Edna inclined her head and started back the way she came, her jaw working as she did so. She had hoped that he would see reason and give her the farm, but clearly, Leathen was being a stubborn fool.
It was no matter. She would find another way then.
Leathen watched as the lady walked away, surprised that she would come without any of her warriors to protect her. It was no secret that she wanted the farm, but she wasn’t going to get it.
No one was. It had been in his family’s hands for generations, and he would protect it as the others had.
Once the lady disappeared around the bend, Leathen let out a slow breath and made his way to the hut, finding the others there.
“Well?” one of them asked. “Wot did she want?”
“Wot they all want,” he muttered, reaching for the dipper in the water barrel. “No Laird McPearson will ever own this farm.” He would see to it personally that the farm never changed hands with him or any future generations. It was his family’s legacy, and it was up to Leathen to protect it the best he could.
Laird or no laird, he was his own man, and she could attempt to goad him all she wished, but the lady wasn’t getting the farm.
1
Twenty-five years later
Irvine McMillion stood on the hill overlooking the castle, the wind tearing at his kilt. There was silence all around him, not even the mournful sobs on this sad day.
Lady Edna McPearson was dead.
Her warriors stood off to the side, their stone expression following the procession of their lady’s body shroud as it was lifted on the burial pyle, where her body would find the soil shortly after. Lady Edna would be buried along with her warrior husband, who had passed some years before. Until his last breath, the couple was full of love and companionship for one another.
Her nieces stood off to the side, their arms linked together as they paid homage to the woman who had taken them in at a young age and gave them a family. He watched as his mother wiped the tears from her cheeks, knowing that he, too, was going to miss his great-aunt. He would remember her as one who was a strong lass, her wide smile and caring nature making her one of the finest lairds Irvine had ever known.
On the other side of the sisters, his uncle, Kenneth McPearson, stood, his jaw locked tight as he stared at the small shroud. Irvine could only wonder what was going through his mind today. Now that Lady Edna was gone, there was no heir to the title or the clan. She hadn’t produced any children, and none of the sisters wanted the added responsibility.
Which meant a new laird would have to be named soon. A clan without a leader could be far too vulnerable, open to attacks or even the laird that would try to claim them.
No, they wouldn’t wait long.
When the wood was lit, Irvine drew in a sharp breath, watching the body of Edna meet the soil under the sounds of the bagpipes. His great-aunt was gone. She was no more with this life, joining her beloved husband and God who has called her back home.
It didn’t mean that she wasn’t going to be missed here on Earth.
When her loyal guards started to dig the dirt and throw it over the coffin of Lady Edna, Irvine turned away, his heart clenching in his chest. His mother reached out and took his arm, and he escorted her back to the castle as the mourners started their wailing. They would walk through the night, but there would also be a gathering of the clan for their lady.
“It was a nice service,” his mother said softly, clutching his arm. “She would have wanted it this way.”
“Now she’s with her beloved,” he responded, thinking of how his great-aunt had loved her warrior husband fiercely. She had never been the same after he had passed, a sadness about her that seemed to follow her wherever she went.
“Aye,” his mother answered as they walked across the castle’s threshold. “Now, there is the matter of a new laird.”
Irvine frowned as she released his arm. He had heard the talk ever since Edna had fallen ill weeks ago. He was the next male in line besides his great-uncle.
“I dinnae wish tae discuss it.”
His mother laughed, grief etched on her face. “Aye, but ye dinnae have a choice, mah son. Ye have heard the talk.”
Irvine rubbed a hand over the length of his face wearily. “I dinnae know if I want tae be laird.”
“Irvine,” she said, grasping his arms lightly, “mah aunt wanted nothing more than for ye tae do so. It will be a fight I am willing tae fight on yer behalf—that is, if ye wish for it.”
“And if not?” he challenged.
“Then ye wilnae be laird,” she said simply as his aunt Finley and uncle Erik approached, followed by his father. William MacMillian had been a hired killer in his day, but after meeting Lisbeth, he had turned to training warriors instead. Irvine had heard the tales about his father and had seen him in the sparring ring, but he couldn’t picture him slitting Scots’ throats.
