Hopefully, this wasn’t another mistake she would live to regret.
CHAPTER 7
The study smelledof beeswax and ink. Jack sat with the ledgers spread open across the desk. He knew the habits of these books like he knew the castle, and he knew the records they kept.
There were pages about the wages of the maids and footmen, and credit from a Laird MacInnis for timber. He tried again and read the number. He repeated it in his head. He pictured the count in sacks and barrels. Yet, each time, his mind drifted elsewhere.
Each time, it drifted toher.
He thought of the look on Emma’s face when he saw her in the courtyard, calm as if she had arrived at a quiet house rather than a hard one. He thought of her lifting Stella and how the child had laughed and grabbed at the green ribbon like it was a prize.
He had expected some kind of pride from her. Hell, he had braced for sharp words. However, tenderness was not what he had expected for the night.
The fire snapped, and he blinked. The numbers in the books blurred again. He set the quill down so he would not break it.
The door creaked open, and a younger man with bright red hair and an angry look on his freckled face stepped inside.
“Troy,” Jack said, pushing the ledger aside. “Are the guests settled?”
“Aye, me Laird. The lady and her maither have their chambers, and their trunks are properly stowed.”
“Good.” Jack turned the quill between his fingers. “Any trouble in the courtyard?”
“None.” Troy hesitated. “There is, however, another matter. Word from Laird Buchanan.”
Jack felt the muscles in his jaw tick. “Go on.”
“He grows bolder,” Troy reported. “When I told his men we’d nae tolerate their lads crossing our line again, the answer was a laugh. They called the MacLeod men soft and said if we didnae like it, we could take our complaint to the Devil.”
Jack watched Troy’s face while he spoke. The lad was loyal, but he kept his anger in the proper place. Even now, the anger was there and held in check.
“And what do ye propose?” Jack asked.
“Let us strike the stores he keeps at the mill,” Troy suggested. “We can burn them and bring him to his knees before winter. He’ll learn fast enough whose fields feed his own.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Destroy a mill because a fool spoke out of turn?”
“He insulted yer house, me Laird. If we let it stand?—”
“If I wage war on every man who insults me,” Jack interrupted, sinking further into his chair, “we’ll be the only clan left in the Highlands.” He kept his voice even, even though the edge was there anyway. “We hold the line, and we daenae move first.”
Troy shifted. “He is testing us.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed. “So we make the test dull. Send him an invitation. Tell him I’ll meet him here. One on one.”
“I tried,” Troy said. “His messenger said he’d nae step foot in MacLeod territory ever again.”
Jack’s mouth curved a fraction. “Then we soften the step. He collects old blades, does he nae? Find one worth showing and send that with the letter.”
“Ye want us to send him agift? Did ye hear what I said he did, me Laird?” Troy sputtered, as if the word tasted sour.
“Think of it as a gesture,” Jack said. “Laird Buchanan is a man of reason. I am certain he would accept the gift.”
Troy snorted, not quite in scorn. “I wouldnae put that man and reason in the same sentence, me Laird.”
“We cannae wage war, Troy,” Jack responded. “We have stores to fill and a castle to run. War is a last resort, so for now, if peace keeps our coffers full, I will take it.”
A silence settled between them until Troy lowered his head. “Aye, me Laird.”
