“Those puir foolish mainlanders think the MacLachlans are ghosts,” Fergus said indignantly. He paused for a minute, as if he were waiting for Calum or Eachann to speak. When they didn’t, he picked Calum to glare at. Then he jammed his fists on his hips again and said. “Why are ye shouting at me, Calum MacLachlan. Ye were the one who paid the last one tae leave.”
“That’s because she kept climbing into his bed, old man.” Eachann looked at Calum. “You should have married that one. Then even Fergus here couldn’t say you weren’t carrying on an old clan tradition.”
Calum didn’t know what the hell Eachann was talking about and one look at Fergus said he didn’t either.
Eachann gave them both a wicked grin. “Like our forefathers you’d be sleeping with a battle-axe by your side.”
When neither one of them laughed, Eachann just shrugged and muttered about the sad lack of humor in the MacLachlan clan.
Calum turned back to Fergus. “How much did you pay them?”
“I dinna keep count.”
Calum began to pace, running a hand through his black hair as he thought about how he’d spent those two months running from three different women when the unpredictable weather had prevented them from returning to the mainland. It had been absolute hell.
“The red-haired lassie, now she be a MacGunnagh from Nova Scotia,” Fergus said proudly. “She’d be a perfect wife fer ye.”
Calum stopped pacing. “The twitchy one with the wild hair?”
“Wild hair? You should have seen her eyes,” Eachann mumbled, then shuddered.
“Pure-blooded Scots, she is.” Fergus stood a bit taller and puffed out his chest. “Her mother was—”
“Her father’s sister,” Eachann finished, then cracked three nuts in one hand and gave Fergus a grin.
Fergus fumed for a silent second, then turned and marched angrily toward the door. He muttered something about the great laird MacLachlan’s no-guid spawn, then he smacked right into the door molding.
Dazed, he stood there for a moment, his forehead against the molding like he was nailed to it. He muttered something inaudible and looked all around him to get his bearings, then turned back and glared at Eachann first, then locked his squinting eyes on the bust of Robert the Bruce. “Ye need wives. And I’ll no’ stop till ye have them. Someone has tae care about seeing tae the MacLachlan blood.” And with that he stomped out of the room.
Calum called out after him, “If you bring another woman to this island, the only MacLachlan blood anyone will be seeing, Fergus, is yours.”
There was a crash and a loud Gaelic oath. A few seconds later the front doors slammed shut.
Neither brother said anything for a moment, then Calum unlocked a drawer and took out a bag of money. He tossed it to his Eachann. “Pay them off again and have someone take them back to the mainland.”
“I need to go to the school.” Eachann stood and held up the letter. “I’ll take them back.” He moved toward the doorway, but stopped at the bust of Robert the Bruce and patted it on the head. Imitating Fergus, he said, “Don’t worry, Robbie me lad. Ye need a wife, and old Fergus will be bringing ye the Venus de Milo any day now.”
“You wouldn’t think this was so damn funny if it was you they were chasing.”
Eachann just laughed the way he always did when Calum was in this fix.
“Look. Just get rid of the women. Pay them off. And hurry. I don’t relish having them stuck on the island like the last ones were.”
Eachann clicked his tongue twice and his horse trotted over to his side. In one swift motion Eachann was up in the saddle. He rested one arm on the saddle pommel and grinned down at Calum. “Stop your worrying, brother. I’ll take care of it.”
He ducked down low over his horse and they started to ride out of the library, but Eachann stopped halfway through the doorway and turned back around. “I’ll see those women are off the island.” He gave Calum a cocky salute and added, “Just as soon as those pies are done.”
Chapter Seven
If a person offends you, and you are in doubt as to whether it was intentional or not, do not resort to extreme measures; simply watch your chance, and hit him with a brick.
—Advice to Youth, Mark Twain
The arithmetic master was unconscious for almost five minutes, Mr. MacLachlan.” Miss Hessian Harrington’s distinct and nasally voice pierced through the walnut door between the schoolmistress’s office and the small salon next door.
Seven-year-old Kirsty MacLachlan jabbed an elbow into her brother Graham’s bony ribs, wiggled in front of him, and peered through the keyhole in the salon door.
“I was there first,” Graham whined in a whisper.
