And to see his brother happy—not that he begrudged him his happiness. Merlow had waited a long time to take a wife, and he had chosen well. The lass was perfect for him: a vicar’s daughter, full of good works and hardworking spirit, and the love between the newly-weds was palpable. And her presence had cut up all Col’s hard-won peace.
He had thought himself accustomed to his widowerhood, resigned to this lonely state before she came. After she left, he realised all over again what he had lost with Catriona’s death.
“Ow!” exclaimed Callum, jerking in his seat and glaring across the table at his grinning elder brother. “What was that for?”
“I was aiming for the dog and your knee must have got in the way,” said Rory, chewing on his bone.
“Ye’ll nae kick the dogs!” roared Col, slamming his fist on the table and making everything jump.
Rory turned a sullen face towards him. “It was a joke, Papa, of course I wouldn’t kick the dogs.”
“But it’s alright to kick me!” muttered Callum.
“Nae, ’tis not alright to kick ye,” replied Col. “Ye’ll apologise to yer brother,” he addressed Rory.
Rory pursed his lips and remained silent.
“I said,” repeated Col, dangerously slow, “ye’ll apologise to yer brother.”
Rory rose and threw his napkin on the table, turning to walk away.
Col shot out a hand and grabbed his arm, yanking him back around. “Ye’ll do as I say, boy, or get yer breeches clouted!”
Rory stood silently seething, his fists clenched by his sides. “It was an accident. I swung my legs too far out, ’tis all! I didnae mean to kick him!”
“Tell it to him, not me!”
Rory turned his head and addressed his brother sulkily. “I’m sorry, ye little winger! I didnae mean to hurt ye! Ye’re such a puling little thing, always crying aboot somethin’!”
“Now sit down and finish yer meal!” Col yanked him back into his seat. Rory resumed eating and Col glowered at both boys over his pot of ale. Callum sniffed into his plate.
Col knew from experience this wouldn’t be the end of it. Callum wouldn’t be able to resist retaliating in some way.
The sequel came quicker than he expected. He’d withdrawn to his study with his dogs, Hector the terrier and Gussie the deerhound, for a glass of whisky, when a blood-curdling howl brought him out into the hallway.
“I’ll kill ye, yer little gobshite!” bellowed Rory, appearing at the top of the stairs, something clutched in his hands. “Ye’ve ruined me buckler! Ye fooking little worm!” He dropped the buckler and took off after a cackling Callum down the hall. A shout and slammed door told Col that Callum had made it to sanctuary and locked the door in his brother’s face. As Rory pounded on the door and shouted insults through it, Col climbed the stairs to deal with this latest chapter in the war between his sons. It had erupted following Hetty and Merlow’s departure and had been raging now for two weeks with no signs of abating. It seemed he wasn’t the only one impacted by Hetty’s absence.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he strode down the corridor and seized his eldest son by the collar and shook him. “Enough! I’ll deal with this, go to yer room and stay there!”
“But he—” began Rory, red-faced and puffing.
“I said I’d deal with it. Now get!”
Rory threw him a venomous look and turned away, muttering.
“What was that?”
Rory stopped, his shoulders hunching. “Nothing, sir.”
Col yanked him round. “Say yer piece!”
Rory’s fists clenched and he let fly, “Ye always favour him, and he’s such a weakling! It’s nae fair! Grandpa would’ve flogged him for half the things he’s done!”
“If ye didnae bait him in the first place he wouldnae retaliate! Ye bring it on yerself, boy! Ye’re bigger and stronger than him and ye know it. But he’s the one with wits, use your heid a bit more, boy, and ye won’t find yerself in so many scraps!”
“Grandpa—”
“Yer Grandfather’s dead, lad, and ye’re stuck with me! Not yer preference, I know, but I’m Laird now and ye’ll do as I say. Now go to bed before I clout ye round the heid for disobedience!”
