Page 6 of Highlander’s Wrath

4

A Goodly Suggestion When ‘Tis Given Full Credence

When Coira returned to the chamber next to the nursery her brothers had turned into a playroom, it was to find its occupants in an uproar. The McDonald boys had been quick to take full advantage of their mother’s absence.

Coira raised her voice. “Malcolm, let go of your brother’s hair! Lucan, stop carving your initials into the wainscoting!”

It took a while for full order to be restored, and when it was, the boys gathered around her to ask questions.

“Coira, tell us about the Highlander. Is he a lairdly gentleman? Does he carry a sword? Was he wearing a great plaid?”

Coira took a wooden sword out of one brothers’ hands and placed it high up on a bookcase shelf, saying, “Laird Barclay acts as though to the manor born. Indeed, he acted as though this house was his manor when he arrived. He strolled into the conservatory as casual as you please and threw his bag onto the floor! I did not notice if he carried a sword. He had not yet removed his traveling cloak, which also naturally precluded me from observing his attire more closely.”

“He’s saving his plaid to wear down to supper, I’ll bet,” Lucan said shrewdly.

However, the McDonald children were not given the chance to see Laird Hamish’s plaid at supper either; the heavy wool and complex folds of a kilt being too intricate for his lairdship to pleat around himself without the help of a manservant and too bulky to fit in a saddlebag, and he always traveled as light as possible whenever he could.

Instead, he had made full use of the kitchen’s hot water and called for the servants to fill him a bath. Thus, it was with a clean-shaven face and relaxed features he presented to his hosts over the supper table. The boys nudged themselves and whispered that the laird had most probably left his sword in the bedchamber, keeping it handy in case a marauder happened to climb through his window later that night.

Grace, trying her best not to stare at his lairdship’s short black hair and tumbling forelock, welcomed him when he sat down at the table, saying, “Forgive the one course, Laird Hamish, but Cook was no’ given enough time to prepare aught else.”

Laird Hamish was not a fool and could see that Mistress McDonald was looking askance at his hair.

“It is all delicious, and I thank ye for being such a gracious hostess, madam,” he said in his deep voice. “And please allow me to extend my sincerest apologies for me appearance. We don’ get much chance to visit barbers and wigmakers. The castle is a half day’s journey from the nearest village, so it suits me best to have my manservant lope off me hair with a pair o’ scissors once the weather warms.” His honest nature asserted itself, and Laird Hamish could not resist continuing, “It has never failed to mystify me how men can bear to wear wigs in the heat of summer, and as for winter, that’s what hats—or our warm, woolen, Scottish bonnets—are for.”

The McDonald boys sat mumchance, waiting for their father to come to the defense of his fashions, but it was Coira who broke the silence.

“I’m sure wigs are very convenient for those gentlemen so unfortunate as to lose their hair in the most grievous way—not that you have lost yours, Papa. In this regard, you must be held blameless.”

Loud shouts of laughter greeted this pronouncement, with the younger boys twitting their sister for her judgment and the elder boys begging their father to remove his wig to prove their sister right.

It was some time before order was restored at the table.

“Hush!” Grace commanded her unruly offspring, and when quiet had ensued, she asked her guest, “It seems strange to me, Laird, that ye cannae find a nice woman to nurture yer wee son’s mind, so is there some impediment to their staying?”

Hamish found himself hard-pressed to stay truthful under this interrogation, but the thought of his son getting a caring nursemaid and teacher to guide his behavior through the winter months gave him the strength to lie.

“None of which I ken, Mistress Grace,” he replied in a cool voice. “Me ancestral home is a grand structure and should provide anyone with enough history and awe to last them a lifetime. Me servants are obedient and helpful”—at least here, Laird Hamish knew he was on firmer ground—“and as for the annual salary I am offering, ‘tis most generous.”

“What of the child, yer son?” Grace asked.

Hamish’s face broke into a wide smile. The thought of his son managed to do this every time. The McDonalds seated around the supper table saw the laird’s forbidding mien transform into that of a proud and happy father. “Och, the wee scamp is as good as can be expected from one who had his mither wrenched away from him no’ two hours after his birth. Poor lady.”

Coira felt her heart go out to this man. He seemed to bear up under his troubles most nobly, and as for the way he described his castle, she felt its corridors would echo with all the brave deeds done by the gallant Barclay forefathers. It was not his fault that no flighty nursemaids could be found to stay long enough at Colban’s ancestral home to make a difference to the poor wee soul’s education.

“What is your son’s name, sir?” she asked Laird Hamish, choosing to ignore the stifled giggles of her brothers at her bravery for addressing the guest directly.

“Colban Hamish mòr Barclay. Colban was his mither’s clan name.”

James nodded his head. “I ken the Colban clan. At least, I ken of them. A very ancient family. Have they nay relations they could send yer way to help raise the boy?”

Every head at the table swiveled to hear Laird Hamish’s reply.

“Er...no. Me late wife was short on female relatives, unfortunately.”

Hamish silently prayed that James did not know enough about the Colban clan to realize this was a lie. The Colban family was simply littered with maiden aunts and female cousins, but none of them considered the wee Barclay heir to be worth living such a wretched existence at the castle. They had experienced Laird Hamish’s black moods at the occasional clan gathering, and it was enough to last them for the rest of their lives, no matter how much gold he offered them.

Lucan stopped guzzling pottage for a moment to ask his mother, “How old was I, Mama, when you began my lessons?”