“Do ye recommend I follow yer strategy? Stay so close to Dunncraigh’s arse that he thinks ye a pimple?”
“Go to the devil, ye useless sack of shite. Ye’re the same as yer father and yer grandfather, stubborn fools. There are consequences fer failing yer betters. With yer brothers to look after, ye’d best remember th—”
“Hamish,” the duke called. “I’ve nae wish to remain here till Christmas.”
The other Maxwell chieftain present held Graeme’s gaze, clearly meaning to intimidate.Not bloody likely.Graeme tilted his head, then took a quick half step forward. When Paulk flinched back, he curved his mouth in a smile he didn’t feel. “It’ll take more than yer beady eyes glaring at me to give me a fright,” he murmured. “Now run off, dog. Yer master’s calling ye.”
“He’s yer master, too. Ye’d best realize that before he decides the wee bit ye contribute isnae worth the aggravation ye cause.” With that, Sir Hamish turned on his heel and stepped up into the coach.
Graeme stood on his drive of crushed oyster shells and gravel to watch the coaches and riders rumble down the hill and vanish into the scattering of trees and boulders beyond. Once he was certain they were well away, he turned back to the house—to find Dùghlas and Brendan standing in the open doorway, both of them holding rifles. Cowen stood just inside the foyer, armed with an old claymore the butler had likely pulled off the wall in the drawing room.
“Do ye mean to murder yer own clan chief then, lads?” he asked, proud that they’d had the presence of mind to arm themselves, and alarmed at what would have happened if a battle had erupted in his morning room.
“They threatened ye, Graeme,” Dùghlas said, blowing out his breath as he lowered the weapon to point at the floor. “I nearly pissed myself when Cowen showed ’em into the hoose.”
“Why would the Maxwell think ye’d want anything at all to do with the Sassenach Lattimer?” Brendan took up. “Mayhap weshouldgo shoot the grand Gabriel Forrester so Dunncraigh will leave us be.” He hefted his rifle.
Eyeing the sixteen-year-old, Graeme frowned. “I’ll agree we could use both the money and gratitude that being Dunncraigh’s lapdog would give us, but the Duke of Lattimer’s nae done a damned thing to me. So ye mark me well, Brendan; nae a soul here is to harm Lattimer or those under his protection. Do both of ye brutes ken what I’m telling ye?”
“Aye.”
“Aye, Graeme.”
“Good. Dùghlas, go fetch Connell. He’s doon by the ditch with Dunham past the south field.”
Handing his rifle over to Cowen, Dùghlas trotted across the drive toward the near field. Brendan, though, stepped forward and spat onto the gravel. “After losing a thousand Maxwells to that Sassenach, Dunncraigh should be more grateful to ye and yers. Ye should have told him that, Graeme.”
“I’ll agree that a Maxton has been a clan Maxwell chieftain fer better than two hundred years, if ye’ll agree that our da and I’ve nae spent much of that time bowing to Dunncraigh. I reckon we’d fare better if I bowed more, but I’m nae murdering anyone in exchange fer a pat on the head.”
The brother nearest him in age continued to look angry and defiant, as offended and righteous as any well-protected and stubborn sixteen-year-old could be. Graeme put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. The lads had been much easier to manage when they were bairns, and the eleven years that separated him from Brendan had seemed much wider. Just a few years ago he could tell them the way things were and they didn’t question a damned word of it.
“Tempers are boiling now,” he continued, “what with Lattimer getting his gamekeeper to swear that he was taking blunt from Dunncraigh in exchange fer causing trouble. The Maxwell’s embarrassed, I reckon. And he wants blood. But winter’s nearly here, and everything’ll quiet doon. By spring we’ll be talking aboot calves and lambs and all this will be forgotten. So be patient. Dunncraigh willnae be sending us posies, but he’ll likely go back to ignoring us again—which is damned fine enough fer me.”
Finally Brendan nodded, his fingers easing their grip on the old rifle. “I ken, Graeme. Ye want us to stay quiet, like wee church mice, even though we havenae done a damned thing wrong.”
Graeme knew some who could debate the last part of that statement, but now wasn’t the time for that discussion. “Aye. And now ye can come help me fix that plow and drag it back to Widow Peele’s before the snow and wet rot the rest of it.”
“Dunnae we have men to do that?” Brendan returned, abruptly sounding like a young lad again.
“Aye, we do. And today their names are Graeme and Brendan.”
When Connell trotted back up with Dùghlas, the eight-year-old needed more reassurance that they weren’t about to be murdered. The animosity between the Maxtons and Dunncraigh had begun well before he’d inherited his father’s role as chieftain, but he could take steps to mend the break if he felt so inclined. His brothers shouldn’t have to be frightened of their own kin and clan. Causing trouble for a neighbor, though, English or not, didn’t sit well. Lattimer had brought some changes to the Highlands, but none of them had harmed him or his. If not for Dunncraigh’s public condemnation of the man, Graeme would have been tempted to go make his acquaintance. They were neighbors, after all, even if their homes lay six hours’ distant from each other.
Once he’d sent the younger lads back into the house and Brendan on his way to the field, Graeme gestured at Cowen. “Send fer Boisil Fox and his brothers,” he muttered, moving closer to the butler. “I want an extra watch on the hoose tonight.”
The butler nodded, his gaze moving toward the treeline. “Ye reckon we’re in fer it, Laird Maxton?”
“Nae. I dunnae want Brendan sneaking off to go shoot the Duke of Lattimer.”
The older man’s expression eased. “Yerbràthair’s a good lad, if a mite hotheaded.”
“He’s a mite hotheaded the way the Highlands are a bit nippy in January. We’ll be back by sunset.”
“I’ll keep an eye oot until then, m’laird.”
Hopefully keeping his brothers close by until their tempers cooled would see them past the worst of this. The Maxwell’s rare visits had never yet boded well for the Maxtons, and this time was no damned exception. As Graeme made his way back through a deepening drizzle to the widow’s old plow, he spared a moment to wish that he could stop being civil to a man he disliked on principle, and stop worrying over three younger brothers, a half-dozen servants, and roughly two hundred cotters currently residing on his land.
With that kind of freedom, the only question would be who he went after first—Lattimer, for simply being there and being English; or Dunncraigh for fifty years of bitter vitriole. But that was also a question for a man who lived a different life—and one with far less responsibility than he had.
