“If you don’t like the stew, then eat more bread and cheese. You’ll still grow to be big and strong, but you must eat.”
“Why does Papa always yell at me so?” He sat on the pallet next to her and dropped his head onto her lap. The wistful expression on his face made her feel a stab of pity for both of them. “I know I’m supposed to love Papa, but sometimes I hate him, ‘specially when he makes you stay down here.”
“I don’t have an answer.” How she wished things were different. How she wished she could have gone with Braden Grant to live a different life, to find a world where men were honorable like the men in Clan Muir.
How would she know? Her sire had never treated her mother cruelly, but their relationship was one of the few she’d had occasion to observe. She had an aunt and uncle who’d lived in their own cottage inside the bailey. Even so, she’d never seen her uncle strike her aunt, or their two wee lassies. She had another aunt who lived alone, but she rarely saw her.
She had no idea what normal was any more. One of the most prominent memories she held of her family was how devoted her brother had always been to her sire. He’d never willingly left his side. As mean as Greer could be, he was still Steenie’s sire, and Steenie adored him, though she was starting to see a change in the lad’s attitude toward his sire.
Had he been paying attention when Braden Grant had said he didn’t hit women? Had that left an impression on the lad? Steenie had been quick to point out on Drummond land that his sire hit him, also. Greer had been much tougher on the lad of late, and Steenie’s love was being tested. Bairns unconditionally loved their parents, but this could turn into something entirely different.
How she struggled with this. Someday, Steenie would wonder where his grandparents were, and what would she tell him? That his own father had ordered and enacted the killing of all her brethren?
And yet another voice in her head encouraged her not to give up on escaping. It insisted she needed to save her sweet son before he became like the cruel man who’d destroyed her family. If that were to happen, it would be the thing to utterly destroy her. She wanted revenge desperately, but how was she to get it?
She hugged Steenie, rocking him back and forth like she’d done when he was a wee babe in her arms.
“Mama, I know what I’ll do if Papa does not free you from here,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I’ll go find one of the Grants. They’ll save you.”
“Steenie, nay. If Papa caught you, he’d be verra angry.”
“But I’m verra angry with Papa. What else can I do?”
“Naught. Do not risk another thrashing. Please? I’ll not be with you to hold you when he’s finished.” How she wished she had an answer for her son. There was little any of them could do to fight the Lamont brothers.
A face appeared in the window. “Your time is up, lad.” Corc stood in the open doorway with his hands on his hips. “Sorry you’re stuck in here, lass. I’ve tried to convince him you’ve been locked away for long enough.”
“Just a few more moments, Corc. I miss my mama.” Steenie smiled as he stared up at her, comforted by her hand rubbing his back.
It was one of his favorite comforts, getting a back rub. Before he had hair, he’d loved having his head rubbed.
“You’ll watch over him for me, Corc?” she asked.
“Aye. ‘Tis why I’m here. I asked Greer if I could have him out at the stables. Said I needed help mucking the stalls. He’s a hard worker.” Steenie didn’t make a comment, so he added, “I can keep an eye on him during the day for you, at least until you’re released from here.”
“Thank you.”
God bless Corc.
***
Braden stepped inside the Grant great hall, overflowing with clanmates attracted by the delicious aromas wafting from the overflowing festival tables. Aunt Maddie planned several festivals during the year, but one of the favorites was always the early summer festival. Anxious to get outside in the fresh air, everyone came out of the cottages to join with the laird’s family in the great hall and the courtyard, if the weather accommodated them. Braden enjoyed their clan festivals, chatting with his numerous cousins about memories and sharing stories about their many Ramsay cousins, but he knew tonight he’d be preoccupied.
Preoccupied with the memory of a lass with green eyes in his arms. But there was nothing he could do until his uncle gave him permission to leave with a group of warriors, so he forced his mind elsewhere.
Aunt Maddie, Uncle Alex’s wife, stood near the doorway. “Braden, ‘tis lovely to see you again. I have your favorite pork meat pies ready for you.”
He greeted her with a hug. “Many thanks to you, Aunt Maddie. I will enjoy them. And I might try a pastry or two, if you don’t mind.” He thought of his conversation with his uncle earlier. “Aunt Maddie, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Braden. What is it?”
“Did Uncle Alex used to have a temper and yell verra often?”
She chuckled. “He most certainly did. Before we were married, he used to yell loud enough to be heard in England. ‘Twas a long time ago, Braden. He’s changed since then.”
Roddy came up behind them, pulling them both into his embrace for a moment. “Do I smell meat pies, Aunt Maddie?”
“Aye,” she said with a laugh, “and I have a few mutton pies for you, Roddy. Pardon me, lads, but I must assist Cook in the kitchens.”
She disappeared into the kitchens, and he and Roddy shifted their attention to the array of pies.
Roddy said with a wry grin, “I’ll let you go first, cousin. Just in case you wish to peruse the varieties, choose the best one.” He held his hands up in a mock gesture. “I promise not to get in your way.”
Connor joined them. “Is Braden keeping you from the meat pies, Roddy?”
Braden snorted. “Funny. You’re both making me laugh. But as long as you both insist, I’ll grab mine first.” He reached for a pork pastry, elbowing Roddy along the way.
They made their way through the crowded hall, checking out the other fare. “Hellfire, I love these pork pies,” Braden gave a short moan after he bit into one plump pie filled with pork and carrots covered in a rich gravy.
Connor asked, “You have not eaten lately, Braden? You seem a bit hungry.”
“You are not?” Roddy asked, stuffing the rest of his first pie into his mouth.
“I’m hungry, but for a pair of sweet lips to taste, not meat pies.” His gaze searched the hall, surveying all the young lasses in attendance. “The early summer festival usually has the most lassies only because ‘tis not too cold outside. I’m hoping to find one who’s willing to take a stroll into the night a wee bit later. Mayhap steal a kiss or two.”
The oddest thing happened. As soon as Connor mentioned lasses, all Braden could think of was the golden-haired lass who had trembled in his arms and then run away from him. Though he tried to focus on other things, he couldn’t.
Cairstine Muir had left an impression on him, just as Uncle Alex had guessed. His gaze traveled around the hall, and it surprised him not one bit that he found no one who could compare to her. They all appeared young and immature, the opposite of Cairstine, who’d been forced to mature at a very young age.
He longed to touch her soft skin, to run his hands down her soft hips and breasts. Not many young lasses had the hips he preferred. He wanted a lass who would match his passion, move with him, fit him just right. He’d noticed while she had sweet curves in the right places, she was thin. Did the bastards starve her, too? He did his best not to think about all that Cairstine and her son had to deal with in the Lamont holding.
Cairstine was all woman, though she could be no more than twenty summers. He had just turned ten and nine, so it was entirely possible that she was a wee bit older than him.
As he was lost in his reverie, a cute lass with long dark waves sidled up to the three of them, sashaying her hips just so. “Good eve, lads. Is that all you plan on do
ing, eating meat pies? I can think of other things I’d prefer to do. I have a friend who I could bring along.”
Connor noticed his sire coming so he said, “I’d love to take a stroll with you later, Lora. Anyone else interested?” He turned to his cousins.
“I’ll join you,” Roddy said, glancing at Braden.
Braden shook his head, not wishing to hurt her feelings, but only interested in taking a stroll with one lass in particular. And he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had her back in his arms.
“Meet us near the door in half an hour.”
Lora nodded with a sweet curve of her lips, then whirled around to head in the opposite direction.
Connor said, his gaze following the sway of her hips, “She’s bonny, is she not?”
“She’s all yours, Connor,” Braden said. These local girls did little to turn his head, especially these days. He had always felt the need to wait for a lass who would challenge him, and Cairstine was definitely that.
Uncle Alex strolled across the hall, heading directly toward the tables laden with food—meat pies, fresh bread, a multitude of cheeses, as well as small trenchers that could be filled with lamb stew.
Uncle Alex greeted the three of them before patting Braden on the shoulder and heading for the kitchens. Moments later, he reappeared with a giant trencher, which he loaded with stew until it nearly overflowed.
Roddy whispered, “‘Tis the way to do it. Aunt Maddie must make special ones for Uncle Alex. Look at the size of it.”
Braden said, “Never mind that. May I ask you two a question in private?”
Both cousins merely nodded, mostly because their mouths were still full of food. Braden ushered them away from the table so they wouldn’t be overheard. He wasn’t quite sure how to start the conversation but decided that being direct would work best. If he couldn’t trust his cousins to answer honestly, who else could he ask?
“Do you think my temper has become better or worse of late?”
Roddy spat his food into his hand, and Connor choked on whatever he’d had in his mouth, coughing as his gaze caught Braden’s. Roddy tossed his food into a pail meant for garbage before returning to them. “Are you serious, cousin?”
Connor grinned, his eyes dancing with delight.
“Aye, I’m serious. I know I have lost my temper a few times in the past, but it doesn’t happen verra often any more. Do you not agree?”
Connor said, “You’ve always had a hot temper. Do you not recall when your sire threw you in the snowbank?”
“What?” Braden asked, unable to recall the incident Connor mentioned. “I don’t recall aught about a snowbank.” He scowled as he searched for any memory of the event.
“You don’t remember?” Connor asked in disbelief. “You and Roddy were upset with Kyla and Gracie for taking something of yours. Kyla gave it back, but you kept yelling and yelling.”
Roddy burst into gales of laughter. “I remember now. And you wanted Kyla to get a thrashing. Kept shouting at Uncle Alex.”
“Stomped your foot a few times, too. You were madder than a slobbering, stiff-legged boar before a battle. How old were you, Roddy?”
“I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember it well. He was stalking and stomping. I’ll never forget it. I knew he was going to get into trouble, so I didn’t veer far away.”
“You enjoyed watching me get into trouble?”
Both cousins nodded, wicked smirks on their face. Roddy said, “Back then? Of course, I was just glad ‘twasn’t me.”
Braden’s mind started to pull bits and pieces of the memory back. In fact, had he spat at something?
Connor started to laugh again, the kind that was contagious, the kind he couldn’t control. He managed to get a few words out, “In fact, you were so mad at Kyla that you ran across the entire length of the hall, came to an abrupt stop in front of the hearth, and you spat in it loud enough that Aunt Maddie came running down the stairs because she thought someone was heaving, and…and…” Guffaws erupted straight from his belly. “Then you turned around and headed straight for Kyla again, screaming at her. You called her a bitch.”
Roddy finished the story. “Uncle Alex nodded to your sire, and your sire picked you up under his arm and tossed you outside…” He looked at Connor and started laughing. “And you cussed your sire out. I could hear you wailing as you went out the door.”
Connor took up the tale. “And I peeked out past your sire. He threw you into a snowbank off to the side and spun around, but you kept yelling.” Connor swiped at the tears in his eyes. “You started shivering and said, ‘Papa, Kyla stole my sword. You have to thrash her. She’s a witch.’ Then you had to stop because you were shivering so much. I would have shut my mouth at that point, but you kept hollering at your sire.” Your father said…” He bent over at the waist laughing, and then stood up again. “‘If you don’t stop your bellowing, I’ll throw you in the loch next.’”
Roddy said, “And you still argued, so your sire ran toward you and you took off toward the gates. He finally stopped and told you not to come back until you could stop your complaining.”
Connor said, “I laughed so hard I nearly pished myself. I was truly hoping he’d throw you in the loch. Of course, your mother wanted to go after you, but your sire wouldn’t allow it.”
Braden stared at his two cousins doubled over in hysterical laughter. They were starting to draw a crowd. He remembered landing in the snowbank, shocked that his own sire would do such a thing. As soon as he’d gone back inside, he’d burst into tears, but not before throwing ten snowballs at the stones in the keep walls. When a couple of tears froze to his face, he stopped weeping.
Mayhap he did have a wee bit more of a temper than he’d thought. It seemed to be a quality that dated far back in his childhood. Perhaps he was even born with it.
Connor took two deep breaths and stopped laughing. “Ten minutes later, you opened the door shivering. You apologized for your behavior and asked permission to come inside. When your sire nodded, you ran over to the hearth to warm up.”
“Shite,” he whispered, the only thing he could think of to say at the moment. “I barely remember it, but I do recall freezing in the snowbank and throwing ten snowballs at the keep.”
“’Twas funny,” Roddy said. “Sorry to laugh, but you were young. You haven’t behaved that poorly in a while. Now you might throw five instead of ten snowballs. I’d say you’ve properly matured.”
While his cousins struggled to contain their laughter, he said, “But my point was that I’ve improved my self-control over the years. I’ve learned to be less impulsive. Do you not agree?”
Before either one could answer, Uncle Alex came over, still chewing on pieces of his trencher. “What’s causing all this laughter?”
Connor said, “We were just teasing Braden. Remember the time Uncle Brodie threw him in the snowbank?”
Uncle Alex turned to Braden. He didn’t laugh like Roddy and Connor did, but there was a spark of merriment in his eyes. “Aye, I do recall, but you got over it, lad. Remember that.”
His uncle’s words filled him with hope because if he knew one thing, it was that he had to learn how to keep himself under control. Otherwise, he could end up just like Greer Lamont, and he would never want to put Cairstine through that again.
He would do whatever it took to be a good man for her.
Chapter Nine
Steenie stared up at the beams over the great hall. He had a pallet in the corner just like many of the guards did, but he hated it.
He wanted his mother. Rolling onto his side, he peeked over the group to see if anyone else was awake. This was the usual time he’d sneak up to his mother’s chamber and climb into bed with her. She was softer and warmer than the stupid pallet he slept on. And she never turned him away.
He loved his papa, but sometimes he hated him, too. How could he be so mean to his mama? She smelled nice and took care of him and loved him. Besides, she never yelled at him the way his si
re did. Papa yelled even when Steenie didn’t do aught wrong.
At least Corc had spent time with him yesterday. They’d had fun cleaning out a stall and then a horse had pooped right in front of them. It smelled so bad that Corc had coughed and turned all green and Steenie thought he was going to heave. Steenie laughed so hard he couldn’t hold in his own gas. Mama would have been upset with him, but Corc thought it was funny.
He stayed with him all day, until Corc sent him to the keep for the night, though he would rather have slept in the hay next to the horses.
He thought of the Grant warriors he’d seen, how strong they looked. The one with the black hair looked the biggest of them all. He was strong just like the one they saw on Drummond land, though that one was shorter. His arms were as big as tree trunks like the yellow-haired warrior, but the odd thing was that in spite of his size, he hadn’t seemed mean at all, not like his sire and Uncle Blair could be.
He had to help his mama out of that cold place in the cellars. But he didn’t know what to do. He’d asked his sire to set her free, but Papa had just swatted his bottom and told him to be quiet.
No one was awake and he had to pish, so he rolled off his pallet, grabbed the wooden sword his papa had given him, sheathed it, and crept outside to do his business. No one spoke to him on his way out. He strolled through the courtyard until he made it to the stables, then hid behind the back and pished, making sure no one was watching him. He didn’t want any more thrashings for a while because his bottom was just starting to get better. If only he could figure out how to be better so his thrashings would stop. His mother always told him to be good, but he always was. There was naught he could do to make his sire happy.
When he finished, he moved back toward the center of the courtyard, but he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He pulled his sword out as fast as the Grant warriors had, holding it in front of him in case it was some wild animal about to attack, but he didn’t see anything.
He liked swinging his sword, so he practiced unsheathing it a few more times until he could do it faster. That would surely make Papa proud. Before he knew it, he had ambled down past the stables. He wondered if he could use the sword atop a horse, so he crept back to the stables, surprised to see Corc and the others were all sleeping. He couldn’t saddle the horse by himself so he went back to the gates and practiced some more. He’d be the fastest and strongest of all warriors someday.
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