Page 17 of The Guardian
“There are other men who can do this,” Ian said.
“Do ye see any men here to help?” she said, sweeping one arm out to the side. Her other hand gripped the pitchfork so tightly her knuckles were white. “We lost some men in the battle, and Hugh Dubh has forbidden the rest from working our lands.”
Ian’s father had not told him of this insult.
“Give me that, Sìl,” Alex said, using the voice he used to gentle horses. “I understand why you want to use it on him, but Ian won’t be good to anyone if you stick that pitchfork into his heart.”
When she glared at Alex and banged the end of the pitchfork against the ground, Alex lifted his hands palms out and stepped back.
“I can see,” he said in a low voice to Ian, “the lass adores ye still.”
Ian decided to try his luck. When he started toward her, Sìleas braced the pitchfork in front of her.
“Don’t ye try to tell me what a man must do,” she said, so angry that tears filled her eyes, “because the truth is ye are just playing at being a man.”
She was straining his patience now. How dare she mock him? “Protecting the clan is not playing.”
“A true man doesn’t desert his family when they need him,” she said. “And protecting the clan starts with your family.”
This time, the truth of her words burned through him.
“I’ll stay until we hear from Connor,” Ian said, and reached out for the pitchfork. “Go inside, Sìleas. I’ll do this.”
She hurled the pitchfork against the wall with a loud clatter that set the horses snorting, and stormed past him.
At the door, Sìleas spun around to fling one last remark at him. “It’s time ye grew up, Ian MacDonald, because your family needs ye.”
Ian and Alex went to the creek to clean up, rather than dirty his mother’s kitchen washing in the tub there.
“Mucking out the byre was not how I thought we’d be serving the clan,” Alex said, sounding amused.
“It is a waste of our talents. We’re warriors!” Ian said, Alex’s good humor annoying him further. “We should be using our claymores, fighting our way into the castle, and tossing Hugh over the wall for the fish to eat.”
“While Sìleas mucks out the stalls for ye?” Alex said, raising an eyebrow and grinning. “Hugh Dubh has as much right to seek the chieftainship as Connor. We can’t just toss him in the sea, as satisfying as that would be.”
“But he’s claiming it without being chosen, and he’s no right to do that,” Ian said. “He made a mistake by not calling a gathering and forcing the selection before Connor returned.”
“I expect Hugh was waiting until he could share the sad news of Connor’s demise,” Alex said.
“It won’t be easy to convince the men to go against Hugh while he holds Dunscaith Castle,” Ian said. “We must find a way to show them that Connor is the better man.”
“I’m starving,” Alex said, tossing his dirty towel at Ian. “It must be time to eat, aye?”
“Something da said about what happened at the battle troubles me,” Ian said, as they headed toward the house.
“What’s that?” Alex asked.
“He said the English surprised him, striking from behind,” Ian said. “You’ve fought with my father—the man fights like he’s got eyes in the back of his head. How did the English get past him without him knowing it?”
Alex squeezed Ian’s shoulder. “In his prime, your father was a great warrior—but he’s grown old.”
“Aye, he has,” Ian said, his spirits sinking as he recalled his father’s sallow cheeks and graying hair. “I should have been there to protect his back.”
“How are ye feeling today, Payton?” Sìleas asked, as she set the tray on the small table next to the bed.
“I’m missing a leg, so how do ye think I am?” he said.
She stopped herself from helping him sit up, knowing it would annoy him. Though she had a hundred things to do, Sìleas took the chair beside him and forced her hands to be still.
