Jamie nodded frantically in agreement with his sister, his red curls bouncing as he did. Cicilia saw Annys glare at him a little, and couldn’t help but smile.
Annys had always been jealous of her brother’s lovely curls and the bright orange mop that both Cicilia and Jamie sported, though Cicilia’s was much wilder than Jamie’s. Annys’s own hair was long and straight, always worn in pigtails, and jet black. No matter how often Cicilia told her it was pretty, she’d huff that she was the only one without Daddy’s hair.
“It’s our mammy’s hair,” Cicilia had told her when she’d asked about it once. “Just like how Jamie’s got her brown eyes. But look, Annie, ye and me have Da’s special green eyes wi’ the wee gold fleck that marks us as O’Donnels.”
That was a bit of comfort to them both, especially after Daddy had died half a year before, leaving Cicilia alone with the twins and the farm. When she looked at Annys, sometimes she saw her father smiling back at her.
“Why’s Cil in the village, anyway?” Jamie asked Angelica. “Nae breakfast wi’ us today?”
Annys rolled her eyes. “Because it’s tax day, ye bampot. It’s time to give Mr. Jenkins our fee to pass on to the Laird. We got told this yesterday.”
Aye, so tha’ nae body else learns me secret. Thank God the villagers rallied to help me.
“Dinnae call yer brother a bampot,” Angelica scolded. “But aye, in the village. The farmhands are handlin’ the milkin’ an’ the feedin’ this morn. Ye two have to get out and collect the eggs after breakfast instead, mind.”
Annys groaned. “Betsy doesn’ae like it when I take her eggs. She only lets Cil do it. She’ll peck at me!”
Jamie chuckled. “Better than Cil peckin’ at ye if we dinnae do it,” he pointed out.
It sometimes made Cicilia a little sad to hear her siblings talking about her that way. She adored the twins, both of them, and wanted nothing more than to spoil them whenever she could. But running a farm required strictness, and so Cicilia couldn’t tolerate laziness, even while taking on most of the work alone.
“Ye’re right,” Annys said, reaching for her bread and hastily chewing on it. With her mouth full, she added, “I bet I can collect more eggs than ye, Jamie.”
“Aye?” Jamie asked with a teasing smirk. “Well, I bet ye slip in the mud and fall on yer backside!”
As they started to bicker again, Cicilia saw Angelica roll her eyes and mutter a prayer on her way out of the room. She quickly stepped away from the door and down the corridor, out of sight before Angelica entered the hallway.
Annys and Jamie would be fine, as always.
An’ now it’s time to deal wi’ the taxman.
Thomeas Cunningham stood as Alexander entered the office, and he bowed low until the Laird told him to stop. Alexander appreciated the formality, but it felt a little odd, even now. He’d known Thomeas since childhood, when the man had first come to work for his father.
An’ he’s been invaluable since the accident. Without him, I dinnae ken how we could o’ survived, much less flourished the way we have.
“Somethin’ the matter, me friend?” he asked as he took the seat across the desk from the accomptant’s.
“O’Donnel is at it again,” Thomeas said without any preamble, as he sat down again, too. “He’s sellin’ to the Macrories and the MacDonalds as well as half o’ our allies, I swear to it.”
Alexander groaned. “The Macrories have been off-limits for a decade, since the last fightin’,” he said. “An’ everybody kens ol’ MacDonald is keepin’ materials from us. We cannae be seen tradin’ as if everythin’s all right.”
“Aye, well, Farmer O’Donnel doesn’ae seem to care,” Thomeas said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Me sources claim he’s been tradin’ wi’ the Macrories regardless o’ the insults the whole time.”
The accomptant was much older than Alexander, forty or so, with tidy brown hair, glasses, and sharp gray eyes. He was tall—though not compared to Alexander himself—and slender, and he often reminded the Laird of a sly gray wolf. He was quick, territorial, and cunning, and had seen Clan Gallagher through more problems than Alexander wished to recount.
Alexander drummed his long fingers on the table, listening to the clacking noise they made to try to center his thoughts. He hated this. Hated it. He’d always liked things tidy and orderly, and that need had only increased since he inherited his father’s title.
Most of his subjects were respectable, even if they found him a little intimidating. He was known for his harshness when laws were broken, but in general, the clan was thriving. As long as taxes were paid on time, and rules were followed, there were no problems. They had good wealth, better even than under the previous Laird, and relations with most other clans were decent.
An’ I help out where I can, though I dinnae want the people kennin’ a’ that.
He gave tax breaks, brought in external workers, supplied shops with extra stock—anything to help his people prosper. But he did this all out of sight of the people, not wanting to build up a reputation of sentimentality. He’d been a lad when he took the seat, but he’d made sure they didn’t think of him that way for long.
For the most part, it was fine. But then there was Cameron O’Donnel. The man had been a thorn in Alexander’s side for twelve years, even though Alexander had never met him. He was a farmer on the very borders of the Magee lands, at least a seven-day journey from here.
Which is why he keeps gettin’ away wi’ this.
O’Donnel had been making illicit trades and deals over the borders for years. Still, whenever Alexander sent a man out, the farmer had gotten enough warning to cover his tracks. In a strange way, Alexander had respect for the man. That wasn’t enough to make him tolerate this any longer, though.
Since his declaration of Lairdship, Alexander’s irritation with disorder had spiraled deeper and deeper into a near obsession. He wanted, no, needed his affairs in order so that he could feel comfortable.
Cameron O’Donnel was like an itch, one he couldn’t scratch, burning in a dark corner of his brain. Every time Alexander remembered that this one tiny thing was out of order in his otherwise perfect clan, it made all the hairs on his arms stand on end and his teeth clench.
Well. Nae more o’ this. He might be clever, but he is nae as smart as me best man.
He laid his hands flat on the table. “Right,” he said. “Right. He might nae care, but I do. It’s time we put an end to this nonsense once and for all.”
Thomeas raised an eyebrow. “Oh aye, Laird? O’Donnel’s nae fool, dinnae have any doubt o’ that. He’s secretive and stays well back. He sends his taxes to my collectors through a middle man to avoid bein’ seen. What exactly do ye have planned?”
Alexander nodded, pondering this information. It didn’t change anything. In fact, it made him even more determined to proceed with his idea.
“How would ye feel,” he asked his accomptant, “About takin’ a wee trip to our borders?”
Chapter 2
Non Loqui Sed Facere
Not Talk but Action
Three weeks passed between Thomeas’s departure and his return. In that period, Alexander tried his level best to stay focused on other things. Still, a small section of his mind was stuck on what, exactly, could possibly be going on at that farm.
He didn’t bother looking up when the door to his quarters opened without anyone knocking first. Only one person in the world would dare to interrupt him like this. “Ye ken I’m yer Laird, Barcley?”
A chuckle came from ahead of him, and then Nathair Barcley swung into the chair opposite him and said, “Aye, I ken. Hard to believe it, but I ken. We’re still waitin’ for the reveal that it’s all been a big jape.”
“Charmin’,” Alexander said dryly, finally looking up from the document he was trying to read.
Nathair was his Man-at-arms. He was outgoing, loud, and rough-looking—in short, he was everything that Alexander was not. The men stood at the same heigh
t exactly, but that was where the similarities ended.
Where Alexander’s hair and beard were dark and well-kempt, Nathair’s wild honey-blond curls surrounded his face like a mane. It was hard to tell where the facial hair started, and the head hair stopped. That, combined with his narrow tawny eyes, was one of the reasons he’d gained his nickname in the army.
The Chieftain was known as Leòmhann amongst his men, the Lion of Gallagher. It wasn’t just for his appearance; he was fierce as a lion, too, and as strong a leader for his squaldron. He was friendly and sociable but never hesitated to act. He was oft untidy, but always vain, and he could tell a joke as easily as he could wield a sword.
Nathair was the opposite of everything that anyone saw when they looked at Alexander. As well, he wore the opposite of every personality trait the Laird held dear. The two men could not be more different, nor could they have been closer friends.
I sometimes wonder if we’d be so close if we had nae grown up together.
Possibly not, but it did no good wondering. Despite his charade of irritation, Alexander valued Nathair above all else and did not know how he would have succeeded in the Lairdship without him.
In a very real way, he’s the only family I have left aside from me sister. He’d mock the life out o’ me if I said as much.
So instead, Alexander said, “What do ye want?”
Nathair snorted, leaning casually forward on his desk. “An’ ye criticize me for me charms! Shockin’. Do yer people ken what a dobber ye are to yer Man-at-arms?”
Alexander rolled his eyes. “Me people dinnae care to ken much about me, an’ that’s the way I like it. Ye ken that better than anyone else.”
“True, true. Ye like to retain yer secrecy for sure. Helps ye hide tha’ golden heart ye hide under tha’ pin o’ yer da’s,” Nathair teased.
With an exasperated sigh, Alexander repeated, “What do ye want, Nathair? Some o’ us have to work.”
With a loud belly chuckle that seemed to reverberate around the entire room, Nathair said, “What do I want? Well, a castle o’ me own would be nice. For me Mither to stop goin’ on about how at nine-and-twenty I should be long wed. A tumble wi’ yer sister wouldnae go amiss.”
Alexander raised an eyebrow. “Me married sister, ye mean?”
“To me eternal disappointment. Catherine was the love o’ me life, an’ I may never recover.” Nathair sighed dramatically.
“She’s six years yer senior an’ she never saw ye as anythin’ but an even more annoyin’ wee brother than the one she already has,” Alexander told him.
“Och, ye wound me, Sandy,” Nathair replied sadly. Alexander was never sure how serious he was about his feelings for Catherine. Still, it had been a running joke since they were boys, and it hadn’t stopped him from courting others in any way. “Och well. In tha’ case, then, I’ll settle for five eligible lassies all for meself.”
“Did ye barge in here to talk abou’ yer flirtation needs?” Alexander asked. “Or did ye have somethin’ to report?”
“Oh, aye, tha’s right,” Nathair said cheerfully. “Yer man, Cunningham’s back. He’s a gibberin’ wreck. A couple o’ the kitchen lassies are sittin’ wi’ him as we speak.”
Alexander sat bolt upright. “Is he hurt? Do we need a healer?”
Nathair laughed again. “Och, nay, he’s just bein’ a big jessie. Must o’ seem something that had him right scared out at thon farm.”
Well, that explains why ye’re in such a good mood, at least.
Nathair’s dislike for the accomptant was well known. He ridiculed him—in private—almost as often as Alexander sang his praises. Alexander tried to ignore it. He knew that Thomeas wasn’t the most likable of men, especially to someone with Nathair’s cheer, but even Chieftain Leòmhann couldn’t deny his worth for the clan.
“I should go to him,” Alexander said, getting to his feet. “How about next time, ye try leadin’ wi’ the news rather than natterin’ on about me sister?”
“Och,” Nathair said, looking wounded again, one hand fluttering to his heart. “And where would be the fun in that?”
“Laird,” Thomeas said as soon as Alexander entered the kitchens. The women attending to him scurried off into other areas, leaving them in privacy.
Alexander was stunned at his accomptant’s appearance. Thomeas was pale and drawn, his eyes wide, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. “What happened to ye, me good man?”
Thomeas shook his head, sipping at the ale one of the kitchen maids had slipped into his hands before vanishing. “Laird,” he said hoarsely, “Dinnae send me back there.”
Alexander paused in place, trying to process the disheveled appearance of a man usually so organized, and fending off the familiar itch of discomfort at the sight as much as he could. “Did they hurt ye?” he said uncertainly. “Did ye speak wi’ Farmer O’Donnel?”
“Only his bairns were around,” Thomeas told him, shaking his head. “I stayed for a few days, but they were…the two younger bairns yonder, Laird, I am sure they must be demons.”
“Demons?” Alexander repeated incredulously. “Come on now.”
Thomeas shook his head. “Nay, dinnae mock me. Ye dinnae see it for yerself. Twins, they are. Ye ken that’s rarely a good omen, and one o’ them is bound to be blessed by the Great Deceiver himself.”
Alexander crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh aye? An’ which o’ these twins is a devil-child?”
“Both,” Thomeas said darkly. “But the sister more so. I wouldnae be surprised if she was the spawn o’ the Dark One himself.”
The Laird raised his eyebrows. Thomeas was more open about his devoutness than many of his men, it was true. Still, he had never heard the accomptant rave so, especially not about children. He saw how off-kilter his friend was and tried to move the topic along. “What o’ the farmer? Where was he?”
“Away, the older bairn said. On business,” Thomeas grunted. “Dinnae ken when he’ll be back, apparently.”
Alexander nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Take a couple o’ days off, Thomeas. Ye’ve more than earned it.”
“An’ what’ll ye do about the farmer?” Thomeas asked. “He cannae be left to operate like this.”
“Dinnae ye worry,” the Laird told him with a sharp nod. “He will nae be. Nae more talkin’ about everythin’. I’m gonnae go deal wi’ this meself.”
Nathair offered to accompany him on the journey as soon as Alexander told him his plans. In fact, he practically insisted on it. “Ye are nae gonnae meet any demon bairns without yer Man-at-arms,” Nathair had said with authority.
In truth, Alexander was grateful for the insistence. He would need to travel as lightly as possible, which meant no maids, no servants. Likely he’d take nothing more than a change or two of clothing and provisions for the journey.
The farmer will provide for me when I arrive. Nae matter what he’s hidin’, it’s his duty as me vassal.
Still, Alexander hated to travel. He hated change. He had his routines, and since he was a boy, he had stuck to them. He’d slept in the same room, with his bed at the same angle. He’d taken his meals at the same time and washed at the same time every night.
He woke exactly when he meant to and followed a regimented order of events as he went about his day. Some saw it as rigidity or inflexibility, but Alexander thought it nothing of the sort. It was just important to know exactly what was going on at all times. Only then could he be the Laird his people deserved. Only then could he be even half the Laird that his father had been.
But ye cannae do that on the road. Ye have to just go wherever the wind blows ye.
The thought made him acutely uncomfortable. At least, with Nathair’s company, it would mitigate some of the strangeness. The Man-at-arms had been the most constant thing in Alexander’s life since childhood, more so even than his sister.
I’m lucky to have him. It was supposed to be Ilene.
He pushed that thought out of his mind, angry that she
had even intruded. It had been years, and he had learned since then. Love was too much of a distraction—even now, long after it was over. He must focus.
“We’ll stay three days at most, nae longer,” Alexander said decisively as he and Nathair selected the horses they would ride out on their journey. “That should be more than enough for a quick reprimand an’ gatherin’ o’ what exactly the man’s been up to. Then we can get home, quick as ye like.”
“If nae quicker,” Nathair snorted. “I’m surprised yer doin’ this, Sandy. Ye could o’ just sent me alone.”
A Hellion for the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 2