It was true the lad had come within two inches of six feet, but Brendan remained skinny, and nearly as gangly as Connell. In another three or four years, aye, he might put on the muscle to make a fight interesting. Today, though, a brawl would only serve to embarrass the boy, get his back up. That would only ensure that not a one of them learned the lesson he badly needed to teach them.
“Well, it willnae be today, because Sean Moss’s son Will has a fever, and ye’ll be helping to sack the grain at the mill. Ye and Dùghlas, both.”
Brendan slammed his fist against the paper-covered surface of the billiards table. “Send us to shovel shite if ye want, Graeme, but ye’re still a stubborn fool.”
“I dunnae want to shovel shite,” Dùghlas countered.
“Shut yer gobber, Dùghlas,” his older sibling grunted. “I’m making a bloody point.” The three lads started for the door.
“So am I,” the second-youngest returned. “Aboot shite, and how I dunnae want to shovel it.”
“Dùghlas, ye’re a—”
“Connell,” Graeme broke in, reaching out to catch the eight-year-old by the collar. “Ye stay here.”
The boy frowned. “The lads watch after me.”
“Aye. And the last time they did, ye lured a lass into a kidnapping. Stay aboot the hoose.”
“Fine,” Connell grumbled. “But I dunnae like it.”
“Good. Ye’re nae meant to.”
When the older boys had gone, Connell faced him again. “Would the Maxwell hurt Lady Marjorie?” he asked, dipping both hands into his pockets to absently pet the rabbit kits Graeme wasn’t supposed to know about. “Is that why ye want her to stay here?”
“I dunnae ken if he would or nae,” he returned, putting a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder and guiding him back into the hallway. “If I gave her over, and if he did hurt her, it would be on my head, though. And I’ve enough to worry over withoot adding that.”
Connell nodded. “Mayhap we should let her go, then, while the lads are at the mill. Ye could tell ’em she escaped.”
“I would, if I could trust her nae to accuse ye three muttonheads of dragging her off.” And if he could be sure that whatever tale she told wouldn’t reach Dunncraigh and cause even more trouble between him and his clan chief—if he didn’t end up in prison, which seemed the most likely scenario. “Between ye and me, duckling, marrying her is the best plan I have.”
“Well, I hope she likes us, if she’s to be part of the family.”
Hm. She would be a part of the family, which meant she would be about sensitive, impressionable Connell. “If she doesnae like us, she’s mad. But dunnae worry yerself aboot it, duckling. I’ll sort it oot.”
The eight-year-old chuckled as he headed up the stairs toward his animal-filled bedchamber. “Aye. The way ye sorted oot Fionan Polk?” He mimed swinging a punch. “The blood went everywhere! I even got some on my shoe.”
Graeme grinned. “She’s a lass, so I reckon I’ll try to be more delicate.”
This time Connell laughed. “Ye’re nae delicate, Graeme.”
His brother had a point. Four lads in the house, three of them his responsibility since his twentieth year, meant that more often than not he solved problems with a loud voice and a short, hard punishment, a smack across the arse, or a toss into the river Douchary. Ham-fisted, but effective.
Until now, anyway. Completely aside from thewayshe’d arrived, having a female beneath his roof changed everything. The last woman in residence had been their mother, and while Graeme remembered her well enough, mostly he recalled how petite she’d been, how delicate-seeming, and yet how utterly ferocious. This lass seemed more sharp and more helpless, but he had no inclination to compare the two females, anyway. Marjorie Forrester was very much not his mother.
Was she a wife, though? And why had it begun to matter to him that she liked them? Liked him? She was a damned prisoner, and should be grateful for any solution he offered.
“M’laird,” Cowen said from the foyer before Graeme could even reach the landing, “Father Michael’s here. He said ye’re to go over the schedule for the Samhain fair.”
And that would take the remainder of his day. For a moment Graeme contemplated giving the scheduling duties over to Cowen, but the task traditionally belonged to the clan chieftain, and that was him. Aside from that, he’d requested a marriage license this morning. Graeme had asked for discretion, but neither would he be surprised if half the valley knew he’d decided to wed.
“Did ye put him in the morning room?”
“Aye. With some of that black tea he favors.”
Graeme nodded, heading back down the stairs. “Come find me in an hour with some disaster or other, or I’ll sack ye.” He paused. “And nae a word aboot our guest.”
“I wouldnae,” Cowen returned. “I can only imagine how many hours he’d preach aboot that.”
