“Aunt Elsie, she’s nae me wife. This is Skye Pressly. She’s Laird MacKeith’s ward and the daughter of his… of his late wife Helena.”
Elsie dismissed his reply with a wave of her hand.
Skye was thankful when the door to the kitchen opened again and a servant entered the hall, carrying a large tray in his hands. He placed cups and pitchers of water on the table, and a bottle of whiskey in front of Arran.
Skye was surprised when Elsie reached forward, filled her small cup with a shot of whiskey, and gulped it down. The woman cleared her throat and let out a satisfied sigh. Then she reached for the bottle again.
“That is enough for now, Auntie,” Arran instructed. “How about a bit of barley water?”
Elsie smacked his hand away. “Mind yerself, lad. Leave an old lady to her drink and fill yer wife’s cup!”
Skye watched their interaction, noting how the warrior softened his tone and accepted the matron’s admonishment.
“She’s nae me wife,” Arran explained again. He started to say more, but the food was finally brought out and served.
There was cold beef and roasted rabbit with root vegetables, and loaves of hot bread. Skye’s mouth watered.
She wasn’t disappointed. Each bite was tender and perfectly seasoned.
Between bites, Elsie peppered her with questions.
“How old are ye, dear?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“Where are ye from?”
“Until recently, I’ve been living in Braewall,” Skye replied.
“Are ye married?”
“Nay.”
“Ye’re twenty-three and nae married. Have they run out of men in Braewall?” Elsie asked jokingly.
“I’m nae too fond of the institution of marriage, actually. And me stepfaither… Well, he has plans to marry me off when he finds someone who suits him.”
“Och! Men and their pursuits of power. Pay him nay mind, and marry who ye will, ye ken?” Elsie said.
Skye immediately liked her and the way she spoke her mind. She bet Elsie had been like this all her life and not just outspoken in her later years, when she could get away with it.
“Was yer faither wealthy, Skye?” Arran interjected.
“Nay, nae particularly. We were comfortable and happy. But we lived up all that me faither made, week to week. Me maither didnae bring much to her marriage with Blackwell, except me. He’d rather I was a son, but after four wives and nae children, he couldnae be picky.”
“So, no heirs in all that time? Not even a bastard come out of the woodwork?” Arran asked.
“Nay, nary a single one, lad or lass,” Skye replied.
“Heh! Sounds like Laird MacKeith is as barren as the land in the Raven Glens!” Elsie cackled, referring to lands high in the mountains, where nearly no plants or trees grew. “Serves that rotter right! Years and years of tormenting James over that wretched bet. And never letting him buy the lands back!”
“So, ye are his heir?” Arran asked slowly.
“Aye and nay. He is free to choose someone to replace him, but our clan has a council too. They adhere to the centuries-old traditions. And some fear him. And those who dinnae fear him dinnae trust him.”
Arran looked deep in thought. But before he could utter a word, she continued.
“Blackwell needs the support of the council. And if I were to marry someone he favors, then the council wouldnae be able to challenge his decision. Me husband would be the next Laird of Clan MacKeith.”
