Page 2 of A Highland Lass for the English Duke

"Och, where have I heard this before?" Lissie rolled her eyes.

The entire room was looking at her, but she did not care anymore. Her blue eyes connected with an elder, taking notes. She glared for all she was worth, but the look he sent still unnerved her.

"The fact is, there is always some collieshangie1 or other facing the clan; the bad harvest, the dreaded sweat, Billie invading the Lowlands. But somehow we muddle on."

"Lissie," said Fiona. Her eyes briefly connected with her sister, Grace. "This is different. The coffers are bare. The battle between the clans has emptied us, an' now we face ruin an' starvation. There is one way out..."

A rumble went around the room as the shadows lengthened in the deepening night. Outside, snow lashed the small window, bringing a cruel draft.

"Marriage wi' the McKinley clan," cut in Grace. All eyes diverted to her. Nearing her thirtieth year, she was every bit as alluring as she had been at nineteen. Only now, a line or two crept in, defining her eyes, but the candlelight smoothed the years away.

"Och!" began Lissie, clamping her lip.

But Grace continued.

"Nay, listen, pray, Lissie," Grace continued. With the nodding of the elders, she pressed on, as Lissie was forced to hear. "Ye dinnae ken. We have been assured o' a good settlement by Laird McKinley."

Lissie felt her guts wrench. McKinley was the neighboring laird. He was eccentric, to say the least, but unfortunately for her, he was also the richest baron for miles around.

"Ye cannae!" she cried, before turning, imploringly, to Fiona, then to McTavish or anyone who was listening. "Auld man McKinley? He's about two thousand years auld!"

"Lissie," said Fiona pertinently. "Ye're nae listening."

But Lissie was too distressed to hear her. "How could ye use me as a thing to be sold off to some gnarled auld thing, like a prize? Well, I will nae do it! McKinley is auld enough to be my own grandad!"

Lissie's pale eyes flared as she struggled to make her point. The heat in the hall was oppressive, and suddenly, Lissie felt all the heads swell around.

Then, she stopped. Every eye was on her, none more so than the curmudgeon row of men in front of her. In hindsight, perhaps she should not have mentioned McKinley's age in front of the elders.

"Lissie!" hissed Fiona. She flicked her long, dark-colored locks away in exasperation. "Och, of course, I dinnae expect ye to wed someone as auld as Laird McKinley," she said.

For just a minute, Lissie felt her heart relax. Then, she looked at Fiona. Her eyes were still trained on her. Before she could say another thing, Grace jumped in.

"'Tis his son, Donald, to whom ye are betrothed, ye big dafty."

Lissie nearly fell over.

"Donald?" she almost screamed.

This was worse.

Way worse.

For a minute, she almost negotiated marriage to old man McKinley. That was how bad Donald McKinley was.

Panicked, she stared at Fiona, tears starting in her eyes. "Betrothed? Ye cannae be serious."

Lissie was in flat-out disbelief. Donald McKinley was especially peculiar. Tall and gangly, his appearance was not much helped by the addition of a single gnarled tooth hanging in the center of his mouth.

Had this been all, Lissie might have relented. After all, looks were not everything.

But he was strange; at thirty-five, he had never had a sweetheart, let alone a betrothal—and for good reason. He collected things that made women scream, like the assortment of dogs' heads spread all around the McKinley castle.

Lissie had a cold moment of horror as she imagined kissing him.

Clearing her throat, Fiona carried on.

"Lissie, for the good o' the clan, ye must marry this man, else..."