The common house became a chorus. “Fight! Fight! Beat him down, laddie!”
They hit the floor and began to struggle with one another, rolling from side to side as they knocked into tables and stools, spilling even more drink all over the place. The ale and dirt on the floor was in their hair and all over their clothes as they held each other by the collar and kicked and clawed, until finally MacNear kicked Kyle clear and stumbled up to his feet, holding out his hands to spar.
“Ha! Come on, then!” MacNear bellowed. Kyle staggered up, wiping the blood from his nose, and answered back with a guttural cry, lunging forward once more. MacNear swung his fist, but it was far too slow, and Kyle collided with him square in the chest, sending the pair through the common house’s door with a clatter and a holler from the crowd.
They landed in the muck of the yard, the rain pouring down and the thunder roaring on as they fumbled about, headbutting and punching and clawing, each trying to get to their feet but failing as their drunkenness collided with the slick, uneven ground. Mud smeared their clothes and their faces and their hands, and still, they fought. MacNear was fighting because he was drunk, and a fight was good sport, but Kyle was fighting for Laila.
Laila sat with Lady McGowan in the Lady’s chambers, listening to the storm rain down as the pregnant noblewoman poked casually at some needlepoint. It was late, and the men were still carrying on, and so there they waited. That was their lot, and over the years, both had become very accustomed to it.
“This ruddy thing,” Lady McGowan mumbled with a frown, threading her needle once more through the piece in his hands. “When I was a lass, they taught me how to do this, you know, but now that I am a lady, I seem to have forgotten.”
“It has never been my strong suit, either,” Laila replied with a faint smile.
“You were taught embroidery?” Lady McGowan asked, raising an eyebrow. “Quite the commoner you have turned out to be.” Laila bit her lip. She was not very good at concealing her identity, and she knew she had to be better at it.
“Only for a time, Milady,” Laila answered, “Before I was alone. On an estate in the South.”
“What an interesting life you have led,” Lady McGowan said slyly, setting the needlework aside and laying her hands atop her very pregnant belly. “And to end up all the way up here.”
“This place suits me just fine, Milady,” Laila said, glancing nervously at one of the windows. The rain left great streaks on the glass, and Laila thought quickly of how to change the conversation. “How is the child?”
“Oh, this little bugger won’t seem to come out,” Lady McGowan answered, leaning back on her couch. “All in the Lord’s time, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” Laila replied, carefully trying to choose her words. Lady McGowan was clever and quick, that much she had seen, and if anybody were to discover the truth through casual conversation, it would be her. Laila knew it.
“They will be feasting on the morrow,” Lady McGowan said, letting out a long sigh. “I will need your help in preparation.”
“Of course, Milady,” Laila replied, then she raised an eyebrow and asked, “are they not feasting now?”
“Oh no, my dear,” Lady McGowan answered with an exhausted grin. “They are only just celebrating their arrival and whatever they may have discussed in their foolish little war council.”
“Foolish?”
“It’s not as if we’re at war now, is it,” Lady McGowan said, rolling her eyes. “My husband is rich enough to hire some sellswords out of Edinburgh to deal with his little outlaw problem. But he insists on calling the hillmen together like the old days.”
“Does that not earn him their respect?” Laila asked.
“Perhaps,” Lady McGowan said, “but they are all old farts.”
“Milady,” Laila laughed.
“Men like to feel important,” Lady McGowan went on, rolling her eyes. “Even when they’re not. Come then, child, tell me of your family. Are men just the same down South?”
Laila felt a pang of anxiety. She did not know exactly what to say. She had a general story about her being an orphan, but she had never thought out the particulars of her false identity. Where was she from exactly? What was her father’s name?
Lady McGowan slowly got to her feet, placing her hands on the back of her own hips and stretching out the weight of the baby she carried. She waddled over to the window and glanced up at the rain pelting down, and said,
“Does it ever rain like this where you are from? Where was it again?”
Laila’s brain was racing fast as she sought an answer, but before she could spit out a reply, Lady McGowan gave a groan. “Oh dear,” she said.
“Milady?” Laila asked, perking up.
“It seems your ward has had a bit too much to drink.”
“My ward?” Laila laughed a bit, crossing to the window beside Lady McGowan. Then she looked down into the yard and saw Kyle flopping about in the muck with one of the hillmen. A small circle of men was around them, embracing the rain, cheering on as the fight waged on, and Laila felt her gut give a twinge.
Lightning lit the sky, and the glare lit up Kyle’s rain-slicked muscles as he flipped over on top of his opponent and rained a blow down. He was like a majestic beast, taking down his prey in the wilds with a fierce strike. Laila felt that familiar excitement within her to see him in such a way, and she tried her best to keep her composure beside Lady McGowan.
