“Aye,” Leathen grumbled.
The Scot walked away, and Bridget shut the door, swallowing. “Wot is it, Da?” she asked. Any missive from the McPearson clan could only mean one thing.
He read the contents, surprise flickering across his face. “Lady Edna is dead, and the clan is without a laird.”
Bridget had only caught a glimpse of the lady once when she was ten, and the lady had ridden through their small village. She looked like a formidable woman, but her father had done nothing but spit on the ground in her direction as she had passed. The lady had grinned at him and spurn her horse on, as if she hadn’t expected anything different, and her father had refused to discuss the incident.
“Wot does that mean for us?” she asked softly as he crushed the parchment in his hand.
“They are sending a representative tae negotiate the value of this farm,” he growled, staring into the fire. “They want tae purchase our home.”
“Ye wilnae let them, will ye?” she whispered.
He looked back at her. “Of course not. They have tried before, and I have told them they are wasting their breath. This farm is ours and these people, they dinnae wish tae be part of a clan or else they would leave tae do so.”
Bridget watched as he threw the missive into the fire, staring as the flames licked the sides of the parchment. She knew that her father didn’t want to be under the laird’s thumb and that here they had the freedom to decide what was best for those that lived on the farm. There was no true leader, even though her father was seen as one, and at any time, one could leave without any concern for their future or their safety. Rarely did they have a tenant leave, and over the years, the tenants had grown to dot the pastures and fields for miles, all careful not to cross the border into McPearson property where they would be subjected to their rules.
“I’ve got tae go warn the others,” Leathen grumbled, raking his hand through his hair. “We may have a fight on our hand, Daughter. Make preparations.”
“Aye, I will,” she responded, watching as he walked out, the weight of Scotland on his shoulders.
Bridget blew out a breath as she stood in their small home, thinking of the clan that would be descending soon. Without a laird, there was no one to make decisions, so where had this come from? Was there a new laird posed to take the position?
What did that mean for them? What if her father declined to negotiate again? Surely they knew he wouldn’t. He hadn’t done so before and likely never would.
Would they take the farm forcibly? Bridget’s stomach turned at the thought. While there were former warriors and able-bodied Scots amongst their tenants, they were going to be no match for the seasoned McPearson warriors.
They couldn’t lose anyone. They were a family, and it was already hard enough to watch those she cared about die from illness or old age.
She surely didn’t want to see them be cut down where they stood.
Clenching her jaw, Bridget strode out of the house, making her way to the weapons room that her father kept in the barn. It was time to practice with her sword.
3
Irvine shoved the tunic into his canvas bag, adding another dagger as he did so. He had spent the morning sparring with his father, and now his shoulders were tight with the constant thrusts. After conversing with his father and the elders, Irvine had decided not to take any warriors with him. After all, he wasn’t the laird yet, and any additional riders would cause some concern to those that they would be negotiating with. He didn’t want them to see him as an enemy but as an ally, and no one would if he had a lot of warriors with him.
No, he would only take one—his closest friend and advisor, Malcolm Lennox. Malcolm and Irvine had grown up together in the sparring ring; Malcolm’s father was the blacksmith in the village. Malcolm had only ever wanted to be a warrior since the moment he could wield a sword and had even ridden out with the lady a few times in her final months.
Now he would be the one that watched Irvine’s back, and if Irvine were successful, could be guarding the future laird of the McPearson clan.
Sighing, Irvine picked up the sword that was seated in its scabbard, the scarred hilt reflecting in the candlelight. He was certain that there was another reason that Kenneth had chosen this as his quest to prove he could be laird. There was something else, something that Irvine had been able to pinpoint about this farm or the need for the clan to have it. Was he sending Irvine on a fool’s journey, knowing that he wouldn’t be successful? It only made sense.
Well, Irvine wasn’t going to fail himself or that of his family, of his great-aunt Edna’s wishes. He would prove that he was meant to be laird, and once he did so, he would likely have to banish his own great-uncle in the process. There would be no peace between them; not since he had made it known he didn’t think that his great-nephew should be laird.
“Och, I hope ye are meaning tae take that.”
Irvine turned to find his father in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. “Aye, I wouldnae think it would be a smart idea tae leave it behind.”
William chuckled. “Nay. When one cannae fight with words, a sword can make up for wot the words dinnae.”
Irvine grinned and placed the sword on the bed. “I believe ye’d rather use the sword.”
“Aye, I would, but dinnae tell yer mother. She would have mah head for telling ye so.”
Irvine cinched the bag shut. “Do ye know aboot this farm?” he asked, curious as to what he was up against.
“’Tis a farm,” his father said, shrugging. “Edna did have some peculiar interest in it years ago. I even accompanied her tae the border, but she insisted on walking the rest of the way. When she returned, she didnae say a word, but I knew wotever she had set out tae accomplish hadnae been successful.”
