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“He’s keeping the elder, Catriona, for an heir I believe.” Which was not entirely uncommon.
“Right.” That did not come too enthusiastic. To be given the spare because he was also the spare seemed a bit too…well…square.
“No need to answer now.” He compromised. “The chit is in a finishing school in London. Their mother is English as you may remember.”
“A half-Sassenach?” That was the same as saying the lass lacked a tooth.
“Yes. Culloden is long gone, if memory serves.” He raised his brows in challenge. “Anyway, she will not be out of school for a year yet.”
“I got time to think this through.” A certain relief spread over his features.
“You do.” But at thirty, his second brother was passing the age of marriage.
“Good.” Fingal gave the letter back.
“Whenever you marry, you will live in the former manor near the stables.”
Before they built this one, the McKendricks lived in a smaller dwelling which would need repairs. “Ask Lachlan if this is alright with him.” Fingal devolved. The siblings avoided possible resentments between them.
“Lachlan will be assigned his in due time.” The Laird would leave no one out. They all shared in the chores. Therefore, they would own proper residences.
“I will let you know my decision.” In large strides, he reached the door. “Oh, I did not have the chance to tell you.” He started with his hand on the door-knob.
“What?” Drostan had already gone back to a forgotten ledger on the desk. One he had no idea of what it contained.
“When you brought Ewan home, the stable lad found a thorn under the saddle.”
The older brother snapped his eyes at him, anger surfacing on his features. “I had saddled my horse.”
“I see.” Fingal paused. “But you said you stopped for breakfast.”
Drostan swore ugly under his breath. “Thank you for telling me.” A tense hand raked chestnut strands.
Fingal nodded and left.
Pure fury spread in his guts at the information. The accursed McPherson must have had something to do with it. That he risked Drostan’s life was one thing. To do it with a child made him mad beyond control. This required decisive action. And he would take it no matter what.
Next morning, Drostan gathered his father and brothers in the study. The evening before, he explained Freya’s situation in detail, extracting angry responses from them. It proved his wife right to fear aggressive behaviour. Even his father, who used to rely on diplomacy, gave belligerent suggestions. Hot-headed Lachlan himself had been about to march to the McPhersons on his own that same hour.
Not five minutes passed when Baxter announced the visitor. The other three pairs of eyes in varying shades of brown looked expectant at the door.
Freya’s father entered the room in his yellow and black tartan. Not very tall, in his sixties, and with balding grey hair, Irvine McPherson still boasted an imposing presence.
“McPherson.” Drostan came to greet his father-in-law. He predicted Freya would not be happy if she heard he had summoned her father here during her absence. But they had no time to waste, and Drostan wished to neutralise the threat post-haste. Lairds must decide on clan matters in any case; though he deemed it unfortunate not to be able to do this with her by his side.
“Drostan.” He greeted back.
Freya’s disappearance had awed him as much the McKendricks. He had sent men to aid the search for her, promising to share any information he might learn.
Everybody sat as a footman served whisky.
“I confess I was quite worried when I received your letter.” The McPherson started before tasting the whisky.
The Laird sent it to Freya’s father the same evening he arrived from the McDougal’s cottage. This discussion was four years overdue, in his point of view.
“We found Freya.” The information caused her father to stand to attention.
“And we found out why she left.” Wallace said.
