“Ach, me and my big mouth.” Cook crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Go get cleaned up, then come back. To apologize, I’ll make something special for ye.”
Mariota nodded and gave her a smile. “Seamus said he’d be in soon. Ye might make enough for two.”
“Aye, and I will.” Cook shooed her out.
Mariota headed for her chamber, eager to wash the rabbit’s blood from her hands and kirtle. In the great hall, she noticed Alber sprawled alone in a chair by the fire, tankard in hand, and grimaced. She looked away and mounted a few stairs, hoping he was far enough in his cups not to see her. But her luck was no better this time than it ever was. He noticed her.
“Have ye killed a MacCleod, then, Mari? From the look of ye, ye did a poor job of it.”
Alber’s taunt rankled. She pretended she didn’t hear him, and continued up the stairs without hesitation.
“Ach, nay, of course no’,” he continued, louder. “Yer da willna let ye hunt, so ye canna fight for MacKay, either, can ye? Ye and yer wee bow and arrows. Ye need a real man with ye.”
His snicker was the last straw. Mariota stopped halfway up the stairs and peered down at him. Alber was a few years her senior, big and heavily muscled, he could have grown into a good-looking man if it wasn’t for the constant sneer on his face. A scar from the battle of Red Harlaw didn’t help. It ran from his nose to his jaw on the left side of his face, as if his opponent had tried to blind him and missed. Alber claimed to have killed so many that day, her da thought of him as one of his best fighters. His ruthlessness made him a hero for a few weeks, until people realized he enjoyed the praise, and his tales of his prowess in the battle grew beyond anything the other men fighting there could confirm.
When they were younger, he’d cornered her in the stables and tried to kiss her as he shoved his hand down her chemise. For his trouble, she’d kneed him as Cook had taught her. He’d dropped to the straw, swearing. “Too good for the likes of me, are ye?” He’d spat and curled up, threatening, “Ye’ll pay for this.”
“No’ as much as ye’ll pay if I tell Da what ye just did.”
Since that day, he hadn’t touched her so familiarly again, but never failed to bump into her or brush her shoulder as he passed by in a crowded room. He always had something disparaging to say if he caught her alone, but so far, she’d managed not to let him corner her. She shuddered to think what he’d do, given the chance. Bad enough what he probably said about her out of her hearing. He’d never forgotten that day, or forgiven her. Nor had she forgotten what he tried to do to her. She often regretted not reporting him to her father.
Today, after her brief taste of freedom with Valkyrie, she was in no mood to put up with Alber. “At least I brought food for the pot. What have ye done today, save sit on yer arse and drink?Real man? As ye are now, yer next opponent in battle will finish what the last started and cleave yer head from yer shoulders.”
He lurched to his feet with a roar.
Mariota sniffed and continued up the stairs. He’d never follow her. If she screamed, her father would exile him, unless he chose to run him through on the spot. She went the rest of the way considering which she would prefer. Alber’s curses followed her up the stairs.
Stellan pulledoff his gloves as he entered the keep and made his way to the laird’s solar. The door was open, so he didn’t bother to knock. “I’m back,” he announced, and moved to the hearth to warm himself by the fire. After a week’s hard riding, being back inside Dunrobin felt good. He looked forward to sleeping in his own bed tonight rather than on the cold, hard ground, or in a crofters’ cot. Days were getting longer and warmer, but by sunset, the air still carried the bite of winter.
“Ye are late. Was there trouble?” Sutherland laid aside his quill and leaned back in his chair, his gaze following Stellan as he warmed his hands in front of the fire.
“Nay. We saw nay sign of it at the crofts we visited. Ye said ye were told MacKays are hunting Sutherland territory. We saw naught of them, though with everything in the woods starting to sprout leaves, there’s nay lack of places for them— or their quarry —to hide.” Stellan shrugged. Some of the chill of riding seemed to have eased off, so he settled in a chair across the table from his father. “What are ye working on?” Numbers and notations covered the pages of the open journal on the worktable before him.
“The planting schedule. Barring another hard freeze, we should be able to start plowing and planting the fields soon, especially those closer to the water.”
“We dinna need another lean year come harvest time. Or poachers.”
“Indeed. Our stores are depleted enough as it is, and this time of year, we have to go farther afield to find game.”
“We spotted a huge stag up north and tracked him for a few hours, but lost him in the woods. ’Tis why I’m late returning. I’ll take a few men tomorrow and try again.”
“Have a care. The hinds will be fawning soon.”
“We saw none. They’re hunkered down with their fawns, or will be soon. I ken ’tis the wrong time of year to take a female.”
Anders sauntered in. “To ye, any time of year is the wrong time to take a female,” he quipped. “Ach, were ye speaking of lasses or deer?”
“In either case, I was no’ speaking to ye,” Stellan replied, grinned, and gripped his brother’s forearm in greeting.
Anders grinned back, taking no insult. Unlike his minutes-older brother, he was free to consort with any lass who showed an interest. Stellan, as heir, had to be much, much more careful.
“So, ye saw nay sign of MacKays, either,” Anders went on, clearly aware of the reason for Stellan’s grim mood. “Do we ken what they are up to?”
“According to the Gunn, naught,” Sutherland said.
“Do ye believe him?” Stellan didn’t.
“I believe only what I see or hear with my own senses,” Sutherland answered.
