“I was going to ask you the very thing,” Lachlan said. “He’s barely spoken two words since he returned. He wasn’t even pleased that I fixed the gate.”
Finley smiled to herself. “Aye, well, I think Da’s realizing he’s got what he’s asked for these past years. He’s said he wanted a son-in-law to take over the duties of the farm, but when it comes down to it, I think he doesna want anyone interfering. You probably didn’t straighten the hinge to his liking.”
“The gate doesna drag through the mud now, does it?”
“You could be the Christ and Da would have some advice for you on the resurrection. Nothing suits him save for what he does himself.”
“You take after him, then, eh?”
Finley shrugged with a smile. “I canna deny it. That’s why I had nae wish to marry, and the same reason he didn’t care who I married. It didn’t matter.”
“No one would be good enough for either of you?”
“Something like that,” Finley said, watching her slippers kick out on the road from beneath her skirts. She wouldn’t tell him that every suitor she’d had had only been interested in the farm; she was an afterthought. An inconvenience.
She thought to change the focus of the conversation, if not the topic. “Who was the girl at the wedding feast?”
“The dark-haired cow, you mean?”
She tried to suppress her smile but failed, so she gave up. “Aye.”
“Searrach. We were to be married,” he said lightly. “Betrothed for nearly a year now. Then, I mean,” he amended. “We’re no longer betrothed, obviously.”
“She refused you?”
“Officially it was her father who put an end to the betrothal. Harrell’s never cared much for me. But Searrach didna argue. Seems she has her cap set for Dand, now that Marcas is chief.”
“So I was right; she is a cow.” Finley felt a tinge of outrage for the man. “Little wonder you were so pissed at the feast.”
“I wasn’t pissed,” he scoffed.
“You fell off your horse while you were still in town.”
“He threw me.”
“Sure, and then the mad beast found me and led me right to you. He likely worried you’d killed yourself.”
“He’s a sensitive horse,” Lachlan allowed.
Finley laughed out loud as they started the climb up to the old house. She felt oddly at ease with this man—officially her husband, unofficially her enemy—much as she had when they’d first met at the falls bridge. There was no pretense between them, and it was a welcome change from the interactions she’d had with the men from the town who’d come courting.
The sun reflected off the sheer front of the old house with a warm blast as from a forge. Any ornamentation beyond the deepest carvings were gone—erased by wind and rain and ancient fire. The old house jutted from the cliff face with man-made angles all the way up to the top of the hill, above the wood and to the west of the Blair valley, where nothing but scrub and abandoned boulders lived to enjoy the view of the sea. A deep, rich peat bog lay between the cliff and the vale of Loch Acras, difficult to pass by foot and impossible on horseback.
“I never knew this place existed.” Lachlan came to a stop on the path, his hands on his hips, looking up at the old house. “’Tis older than any Town Carson.”
“The stories say that it’s Norse—when they invaded and intermarried with the old tribes. Carsons used it for the chief’s family, and as a storehouse for when the trading ships came into the bay. A meeting place for the fine. A stronghold in case of invasion. It was abandoned years before I was born.”
“At the great battle?”
“The fire, aye.” She felt his gaze on the side of her face and turned to meet his eyes.
“How old are you, then?” he asked.
“A score.” Her cheeks tingled. “Come midsummer.”
“Good lord,” Lachlan scoffed. “Little wonder you’re such a brat.”
“At least I have the excuse of youth,” she shot back. “You’d think someone twice my age could hold his mead and keep his seat.”
