Jamie did smile then. “If that’s the case, I can see why you’d want someone else to pay for it. And if you don’t mind me saying so, my lad, you look to have had a long day. I won’t mention it if you go have a proper night’s rest for a change. You never know what tomorrow will bring, so you might be grateful for the extra sleep.”
Oliver suspected Jamie might know more about what lay in store for him than he would be comfortable with, so he rose, made the lord of the hall a low bow, then walked across the great hall and started up the stairs. He hesitated to ruin all that healthful meditation he’d just engaged in, but he was having thoughts that perhaps deserved some attention.
The truth was, he could have cut off that damned pink ankle bracelet, gotten himself home, then planned the demise of a handful of men who deserved it. Unfortunately, he also had to admit that there was a part of him—a very small part, of course—that very briefly and casually had to admit that if the world wereending and he had to be honest as his last act before a meteor fell on his head—
He tripped over the top circular step and almost went sprawling face-first into the hallway, but caught himself just in time. Obviously that was a sign that admitting anything at the moment—particularly anything having to do with whether or not he might or might not have needed a holiday to begin with—was the very last thing he would be doing.
He paused with one foot on the landing and one foot on the step below and considered. He could have sworn there was something there, but there was nothing.
Odd.
He took a deep breath, shook aside specters that were obviously leaping directly from the part of his brain that needed a great deal more sleep, then heaved himself up the final step and continued on down the hallway.
He would wait for that meteor and instead concentrate on keeping his ire burning brightly. During the daytime, of course. He would use the nights well by sleeping more than a handful of hours at a stretch.
It would at least help him avoid yawning through his retribution.
Two
Scotland
1583
Mairead MacLeod threw her handsout against the sides of the passageway, her foot hanging half off the top step of the steep circular stairs that led down to the great hall, and struggled to keep her balance.
She looked over her shoulder, fully expecting to find the lad she’d just encountered, but no one was there. There was no one in front of her, either, which led her to wondering if she might be losing her wits. She was normally quite steady on her feet, but that perhaps came from the necessity of living in a hall full of men with swords and tankards and foul tempers that needed to be skillfully avoided. She looked about herself one last time, then shook her head at her own foolishness. There was nothing there to stumble over save her own imagination.
‘Twas possible she thought too much about too many things.
And what she was thinking about at present was how to get herself out of her brother’s keep without being marked so she could finally be about the business she’d intended to see to that morning. She brushed her hand over the pouch she’d sewed to the underside of her apron just to make certain it contained what it should, then made her way down the stairs to the hall.
“Auntie Mair, save me!”
Mairead found her arms full of her niece who unleashed a torrent of more words than any bairn of five summers should have been full of, mostly complaints about her brothers—both the older ones and the three younglings trailing after her like ducklings—and supper and the length of the day that hadincluded more chores to do than she’d been pleased with. Mairead pulled Fiona behind her and faced off with her nephews who were hard on the gel’s heels.
“Have you nothing better to do with your energies than torment your sister?” she demanded. “Go improve your minds or sharpen your swords—nay, ‘tis time for supper already. Go help with the tables.”
“I’ll see to them, Auntie,” the eldest of the brood said. He shot her a quick smile. “I did attempt it before, but there are just so many of them. Siblings, not tables.”
Mairead reached out and ruffled the hair of her brother’s firstborn. Young Ambrose was a quick lad and perhaps a bit too accustomed to keeping his half-dozen siblings in line. It would likely serve him well in the future, though, so she handed Fiona over to his care, then considered the state of the keep and her chances of escaping the same.
Her father was sitting in his accustomed place by the fire in his great chair, silent and watchful. He could manage little more than that, unfortunately, but Ranald MacLeod was laird still for as long as he drew breath even if it were in name only. She noted the men about him who kept watch, though in truth they weren’t needed. There wasn’t a soul in the keep who wouldn’t have leapt to his defense should it have come to that.
Well, perhaps not everyone, but definitely the man sitting near him on a bench pushed up against the wall, his head leaned back against the stone, his snores coming as regularly as the tides. Snores were, though, far preferable to the fantastical things her uncle Lachlan was wont to natter on about. Her father was usually his best audience, but it wasn’t as if her sire could have heaved himself to his feet and run off to a quiet bit of meadow for some peace.
The rest of the men were still outside, lingering a bit longer in the fresh air before they were forced to come indoors. Sheunderstood that, no doubt better than she should have. She had no call to train with the sword or hunt game, but she had her small flock of sheep to look after which kept her free of the hall for as long as the weather allowed it. That time outside afforded her not only peace for thinking but also freedom from the incessant demands of her brother who had wed himself a girl who couldn’t manage herself, never mind a keep the size of theirs.
“Mair,” a voice said sharply.
She realized her brother was standing in front of her. By the tone of his voice, she suspected he might have been there for a bit. She nodded to herself over the look of irritation on his face. She wasn’t entirely certain why she was generally the focus of his ire whilst his wife and her own younger sisters escaped. Knowing the reason likely wouldn’t change anything, so perhaps there was no point in trying to divine it—
“Mairead.”
She schooled her features into an expression she hoped was pleasant enough and fixed her attentions on her elder brother. “Aye?” she asked politely.
“Supper,” Tasgall said shortly, “for us, then take some to Deirdre before you feed yourself. She’s ill upstairs, which you already know.” He started to say something else, then frowned and turned away.
Mairead didn’t trouble herself with speculating on what that might have been. Tasgall was the laird in everything but name, so he’d become accustomed to everyone jumping to his commands. She humored him out of respect for her father and because she loved his children, but it went no further than that. She watched him greet her trio of their younger sisters with consideration, but she half suspected he was no fonder of them than he was of her. They were ridiculously lovely, though, soperhaps he strove to keep them pacified until he could use them as pieces on his board.
