“Still in one piece.” Linus grinned again, flashing his gums. Until Ronan could speak to his second-in-command, there was little more a fisherman could tell him. Ronan needed reports from his scouts and patrols. The bells continued to toll as they inched toward the docks. He lent Abigail his hand as she disembarked and followed him onto land. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as he steered them along the path to the village that lay outside the retaining wall.
“Naught looks out of place,” Ronan observed as Kieran walked to his right.
“I don’t think aught happened here.” Abigail looked at the buildings they approached and the people milling around. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. It appeared like a bustling village outside a large keep.
“Mayhap the MacDonalds, MacNeills, or MacNeacails got to them if Mother Nature didna,” Kieran mused.
“Mayhap.” Ronan guided Abigail through the main gate and into the bailey, where two couples waited for them. It was clear the women were mother and daughter, but the men didn’t look alike. “That’s Angus, my seneschal, and his wife and our housekeeper, Bethea. Their daughter, Maisie, is the head cook, and she’s married to my second, Clyde.”
Abigail hadn’t imagined the keep’s head cook would be close to her age. She recalled Ronan telling her about how intimidating Bethea could be, but at first she appeared motherly. Then Abigail stifled her laugh when she realized Ronan hadn’t exaggerated. Bethea stepped toward them, but when Angus didn’t follow, she turned around and yanked on his sleeve. Abigail couldn’t hear what she said, but it looked like Bethea scolded the older man. However, her smile was cheery and maternal when she looked back at Abigail.
“Told you,” Ronan muttered.
“Laird, Lady, welcome home,” Bethea called as she walked past the younger couple, her scowl clear. Her daughter, son-by-marriage, and husband all fell in step with the matriarch. “Och, lad!”
Ronan chuckled as Bethea curled her nose up at him. “I’m glad to be home.”
“We’ll be just as glad once ye’ve had a bath. What did ye do to yerself?” Bethea demanded before she blinked several times and looked at Abigail. She sank into a deep curtsy. “I beg yer pardon, ma lady.”
“Hello, Bethea.” Abigail’s voice was soft but warm. She couldn’t help but return the older woman’s smile after Bethea nodded with approval.
“Bethea, Angus, Maisie, Clyde, meet Lady Abigail MacKinnon.”
“Welcome, Lady MacKinnon.” Angus’s gruff voice matched a man of his size, but his rosy cheeks and twinkling blue eyes didn’t match the reputation Ronan told her about.
“Maisie, greet our lady, then scarper off to get a bath ready for our laird,” Bethea ordered her daughter.
“Aye, Mama.” Abigail estimated Maisie was closer in age to Madeline than her. She had her father’s blue eyes, even if her other features came from her mother. “We’re happy to have ye join our clan, Lady MacKinnon.”
Abigail leaned forward to Maisie and Bethea. “Abigail when no one else can hear.” Bethea nodded her approval, and Maisie blushed. Abigail looked at Angus. “When Bethea is ready to sit with me, will you show me the ledgers?”
Abigail nearly jumped at Angus’s booming laugh. “So ye told her already, did ye?” He looked at Ronan and laughed again. “Aye, when ma wife is ready, I will show ye whatever she tells me to.”
“Hauld yer wheest, auld mon,” Bethea snapped, but there was no sting to her words. “Maisie? The bath willna heat itself. Look at the laird.”
Maisie nodded and slipped away to follow her mother’s orders. Ronan introduced Kieran to the three senior members of his household before he led Abigail and Kieran inside. Abigail looked around her new home, only half-paying attention to Ronan as he talked to Angus, Clyde, and Kieran. She looked at the rafters before glancing at the rail that ran along the second-floor landing. She realized that a sheet would have hung from there if she’d been a virgin. It had hung at the Chisholm keep after her first wedding night—handfast, she reminded herself. She wondered if Ronan would regret not having a virgin bride when his clan expected proof of their marriage.
“They ken not to look for it,” Ronan whispered as he leaned toward Abigail. “They ken there was a handfast, and they ken we’re a love match. That’s all they need for now.” Abigail nodded, but she still felt uneasy.
“Ma lady, we dinna care.”
Abigail turned to look at Bethea, who was watching her. She felt her cheeks heating as she swept her eyes over the walls, taking in the tapestries hanging above the fireplaces and from the rafters.
“Ma lady,” Bethea tried again. When Abigail couldn’t avoid looking at the housekeeper without being rude, she nodded. She hoped that would be enough, but Bethea’s determined expression told her it wasn’t. “Lady MacKinnon—Lady Abigail—even a blind mon can see our laird has fallen in love. We all kenned it the first time he returned here from Stornoway. We couldnae believe he intended to marry any MacLeod. He told us a bit aboot ye, and he was vera direct that ye’d had a handfast. Whether ye looked at the laird or listened to him, ye couldnae miss the love. The lad has devoted his entire life to serving our people. He’s never asked or taken aught for himself. If ye make him happy, then we dinna care where ye came from or what ye did before ye met our laird.”
Abigail’s cheeks radiated heat. She appreciated Bethea’s reassurance, but it mortified her that the woman said so much in front of four men. She didn’t know Angus or Clyde well enough to feel comfortable discussing anything to do with intimacy, let alone what happened between Ronan and her, or what happened in her past.
“Thank you, Bethea,” Abigail said. She wanted to melt into the floor. She nearly clapped when she caught sight of Maisie returning to them. She hoped the woman would announce Ronan’s bath was ready and they could escape to their chamber. Before Bethea could say anything about Ronan, her, and a bathtub, she asked, “Could you ready a chamber for my brother, please? A bath for him, too?”
“Of course, ma lady.” Bethea curtsied and spun around, cutting off Maisie’s path to them. Maisie cast a helpless look at her husband, who shrugged as his mother-by-marriage dragged his wife into the kitchens.
“Clyde, there is much to discuss,” Ronan said. “But with no swords clanging inside the keep, it can wait until I show Lady MacKinnon her new home.”
“And after yer bath,” Clyde teased.
Ronan scowled at his closest friend and second-in-command. They were second cousins, and Ronan was the elder by four months. They’d played together as children, entered the lists together as adolescents, and fought side by side countless times. Until Ronan and Abigail had a son, Clyde was also Ronan’s tánaiste. He’d told Abigail many stories about his adventures on and off the battlefield with Clyde. He glanced down at Abigail and found her smiling at Clyde. He could only imagine what she would ask his friend first.
“Is it true that Ronan’s scar on his—” Abigail leaned back to look at Ronan’s backside before giving him a lascivious grin. “—came from you two jousting with pitchforks?”
