Alex sighed and scrubbed his face. Did he really need to explain? Perhaps. The older man clung to tradition like the superstitious crofters he spoke about. “We dinna use the bed, Mathe. Not the first time.”
The councilman’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Are ye going to call me a heathen again?”
“I doona know what to say, Alexander. Is Lady Keely well?”
“Sleeping as sound as a babe.”
“Something must be done, milord. Quickly.”
With the sudden loss of his appetite, Alex shot up from his chair and rushed upstairs. Instead of returning to the laird’s bedchamber where Keely slept, he went to her room. Fresh linens were folded and kept on a shelf near the bed. He selected a sheet, opened it, and then used the dirk from his boot to cut himself on the wrist. Very carefully, he sprinkled a fair amount of blood on the material. “There’s yer virgin’s blood,” he said out loud.
He left the soiled linen on the bed and went back to the great hall to find a maid.
Fortunately, Leah was available. “Go to my wife’s chamber and bring the bridal sheet belowstairs. Present it to Captain Mathe and do with it as he asks.”
Leah curtsied and left.
Alex once again claimed his chair at the high table. “Leah will fetch the sheet ye asked for.”
“Good,” Mathe said. “Are ye happy, Alex? Will Keely suit?”
Alex took a drink of ale. “She’ll suit.”
He finished his meal in silence, then motioned for his captains to follow him outside. The west village must be rebuilt. If it wasn’t, the Sutherlands would see it as a sign of fear. And he’d be damned if the earl would be given any opportunity to claim victory over the MacKays.
A squire saddled his horse and brought him out of the stable. Alex mounted, waiting for the rest of his men to do the same. The west village was a short ride away. Since he hadn’t taken the time to tour it after the battle, it was a long overdue visit.
An hour later, they approached the outskirts. It dinna take long for Alex to see the devastation, burned out huts and scorched earth. The gardens were even destroyed. Nothing had been spared. It enraged Alex that such violence was directed at his people, instead of at him or the MacKay soldiers. Women and children had died or been kidnapped.
“There is nothing worth saving.” Jamie rode up beside him.
“Except for our pride.”
“Aye,” his cousin reluctantly agreed. “There is that.”
“What it’s worth,” Alex added.
“Not much to a Sutherland.”
“But everything to a MacKay,” Alex finished.
Nearly a hundred people had lived there. Though one of the smaller villages, the tenants were hard workers and produced the finest wool and tastiest vegetables for his table. It had always been that way. As a child, Alex would play with the children who lived there, spending hours swimming in the nearby loch and eating supper with whatever family invited him to stay.
He dismounted and walked to a random spot where a hut once stood. He crouched and picked up a clump of earth and smelled it, rich soil—the best his lands had to offer.
“How many huts were here?” he asked.
“Seventeen,” one of his men answered.
“Rebuild every one of them, better than before. I want a defensive wall constructed as well—four feet high, from stone.”
“Alex.” Jamie joined him. “The time and expense…”
“No expense will be spared, Jamie. Remember, with my new lairdship comes my well-supplied purse. The MacKays willna go without again.”
“And what will happen the next time a Sutherland decides to attack the village?”
