s existence. He cannot take my word alone for either one.”

  “Sakes, ye’ll no tell me that he didna believe ye! The lad is nae fool.”

  “He did believe me,” Mag said. “But to bring a case against the plotters, in Parliament, he needs to see documents and other acceptable evidence. He’d like to have witnesses willing to appear before the lords and name the plotters.”

  “But we ken fine who they are,” Andrew said, frowning.

  “Consider it from his grace’s position, sir. After years of Albany’s rule and Murdoch’s, people believe that those in power have only to accuse a man to hang him. Jamie wants to change that. To do so he must produce evidence that the lords of Parliament will view the same way he does. Despite the many accusations laid against Lord Walter Stewart, and much as Jamie wants to hang him and his father for trying to steal his crown, he has not done so. He merely imprisoned Walter. He has taken no action against Murdoch, although the man claims still to be Governor of the Realm despite Jamie’s coronation and that of the Queen.”

  “Murdoch is a fool.”

  “Aye,” Mag agreed. “But a dangerous one.”

  “His grace needs nae witness to believe in my charter.”

  “He says he must see it. He believes it will prove what you say it will, but he pointed out that ownership by right of the sword remains rampant, especially in the Highlands. Forbye, he means to meet with Highland chiefs at Inverness next year to discuss how he will establish a rule of law throughout Scotland.”

  “Good luck to the man,” Andrew said with feeling.

  “If he can bring law to the Borders and Lomondside,” Mag said, ’tis likely he’ll succeed elsewhere, too.”

  “Aye, perhaps. But he hasna established it anywhere yet.”

  Unable to deny that, Mag turned the subject to Galbraith. He was unsure whether to be relieved or worried when Andrew said he knew that Mag could manage his father and should visit him straightaway.

  “You will not say I must cross the south river and Colquhoun lands to reach Inch Galbraith, will you?” Mag said. “I’m certain that a pass through the mountains must still exist somewhere nearer.”

  “Aye, sure, it does,” Andrew said with a grin. “That pass be closely guarded by giants, wicked beasts, and the wee folk, though.”

  “And bottomless bogs, landslides, or avalanches, depending on the season,” Mag said, holding his gaze. “Heaven knows what else you’ve dreamed up.”

  Unfazed, Andrew nodded and said, “Aye, aye. But our Dree kens every obstacle and danger. She’ll see ye safely over the hills.”

  “I’m told she has ken of more than obstacles or mysterious trails,” Mag said. Hoping he was not making a mistake by broaching a subject that Andrena had said he should discuss with her mother, he added, “I described our audience with his grace, sir. I must also tell you that, on our return, Dougal MacPharlain tried to stop the Colquhoun galley before we reached its wharf.”

  “The devil he did! Did Dougal see ye?”

  “He did not. Thanks to Andrena’s warning that danger lay ahead of us, I took an oarsman’s place whilst we watched the headland we were nearing. I’ll admit I was astonished when two galleys emerged to confront us.”

  “Two! How did ye avoid two o’ them?”

  “Ian Colquhoun told them Andrena was his sister and that the oarsman, who by then was wearing my plaid, was her betrothed. The ruse worked. But I am curious to kn
ow how Andrena could have suspected Dougal MacPharlain’s presence. She told me she has feelings about such things but does not know why. I thought perhaps you might tell me more about that.”

  “Sakes, how could I? I ken fine that the lass possesses fine instincts. I’ve learned to trust her opinion of people she meets. She is rarely mistaken.”

  “Her instincts aid her with birds of the forest, too,” Mag said, watching him closely. “Mayhap with some beasts, such as badgers, as well.”

  Andrew made a dismissive gesture. “I told ye, the place be close guarded. The lass has roamed the forest and the lands of Tùr Meiloach since she could walk, so the birds—and, aye, the beasts, too—ha’ grown tame around her, is all. Now then—”

  “I’d like to know how tame they might be, sir. You told her that you ken nowt of such things. But her lady mother believes you know more than you admit.”

  “I can tell ye that ye needna fret about Dree in our woods. The beasts do seem to look after her. But bless us, where has the time gone? If we dinna go down and join the others, we’ll be getting nae supper. We can talk more when ye return from Inch Galbraith if ye think there be more to discuss.”

  Mag was sure that there would be. He was likewise sure that Andrew would try to avoid such a discussion then, too, and wondered why.

  Andrena had joined her sisters and Lady Aubrey on the dais shortly before Mag and Andrew arrived. But her thoughts had remained with Mag. Anticipating Andrew’s disappointment that the King had not agreed to see his charter at once, she hoped he would not blame Mag or think they ought to have done more.

  When the two men entered the hall and strode to the dais, Andrew’s smile for Lady Aubrey told Andrena that he, at least, was content.

  Mag looked as he always did. Then his gaze caught and held hers, and she detected a twinkle in his eyes. Strongly suspecting that he recognized her curiosity, she also knew he’d do nothing to alleviate it until after supper.

  Muriella, ever irrepressible, held her tongue only until they had said the grace before meat. Then, leaning forward, she said to Andrew, across both of her sisters and her mother, “Prithee, sir, will you tell us what Magnus and Andrena learned? Or must that remain a secret?”