Page 4 of The Son of a Highland Witch
The sad fact, though, was there were few enough who were eligible for such a match. The Highlands seemed overfull of lairds already enjoying matrimonial bliss, who had no need of a wife who came from such a small clan. For a time, she had despaired that any man of suitable standing would court her at all.
I am fortunate, though, and Faither is wise. What if he had allowed a lesser man to court me, one not of proper rank and fortune?
Pleased that things had turned out alright in the end, Erica followed her mother quickly, her feet feeling like they must be dancing as they hurried through the castle and to the great hall, where her father waited for her.
“Daughter!”
Stuart O’Donnell looked every inch a laird of the castle. He sat near the fire, three large dogs draped over his feet and growling over their bones. He kicked at them, nudging them out of Erica’s way as she came to settle upon the chair which had always been her own, near his.
Erica was much loved by her father and knew this well. She basked now in the glow of the large man’s smile, his heavy brows for once not telling a story or worry or woe but relaxed; the lines which troubled his forehead had smoothed. This was a man at his ease, who seemed well-pleased with himself.
“I have a husband for ye, lass,” he said when she was seated, his dark eyes studying her intently. “I ken ye shall be well-pleased in my choice.”
“Who is he, Faither?” Erica asked, leaning forward in all eagerness to hear better over the din around them.
The great hall was a busy place, where all manner of conversation was being carried out. Erica liked the chaos of the castle, though, for it meant this announcement was not a public proclamation just yet. Her father was selfish sometimes. She knew he had hoped to have her pleasure in this announcement for himself before sharing her joy with the rest of the clan.
Inside, it was all she could do to sit quietly, demure at least until the announcement was made.
“Ye shall marry a good man, my daughter. He is Jamie Buchanan. He is a young man, nephew to Laird Buchanan, who holds the lands to the north and west of here.”
“Buchanan?” Erica crinkled her brow as she struggled to place the name. “The only Buchanan I know has a vast family of his own. What does a nephew with no title or lands of his own matter to me, even if he be of Clan Buchanan?” Erica shook her head, picking at her skirts with restless fingers. She had had such high hopes too.
“Nay. Listen, lass, and hear me true. The laird has a fine family of his own, but they are only females with nary a man amongst them. The laird has made yon Jamie, his nephew, as his heir; the proclamation was but a sennight past. Yer Jamie will be laird of the Buchanans when the auld laird dies.”
Erica sucked in a quick breath. Truly, this was better than she had hoped.
“This Buchanan, then, has no objection to...me?” she asked, cautious now.
Her restless hands twisted the fabric of her skirt as she considered her own dubious charms. The plainness of face and form. The fact she was scarce a girl anymore.
“Objection?” Stuart roared the word, drawing the attention of every person within the hall. “Any man who would object to marrying a daughter o’ mine shall feel the steel of me blade upon his neck!”
This statement roused a cheer and a certain amount of sword rattling on the part of the men gambling in the corner. Erica growled under her breath about the ridiculous warlike nature of men in general and reached a hand to her father, placing her fingers upon his arm to stay him going to battle then and there.
“I only asked,” she pointed out, somewhat peevishly. “I didnae say the man had an objection. I wouldnae ken if he had. I have yet to see the letter.”
“’Twas a mistake teaching a lass to read,” the laird muttered, taking a paper from within the folds of his clothing and passing it to her. “’Twas yer mither’s influence.”
“Aye, and ’twas a good thing she did,” Erica countered, unfolding the missive to see what it had to say.
Her eyes widened when she read the long explanation of her betrothed’s lineage. “Noble and descended from the first Highlander warlairds?” She hissed the words, her head coming up quickly to check who might overhear. “Surely he jests.”
“A man doesnae jest when he be claiming a bride,” her father rumbled, a pleased smile upon his face. “Trust yer faither, lass.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead. “We will nae make an announcement yet tonight. Talk to yer mither. Sleep well tonight with the knowledge ye will be the bride of a man of standing. Yer children may yet be lairds and kings in their own right.”
“Faither, ye be a fool,” she muttered, rising to curtsy before her laird respectfully, following the gesture with a loving kiss upon his brow.
“Aye, for ’tis true I spoil ye dreadfully!”
He laughed and made a shooing motion with his hand. Her audience with the laird had concluded, and though she knew little more than she did before, that fine lineage of her intended danced through her head.
