Page 2 of Highlander’s Devious Ally

“I am Ailith Galloway," she introduced herself, then frowned. “Are you well, M'Laird?”

“No, I am not," he replied, then realizing how abrupt he sounded, he shook his head and apologized. “Forgive me, Mistress—it has been a long, hard day.”

Ailith looked at the big strong man before her with a feeling of pity. The castle was huge, the estate enormous, and his last source of moral support had gone. No wonder he looked so depressed.

“Of course it has, M'Laird," she said kindly. “I will leave you to your thoughts, and I will pray for you.”

He gave her a smile and a little bow, then promptly forgot about her.

He stayed on the battlements for a little while, weeping out of sight of everyone else. It was a womanly weakness, he knew, but he could not help it; his mother, the rock upon which his life had been built, was no more, and now he had no one to lean on. He chided himself for his self-pity, but surely even the strongest man was allowed to cry at his mother’s funeral?

He squared his shoulders and dashed away his tears, then went downstairs. He had to be strong for Fenella.

Ailith descended the stairs slowly, her face troubled. Poor Laird Stevenson looked like a man with the world on his shoulders, but she thought that a supportive wife might do him a world of good. She wondered why he was not yet married, since he was an attractive man in the prime of life, but no doubt he had personal reasons that were nothing to do with anyone else. She had felt a tug of attraction to him the first time she saw him, and wished that she had more time to spend with him, but she had no time to ponder the matter further.

Her betrothed, Jock McCauley, was striding towards her, smiling from ear to ear. He was a medium man in every way—medium height, medium build, hair that was a dun shade of brown, and gray eyes. He had been chosen for Ailith by her parents, who now lived on the Shetland island of Yell. They had known his parents and considered him “a good catch,” but Ailith had her doubts.

“Ailie!" He came up to her and kissed her cheek. “Come and taste the roast pheasant. I should not really say this, but the best food is always served at funerals!”

“No, Jock," she replied. “You should not say that. It is a most insensitive remark, and I hope the Laird does not hear you say such things.”

Jock arched his eyebrows in curiosity. “And why do you care what the Laird thinks?”

“I care about his feelings, as I would care about anyone in the same situation," she replied calmly. “He has just buried his mother, Jock. Show some compassion.”

Jock looked contrite. “You are right as usual, my sweetheart," he sighed, then gave her the sweetest smile he could muster. “I am a heartless brute and it is good of you to remind me of it!”

He’s doing that thing he always does, she thought, exasperated. Telling me how bad he is so that I can tell him he is good.

They stood for a while drinking wine and watching the other guests; Ailith loved to watch people. She loved to observe the way their bodies spoke, hear their unguarded remarks, and watch their faces as they scowled, smiled, and laughed.

Presently a very large man came striding towards them. He had curly black hair, dark blue eyes, and would have been handsome except there was something of a simpleton about him. His name was Findlay, and he was well-built, but moved in an awkward, gangling way, with his shoulders slumped and his arms hanging down by his sides. He had a constant foolish grin on his face—indeed, he was smiling now—and he was absolutely devoted to Jock, even though Jock treated him like a pet dog.

Findlay handed him a plate heaped with pheasant meat and looked eagerly at Jock for approval, like a dog bringing a ball back to his master.

Jock tasted the meat then patted Findlay on the back. “Excellent, Finn," he smiled. Then, referring to Ailith, he asked, “And could you fetch some for my lovely betrothed, please?”

Findlay nodded and was just about to turn away when Ailith stopped him.

“Thank you, Finn," she said gently, smiling at the big man. “I am not hungry yet, but perhaps later.”

“I will have some ale, though,” Jock said.

Findlay smiled at them beatifically and shuffled off into the crowd to do Jock’s bidding.

“You treat him like a hound,” Ailith said angrily. “Just because he is a little dense does not mean that he has no dignity.”

“I hope you will not be like this when we get married,” Jock replied, sounding hurt. “I look after Finn out of the goodness of my heart. I took him into my home when his family died of smallpox and he had nowhere else to go. He appreciates everything I do for him and never complains. I feed him, give him a home, and if I ask for small services in return he is happy to do them for me. I know I am not perfect, Ailie, but I pity Findlay, and I do what I can for him.”

Ailith immediately felt remorseful. What Jock had said seemed true, but his manner of saying things often irritated her. Findlay was a tragic case indeed. When a family contracted smallpox and died the custom was that their home and everything in it should be razed to the ground to stop the infection from spreading. Findlay’s home was far south of Kinlochan, and he had wandered for miles as a starving beggar. When he got to the village, something about him had made Jock take pity on him, and since then Findlay had adored him.

Jock would not have been her choice of a husband, but he was a good man and she knew that he would never treat her badly.

“You are right, Jock," she sighed, “and I am sorry. I do not know what has come over me today. I think it’s that I feel sorry that such a good woman has died. She was an inspiration to us all.”

Jock put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. “It comes to us all, my love," he said gently, “good or bad, rich or poor.”

Just then, the Laird himself came downstairs, and Ailith’s heart leapt; she felt as if she wanted to rush over and comfort him because he looked so bereft. No doubt it was because of the occasion, she told herself. The combination of his handsomeness and the tragedy of his loss was a heady mixture and rendered him doubly attractive to the soft hearts of many women, herself included. However, unlike many other women, she was sensible enough to know that this was not love at first sight, but only a transient physical attraction that would disappear as soon as he was out of her sight. She turned away, chiding herself for being ridiculous, but Jock had seen the direction of her gaze.