Page 12 of Highlander’s Wrath

Coira looked at Laird Hamish Barclay’s face as he slept leaning back on the cushion. The face held a dark beauty, symmetrical enough to please the harshest critic, the even features brought into stronger contrast by the high-bridged nose, chiseled cheekbones, and firm mouth. His chin and jawline were slightly masked by the week’s growth of stubble darkening the skin underneath it, but the craggy appearance it gave him only enhanced his masculine charms. As he turned slightly in sleep, the forelock that usually fell over his forehead lifted up to display a bone-white scar. It ran from the side of his temple, above the eyebrow, and up into his hairline.

She spent a few miles imagining what had caused that scar. A fight? A fall? A wound? Now that she knew Laird Barclay a bit better, Coira had no compunction in ascribing the scar to any one of those causes. He was pugnacious enough to warrant him gaining the scar in battle or in combat. She wondered if he had been an adventurous boy who had maybe fallen out of an apple tree after trying to reach a branch too far.

Will it be a case of the son being like the father? Or will wee Colban be more lighthearted? To describe him like that must mean I think Laird Barclay to be heavyhearted, but he does not seem to be of a melancholy nature. He is prone to becoming incensed at the drop of a hat, though. But if he has plans to vent his spleen on me or the boy in the future, he must be disabused of that notion with all speed. I will not stand to be screamed at as though I’m some servant. I’m the daughter of Laird James McDonald, and he better never forget that!

And on those encouraging words, Coira fell asleep. The last thing she saw was Laird Barclay’s handsome face sleeping across from her.

The coachman’s voice shouting, “Whoa!” woke up the occupants inside the coach.

Laird Barclay gazed at Coira through sleepy eyes. They held an amused gleam.

After rubbing her eyes, Coira asked, “Do I amuse you, sir? I see no cause for merriment other than the great rejoicing my heart feels at this horrid journey finally finishing.”

Not bothering to move from his comfortable position against the cushions, Hamish replied, “Yer bonnet’s askew.”

When Coira’s hands flew up to the pretty confection Miriam had placed on her head earlier that day, his lairdship’s words proved true; her bonnet had sunk to one side of her head and her curls were decidedly flat. What a figure of fun she must appear!

She set about trying to fix it, pulling the bonnet up and searching for pins to hold it there.

“Never ye mind that. Ye’ll find the longer ye stay in the Highlands, the less important all yer female finery will be,” Laird Barclay said. “Come and meet me son.”

It never failed to surprise her how he could change from repose to action in such a short frame of time. One moment he was leaning back against the squabs of the coach, and the next, he was jumping out of the door before the footman had even had time to let down the steps.

He stopped to turn around and offer her his hand to help her down.

“If you think I’m going to jump down in such harum-scarum fashion, you are sorely mistaken,” Coira told him.

Laughing, he bent to fix the steps close to the ground. Thus it was that Coira was granted her first look at Barclay Castle after she descended into the stable courtyard.

All of her fantasies about gothic Highland strongholds and towering grey-stoned citadels overlooking a picturesque blue sea withered as she glanced around her.

Barclay Castle was a dreary place, even when the skies were clear. But with darkening clouds overhead and the cries of seagulls wheeling in the sky, it seemed to resemble a prison far more than it did a structure where someone would choose to live voluntarily.

“Magnificent, is it nae?” Laird Barclay asked her, inhaling deeply as though he had been holding his breath since he had left. Coira had to admit the high stone towers, jutting turrets, and menacingly tall walls could be called magnificent if a proud owner was inclined to do so.

She smiled up at him. “Yes, yes, I suppose it is. You must tell me the history of the place when we have time.”

He held her hand in his own until she had mounted the wide stairs up to the great hall. Coira was aware of how warm his skin felt against her own; the heat she felt seemed to seer away the damp air inside the castle.

“Faither!”

A small dark-haired boy was belting across the great entrance hall toward them. When he reached them, he launched himself up into his father’s arms. Coira observed the joy in both father and son’s faces and was content. There was no withholding of affection as far as she could see.

Laird Hamish placed his son back down on the floor and turned to her. “Miss Coira McDonald, please meet my son and heir, Master Colban Barclay.”

Coira bent down so as to be face-to-face with the child. “Pleased to meet you, Colban. I am your new teacher and nurse.”

“Hoots, Faither, the bonny hen prates bowfin oot her geggie, nay?”

And so unfolded Coira’s first introduction to the Barclay heir.