He stood to the side of the door, resting his back against the sun-warmed wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes darted from the wall of woods surrounding the basin of valley this north side of the loch to the alleys of the town that led to the water’s edge, watching for signs of Marcas or Dand.
The sun grew ripe, orange, burnishing the low roofs with a golden glow, and the wall at his back fell into cold shadow. Lachlan slid to a squat, keeping his posture even when his feet tingled and the townsfolk went about their evening chores. He didn’t rise until he at last saw the awkward shapes shudder free from the edge of the forest—his foster brother, Dand, followed closely by Marcas and the runner.
They disappeared for a moment as they drew near the town and were hidden by the houses, but a moment later, Dand’s stormy expression was clear even from across the green, his pale face closed down in a glower, his red, curling lock falling over his forehead. Lachlan’s junior by eight years, Dand hadn’t even taken the time to unstring his bow as he charged across the common area, head lowered like a young bull.
“Is there an Englishman here?” he demanded incredulously as Lachlan rose to his feet on legs that felt showered with sparks from a fire. “Has he been given place over ye in the fine, Lach?”
“What took you so long?” Lachlan asked, not trusting himself to answer his brother’s question without betraying the foreign humiliation he felt. “Harrell sent for you hours ago.”
“We were way back.” Dand panted, reaching Lachlan at last. “Da had to string up a buck.” Dand nodded toward the closed door, then looked back at Lachlan with eyes still full of his fiery questions.
But Lachlan turned his gaze instead to the older man now nearing the longhouse with the runner. Marcas Blair was three score, his once rich, chestnut hair now gone white like Archibald’s, but unlike the clan chief, Lachlan’s foster father kept its length tamed from his face in a long braid. His features were solemn, like the side of Ben Nevis itself with his tall forehead and wide cheekbones below bright blue eyes. His hands swung free at his sides, stained a bloody brown, his sleeves rolled to his elbows; his shawl twisted around his waist, revealing the dampness of his light-colored shirt. Marcas had hurried to Lachlan’s side, of that there could be no doubt.
And doubted him Lachlan seldom had, in all the years since he had come to live in Marcas’s longhouse.
“I’ll sort it,” was all Marcas said in his low, calm voice as he passed Lachlan. He pushed open the door and paused, looking over his shoulder at Dand.
Dand shook his head, his chin raised. “I’ll wait with Lach.”
Marcas nodded once and ducked inside, the young runner fast on his heels.
But Lachlan would only be pushed so far. “Nae ye doon, ye schemin’—” he reached out and grabbed the runner’s arm and swung him back from the door as it closed, shoving him toward the green. The boy gave Lachlan a sheepish grin before slumping off toward the maze of houses.
“Why are they barring you, Lach?” Dand pressed. “Who’s the Englishman is said to’ve come?”
“A knight,” Lachlan said grudgingly at last, sliding back down the wall again, this time to sit on the dirt, one leg stretched out before him. “He’s brought a message to the fine.”
Dand mimicked the posture. “From the English king?”
Lachlan shrugged. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to repeat the blasphemous words Lucan Montague had said about Thomas Annesley. They were lies, any matter. ’Twould do no good to ire Dand further.
“But why would they bar you from—”
“Would ye shut up your blatherin’, Dand?” Lachlan barked. “If I knew, d’ye think I’d be sitting here in the dooryard like some hound awaitin’ his scraps?”
Dand didn’t seem to take offense to the rebuke, crossing his arms over his chest, his bow still hooked over his shoulder. “You’re nae hound, Lach, that’s for certain. Tommy’s own blood in yer veins. The wolf of Clan Blair. And my own brother.”
Lachlan turned his head to look at Dand with a sigh. He huffed a laugh as he reached out to roughly scrub at the young man’s orangey mop of hair, as he had when Dand had been only a boy, but Dand swatted away the juvenile attempt with a powerful blow. “And you’re nae to forget it.”
The door to the longhouse opened suddenly, and Marcas appeared, looking around the green until he noticed Lachlan and Dand rising from the dirt. Lachlan’s spirits rose at the swiftness with which his foster father had apparently brought the fine to order.
“Dand,” Marcas said, his gaze skittering away from Lachlan’s, “run now, find Mother and tell her the fine shall be needing a meal.”
“Aye, Da. How many will eat?”
“Eight; the Englishman’s nae staying.”
Dand frowned. “I ken he’s nae welcome, but night is nearly upon us, and he a stranger to our land.”
Lachlan hadn’t taken his eyes from his foster father, and caught the tic of irritation in the older man’s cheek. “’Tis his own decision,” Marcas said, and glanced at Lachlan as if he couldn’t help himself. “He doesna have far to travel.” He looked back to Dand. “Hie, lad. Do as I say.”
Lachlan felt his brows drawing together as his brother trotted away over the green. “There’s naught for miles, Marcas. Where’s he—?” Lachlan drew his head back as he realized the only logical answer. “Carson Town?”
“Go home, Lachlan,” Marcas advised, the tic gone from his face now, but his eyes still hard. “We’re nae likely to be done here any time soon.”
“But I—”
“I’ll send for you when you’re needed,” Marcas interrupted, and the finality of his tone was one Lachlan recognized from his boyhood; there would be no argument. “You ken I’ll speak for your good.”
