Sin stepped to the caber. Montague made a comment, but his voice was merely the buzz of a fly for all the attention Winnifred paid him. A bruise darkened her husband’s cheekbone and his right eye was red and swollen. His green and blue plaid flapped in the breeze, exposing the bottom of his thick thighs. He unwrapped the portion of his tartan that crossed his chest and tossed it aside.
Her breath caught. No barriers between Sin and his goal. Winnifred recognized the focus in his face. The determination. She’d seen it directed at her often enough.
Her shoulders relaxed. Sin wanted to win this competition and so he would. He didn’t know how to do anything less.
The log was nestled into a hollow he carved in his shoulder and neck. He squatted low, grasped the base of the caber, and smoothly stood upright. The other end of the caber wavered an inch before Sin brought it under control. He took three running steps and flung the pole into the air.
A hush fell over the crowd as the head of the pole hit the ground. The tail end rolled after it, the caber looking like a metronome as it fell directly away from Sin. He planted his hands on his kilt covered hips, his wide chest heaving and gave a decisive nod.
A roar went up. Men crowded her husband, slapping him on the back
“Is that it?” Winnifred rolled to her knees, wanting a better look at her husband. He stood a head taller than everyone else and Winnifred was thankful for his massive size. She would never lose him in a crowd. “Did he win?”
“That he did.” Deirdre gave a triumphant tilt of her chin Lady Abercairn, and Winnifred couldn’t help the burst of laughter that escaped her lips. She clapped and hooted along with everyone else.
Montague offered her a hand and pulled her to standing. “Is it safe to say you enjoy the Scottish traditions then?”
“Very much so.” She turned to the crofter’s wife and accepted her congratulations. “Living with my father in Ludgate, I could never have imagined such a life, and now I can’t imagine how I could go without. The Scottish are free.”
The duke strolled with her down to the playing fields. “That is an unusual sentiment, what with their gripes about the Union. In what way?”
“Free with their expression, with their excitement, with their lo—laughter.” Her throat tightened but she cleared that dark emotion away. She wouldn’t allow her deficiencies to ruin the moment. “I never realized how constricted the English are, always trying to conform to society’s expectations, until I came here.”
Montague turned soft grey eyes down on her. “I am glad for my friend that you are content. Glad for you. It amazes me that some of the best matches come about in surprising ways.”
Her cheeks heated at the reminder of her marriage’s origin. At how fortunate she was that Sin was the sort of man who let honor guide his actions. That he was the sort of man who stove to make her life as good as possible. Her heart burned. If that wasn’t deserving of love, nothing was. So why couldn’t she feel it?
Lady Abercairn also wasn’t feeling the love. She and her husband stood by the shore of the loch, her finger poking into his chest, her heated words bringing angry or shamed blotches of red to her husband’s face.
“Lady Abercairn doesn’t appear content with her husband’s performance at the games,” Montague said mildly.
Winnifred cocked her head. By the ugly twist to the lady’s lips, that seemed a great understatement. Winnifred pursed her lips. Why did her husband merely stand there and take the abuse? How much control did Lady Abercairn have over her husband? Winnifred had thought the woman passionate enough of the cause of Scottish independence to support her husband in treason. But perhaps there was more to it.
Lady Abercairn grabbed her husband’s elbow and pulled him away, stalking back toward the castle.
Perhaps Lady Abercairn was the ringleader.
***
Sin strode into Rothchild’s bedchambers, Montague a step behind him. Rothchild lay spread-eagle on top of his bed, a soft snore puffing from his lips.
Sin cuffed his friend’s boot. “Get up. Good lord it’s only five in the afternoon. Are you getting to the age where you need to nap?”
Rothchild jerked awake. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was only resting my eyes.” He stretched, groaning. “And other parts of my body.”
Montague straddled the bench at the foot of the bed. “In future, perhaps you should remember that Scottish games aren’t for you.”
Rothchild raised his head and turned his narrow-eyed glare on the duke. “I only needed some preparation. I’ve never thrown a bloody log before or run a foot race that involved deadly assaults. Next time Dunkeld holds these games, I’ll be ready and I’ll win one of them.”
“Next time I hold a Highland gathering, you and I will be in our dotage.” He pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket. “A courier just arrived. This letter is dated three days past. I don’t know why it took so long to arrive from Glasgow, but judging by the stains, it has had a difficult journey.” He tossed the missive on Rothchild’s stomach and paced the room.
Rothchild sat up to read it. “Is Summerset certain? If this were to take place …”
“Then the British economy would collapse.” Montague gripped the back of his neck. “A disruption of this size on our currency at a time when crops are already struggling would be devastating.”
Sin rested his hands on the top of a window and stared into the fading afternoon. From this room, he could see the corner of Loch Munro, the heather-strewn hill where Winnifred had sat and watched him in his kilt. Mountains rose in the distance, purpling in the approaching night, blunt and beautiful. Just like Scotland.
“You think the rebels intend to destroy Scotland’s supply of currency, not merely steal it?” Rothchild asked.
