“Ride,” she ordered. “Faster.”
As one, the sisters kicked their horses to urge them to ride harder. They plunged ahead.
Ailsa just wished she knew if she was plunging toward salvation or toward her own doom.
CHAPTER ONE
“Ye are not even a true Buchanan!”thundered Hamish Buchanan, known to all and sundry as Auld Hamish, pointing an accusing, gnarled finger at Malcolm Cameron, the only resident of the Keep who was actually older than Auld Hamish.
Malcolm was unimpressed. He crossed his arms. “Me mam was a Buchanan through and through, and ye know, Wee Hamish,” Hamish sucked in an offended breath. “I’ve lived at this Keep longer than ye’ve been alive. Dinnae tell me what makes a true Buchanan!”
“Nae true Buchanan woulde’ersuggest changin’ the whisky receipt!” Hamish shot back.
Ewan Buchanan exchanged a speaking glance with his father, Laird Phileas Buchanan, then quickly looked away before either of them could crack a smile.
Gathering the clan elders was tradition, one that could not be sullied with mockery.
Not even when said elders were not precisely sharing their wisdom.
“I’m nae saying we changeallthe whisky, ye dullard!” Malcolm returned. “I’m sayin’ we try sommat new. How do ye think we got theoldreceipts, eh?”
Sometimes it was better to let the elders just vent their frustrations. Or, as was the case of Craig Cameron, Malcolm’s younger—but still ancient—brother, to let them nap with their heads lolling on their chest.
But Ewancouldthink of a few better uses of his time.
Not that he was likely to get to do any of those things. Auld Hamish and Malcolm had the look they got when they were planning on digging in their heels. The last time they’d gotten like this—a debate over which decades’ dead cook at the Keep had made the best bannocks—it had takenhours.
It was a good exercise in diplomacy and patience, Phileas had reminded his son afterward, and those were two key skills in any laird’s arsenal.
“Besides,” Phileas had argued, “they do talk sense every now and again. Listenin’ to the nonsense is jus’ the price we pay to hear those wee bits o’ sense.”
If Ewan wanted anything in this life, it was to serve his people well. So he listened. Even when the elders were debating what amounted to adding one cupful of honey to a whisky recipe—something that, ultimately, neither of them controlled. Phileas was the Laird; he managed the business dealings. Ewan was his second in command.
The elders were… noise. Occasionally charming noise of whom, truth be told, Ewan was fond.
But noise, nonetheless.
“We got the old receipts from our ancestors, ye barmy fool!”
“Oh, aye?” Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “And where didtheyget them, eh?”
Ewan settled more comfortably in his chair and turned his thoughts to wondering about supper.
Just as he was starting to enjoy a proper fantasy about the roast he’d seen the cooks preparing when he’d nipped down to the kitchens earlier, a messenger burst into the room.
“I beg your pardon, my laird,” he said, dropping a hasty bow. “I dinnae mean to interrupt.” Everyone in the Keep knew that interrupting the elders’ session meant being followed around by ancient clansmen whining at you for days. “But there are riders approachin’ fast. Strangers.”
Ewan was on his feet in a flash, his father only seconds behind him. As they hurried from the room without even a word of farewell to the elders, Ewan caught a glimpse of his father’s furrowed brow.
“We’re nae expectin’ anyone, then?” he confirmed, though he already knew the answer.
Phileas shook his head sharply, just the once, but it was enough. Ewan quickened his pace.
Phileas might have been several decades older than Ewan, but he kept up with his son ably as they hurried toward the stables. Indeed, despite the years between them, their similarities were still greater than their differences. Both had the same tall, muscular build—though Ewan might flatter himself to say he wasslightlymore hale than the father he had grown up trying so hard to emulate, now that he was in his prime and Phileas was gently sloping toward his later years. Their sharp blue eyes were a matching set, as well, though Phileas’ dark hair was increasingly streaked with silver, while Ewan’s remained dark as night.
Still, there was a comfort in looking at his father and seeing his own future. If Ewan aged with half as much strength and wisdom as his father had done, he knew he would be able to look back on his life with pride.
Grooms had already saddled their mounts, and a group of guards was waiting. They rode as a unit out the gates of the Keep.
