No wonder he felt more at ease at Drumlui among the Mackintoshes.
* * *
The next two days were filled with an awkward dance of avoidance by both him and his parents. They pretended that he’d said and asked nothing during their discussion and he pretended not to notice. He allowed his mother to fawn over him and it seemed to make her happy and less tense around him. His father studied him silently and would look away when Alan faced him rather than meet his gaze.
So, even with the possibility of a growing threat to the peace in these lands and between the clans, his father would not act. That fact kept him awake for the three nights he stayed at Tor Castle. And it haunted his journey back to Glenlui.
At times, he wondered if his uncle was right. Mayhap his father was the coward Gilbert accused him of being? Mayhap Robert Cameron was not strong enough to rule over the clan? And every time he even allowed those doubts in, he knew that his father would be a better chieftain than his uncle had been.
As he travelled back with no reason to rush, he also discovered that all the thinking in the world could not solve the puzzle that was his father. Mayhap Brodie knew more of it? It was something he had never brought up to The Mackintosh before, but now, with the threat of war between their families, it might be the best time to do so.
* * *
He arrived at Drumlui Keep just as the news of Hugh MacMillan’s marriage did. Alan knew that pieces were being put into place and readied for a match that would pit old enemies and new allies against each other. Aye, the pieces were moving in a game that his uncle was playing. God help them all.
The strange thing was that with each mile closer to Glenlui, his thoughts strayed from the concerns of his family and turned instead to the young woman who stayed with her cousin in the village. Was she already on her way to the convent? Would she be at Clara’s side when he visited? Would she smile at him in the way that made her eyes sparkle? Cursing himself a fool for hungering for a woman who had chosen God over men, he rode through Drumlui Keep’s gates and sought out the chieftain.
Chapter Nine
‘Would you stay for supper, Dougal?’ Clara asked as Sorcha and Dougal arrived at the cottage after her visit to the keep.
‘I...’ Dougal hesitated in his reply.
‘I made the stew, Dougal,’ Sorcha said proudly. Had this been even five days ago, she would not have offered, but she’d learned so much these last few days.
‘Aye,’ Dougal said. ‘I would be glad of it.’
It was the least she could do for his acts of kindness to her. He had not again mentioned her habit of getting lost on her way through the village. He just appeared at her side when she walked on her way to or from the keep each day and wordlessly guided her steps along the right path.
They spoke of the village and all sorts of topics she experienced living here. His questions never strayed to personal matters, so she never truly had to lie to him. And they spoke of his father’s plans for the mill now that his two uncles had arrived to help with the expansion and repairs for it. And, sometimes, they just walked in companionable silence through the village.
This was the first time Clara had invited him to stay and she watched Clara for some sign of her intentions. Helping to bring the bowls and spoons and bread to the table, she sensed nothing amiss. Jamie arrived and continued discussing some repairs of the mill with Dougal as she and Clara herded the wee ones to their places for the meal.
The meal was filling and plain but pleasant. Several times, Sorcha looked up to see Dougal staring across the table at her, but he did not say anything when she glanced back at him. Inexperienced at such conversations and experiences with men, Sorcha waited for the same reaction to happen as it did when Alan stared at her so.
Yet, it did not happen. No heat. No spark of excitement that moved along her skin when their hands touched while passing a plate across the table. Clara kept a conversation going with bits of news and gossip and questions, so that, by the time they finished eating, Sorcha knew much more about Dougal than she had before.
He was the middle of three brothers and the only one who worked the mill with their father. He had a younger sister. He enjoyed his work. He respected his parents and wished to visit the other Mackintosh lands soon. And Dougal never gazed at her with the intensity she saw in Alan’s scrutiny.
She startled at that and Clara cleared her throat, for she’d missed something that Dougal had said as she’d been remembering Alan’s way of staring at her.
‘Dougal asked if you were going to the keep on the morrow, Saraid.’ Clara repeated his question.
‘Oh, your pardon, Dougal,’ she said. ‘I was thinking about something Father Diarmid said to me.’ And now praying for forgiveness foranotherlie told. ‘Aye, Lady Arabella asked me to speak to her on the morrow. After the noon meal.’
‘I will be there with Jamie in the morn,’ Dougal said, nodding to Jamie to confirm it. ‘Seek me when you finish if you wish to walk back together.’
Clara wore a strange expression when Dougal finished speaking and she exchanged some glances with Jamie before standing and taking some of the plates from the table. She did the same, putting the bowls and spoons into the large bucket they used for washing them. In a few minutes, the table was empty and the children sleepy and ready for their beds.
‘See Dougal out, Saraid,’ Clara directed. ‘I will get the bairns to sleep.’
Sorcha followed Dougal as he thanked Clara and Jamie for supper. Night had fallen while they ate and the village had quieted. He stepped away from the door and she watched as he turned back to her.
‘The stew was as good as my ma’s,’ he said with a smile. Though she had never tasted his mother’s cooking, she took it as a supreme compliment. For a son to say such a thing as that surely was one.
‘I am glad you enjoyed it, Dougal,’ she said. ‘Mayhap you can join us again? I am learning to make a new dish each day.’ She’d never explained why she was so late in learning to cook and he did not ask or look askance at her admission.
‘I would like that, Saraid.’
