“The snow’s stopped. Someone ought to go take a look at the irrigation ditches and see what’s to be done tomorrow. So I reckon that’s where I’m going.”
With a nod, Graeme stepped aside. “Good. Stay away from Sheiling in case someone remembers ye were there the same day her ladyship went missing.”
“Aye, Laird Maxton, my lord and chieftain.”
Connell charged the door, too, the foxes on his heels. “I’ll go fetch my coat and help him, then.”
“Ye’ll fetch yer coatafterye read me yer sentences,” their oldest brother amended, putting a hand on the duckling’s head to turn him back into the depths of the room.
“Damnation,” Connell muttered. “Ye’re truly nae going to sell Garaidh nan Leòmhann, are ye? And dunnae lie to me. I’m old enough to know the truth.”
Graeme sat at the worktable. “I’m nae selling our home, Connell. And that is the truth. I may have to lease some of the hillsides fer grazing to some of our neighbors, but ye’ll always have a home here. Except when ye go to Edinburgh to university, of course.”
With a laughing yell of protest Connell launched himself at Graeme, and the two of them and the foxes ended up in a pile on the floor that only ended when Graeme stood and lifted the bairn over his head. “Who’s the Bruce?” he demanded, lowering Connell’s head until they were eye to upside-down eye.
The boy roared with laughter. “I’m the Bruce!”
“What?” Graeme spun him in a quick circle with the foxes bounding into the air around them. “I couldnae quite hear ye. Who’s the Bruce?”
“I surrender! Ye’re the Bruce!”
With a triumphant bellow Graeme tossed Connell in the air and caught him again. In another year or two the lad would be too heavy for flinging about. Not today, though. Today he needed to hear the duckling’s laughter as much as the boy needed a good laugh and a wrestle. Another thing he’d neglected over the past few days.
The next three things happened all at once.
Soft female laughter sounded from just inside the doorway behind him.
Connell squealed. “Ye set her free! I knew ye would, Graeme!”
Brendan pounded on the sitting room window from outside. “Uncle Raibeart’s here! Sir Hamish Paulk’s with him!”
***
This had been a good idea.Marjorie knew it had been. She’d sat in her temporary bedchamber for nearly an hour-after she’d clanked over to the door the second Graeme left to slide a piece of writing paper between the lock and the jamb to keep the door from locking, then removed the padding from the ankle lock and pulled her foot free. She still had no idea where to run, and he was likely to dog her heels unless he trusted her at least a little.
Before she could open her mouth to state that she might have run but she’d chosen not to do so, Graeme dumped his youngest brother onto the overstuffed couch cushions and strode forward to grab her arm. “Paulk’s Dunncraigh’s lapdog. So ye need to get back upstairs,” he hissed, his face pale. “Now.”
The flat, dead-serious tone of his voice convinced her as much as his grim expression. This was not him being angry that she’d escaped her prison. That would likely come later. With a brief nod she gathered her green skirts and hurried up the hallway—only to be blocked from the stairs by the two older men for whom Cowen had opened the front door.
The butler’s eyes widened almost comically as he caught sight of her. “I—ye,” he stammered. “Ye shouldnae be here.”
“Nonsense, Cowen,” the taller of the two men drawled, favoring her with a smile that reminded her of Graeme’s. “A lass here in the Lion’s Den? Introduce us.”
These two men were the reason Graeme had been more concerned with getting her out of sight than with figuring out how she’d escaped. The question for her, though, became whether they were more likely to offer her aid or to send her off to the Duke of Dunncraigh.
She did, however, have some skills at conversation that might assist her, and in more ways than one. She offered a polite curtsy. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’ve been told that one of you is Lord Maxton’s uncle, and one of you is Sir Hamish Paulk, but I’m afraid I wasn’t given a description.”
The one who looked like an older version of Graeme put a hand to his chest. “Raibeart Maxton. This is Sir Hamish Paulk, chieftain of clan Maxwell.”
“A chieftain? Like Lord Maxton is a chieftain?”
Steel-gray eyes took in the length of her before returning to her face. “Nae. I’m nae like Graeme Maxton. I dunnae ignore the Maxwell’s wishes or fail to pay my tithes. And ye’re English.”
That answered that. She and Sir Hamish were not going to become bosom friends. “I am English.”
“And what’s yer name, then? Ye’ve held on to it fer a good bit, I reckon.”
“Uncle Raibeart.” Graeme’s booming voice sounded from closer behind her than she expected. “Thank ye fer coming so quickly. And Sir Hamish. What brings ye this far from Dunncraigh’s boots? And who’s licking ’em while ye’re away?”
