This was the glamorous life of a chieftain. Settling petty disputes while other men fought for Scotland’s freedom. While Greig and Ailean rode with Murray, striking at the English, making a difference. On the mainland, battles were being fought. Enemies defeated. Men were proving themselves against steel and blood, not squabbling fishermen.
But that wasn’t to be Craeg’s destiny.
His fingers drummed restlessly against the arm of the chair.
“Enough!” His voice cracked like a whip through the bickering. Both men fell silent, turning to him with startled expressions. Their responses brought him a little, albeit grim, satisfaction. “Dougal, ye say the boat is yers. Do ye have proof?”
“Aye! I carved my mark into the bow … three notches, like so.” He demonstrated with his fingers.
“And Tavish … ye found the boat adrift, ye say?”
“Aye, Maclean. Just floating in the Sound. No sign of Dougal anywhere.”
Craeg’s fingers continued their impatient rhythm. He could settle this with his eyes closed. It was tedious—mind-numbing administrative drudgery.
“Dougal,” he said, his tone sharpening once more. “If ye’d properly secured yer boat, it wouldn’t have drifted away. That’s carelessness on yer part.”
The fisherman’s face fell.
“However,” Craeg continued, “the boat is still yers. Tavish, ye will return it to Dougal by sunset today.”
Tavish scowled. “But I spent half a day rowing it back here.”
“And Dougal will pay ye for yer trouble. Two silver pennies for yer time and effort in recovering his property.” He didn’t wait for their gratitude. “Agreed?”
Both men started muttering under their breath.
“Are we agreed?” He cut them off sharply.
“Aye, Maclean,” they mumbled.
“Right.” He waved them away. “Now get yer arses out of my hall before I lose my patience.”
The fishermen departed hastily, not doubting him.
He watched them go, a memory tugging at him.
His father, knocking one of his tenant farmers to the ground in this hall many years earlier during an audience.
He couldn’t remember how the man had transgressed, only that he’d left the hall missing his two front teeth.
Something cold and oily slithered through Craeg’s gut then.
His old man hadn’t liked dealing with petty disputes either.
They had that in common.
Shaking off the thought, Craeg rose from his chair. His muscles coiled with pent-up energy. He felt like a warhorse trapped in a paddock—bred for battle, condemned to leisure. His mother would have handled this with ease, might even have found satisfaction in the orderly resolution of conflict. But she wasn’t here anymore. She, Alec, and Lena had moved to Laggan a week earlier, leaving Moy entirely in his hands.
He nodded curtly to the witnesses. “We’re done for the morning. Tell anyone waiting that I’ll see them on Tuesday.”
“Aye, Maclean.”
He strode from the hall. Crossing the barmkin, he took the steps to the walls two at a time, desperate for air. For something other than these suffocating stone walls. He’d been on edge of late, as it was. His encounter with Hazel at market had left him feeling oddly unsettled, and his wedding to Isla loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon. But more than that, he felt trapped.
At least on the battlefield, if the darkness in his blood surfaced—if he proved himself his father’s son after all—it would serve a purpose. Cruelty, rage, and violence were all virtues in war. All weapons against England’s invaders.
But here, they were just liabilities. Dangers he had to constantly guard against.
