‘Half-brother, and you’ll get no welcome from me,’ sneered Allard. There was a screech as the bolt was pulled back, and Cullen entered the dark bowels of the house.
Allard had not changed. Griffin Macaulay’s firstborn son had broadened somewhat, his shoulders bulky with muscle, black beard cropped close, and lines etched into his face from perpetually scowling. He was the same joyless oaf at twenty-seven as he had been two years ago - ever quick to anger and slow to wit. Every time he laid eyes on him, Cullen could not believe the same blood ran in their veins.
‘Where is my father?’
‘Taking his ease in the east tower.’
It was the highest and most impregnable part of Scarcross. ‘What is he hiding from now?’
Allard put his face into Cullen’s. ‘Go up and find out.’
Cullen pushed past him and made his way up several flights of stairs to the east tower. It jutted out of the side of the house like an ugly boil on a face, and gave a wide-ranging view of the countryside over the tops of the trees. His father was staring intently out the window.
‘Expecting visitors, Father?’ said Cullen.
Griffin Macaulay jumped in alarm and glowered. ‘You should announce yourself, not creep in like a footpad.’
‘I am a footpad.’
‘You are better than that, or you could be, if you would only raise yourself.’
Cullen groaned inwardly. Nothing ever eased his father’s disappointment in his youngest son. ‘I am what you made me,’ snapped Cullen.
Griffin’s eyes rolled over him. ‘You filled out a bit, lad. Grew some balls and muscle, by the look of you.’
‘Aye, I’ve changed. But then, it’s been two years since I was accorded the honour of a visit.’
‘Still the insolent mouth, I see. How fares our sea trade?’
‘Risky as ever.’
There was no asking after his good health, well-being or happiness. But why did he expect anything more? Wearily, Cullen said, ‘Why the haste in summoning me?’
Griffin’s jaw worked. ‘I have taken steps against an enemy, which might draw danger onto Clan Macaulay.’
‘Which enemy?’
‘Peyton Strachan.’
‘Christ save us! What possessed you to do that?’ said Cullen, shaking his head. ‘He’s a scrapper, that one.’
‘The fiend insulted me. He refused to take a Macaulay bride and went off and married some slut instead. We had a bargain. He was promised to our Catherine, and he broke it off, so I took something from him in compensation.’
‘Strachan is a beat dog, barely clinging onto his clan. They do not esteem him as a laird. Not much of a loss. I don’t see the dilemma.’
‘You’ve been in Ireland a while, and life has moved on. That Strachan bastard has risen to become a big man in the West March. He now has an iron hold on his clan and an alliance with the Glendennings and Bannermans. There’s plenty of life in that beat dog now.’
‘Ah, hence you cowering in your tower.’ Cullen shrugged. ‘So, he has formidable allies, but this devilish union will not last. The Glendennings and Bannermans will go back to stealing off the Strachans soon enough.’
‘Aye, but until that happens, I will be headed for a throat slitting.’
‘Then give Strachan back whatever you stole from him, and let bygones be bygones. Livestock and coin are easily replaced.’
His father’s eyes slid away. ‘Ah, but there’s the rub. It’s not cattle or coin. It’s his sister.’
‘No. Tell me you didn’t.’
‘I did, and she is in the hole. Go and see for yourself.’
