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What met her eyes was horrifying. The cattle…apparently all the cattle that should have been in their barns, roamed the oat fields. No, not oat fields anymore. The animals had stomped the vast space that, with last night’s rain, had transformed in a sea of mud. Those little fragile spouts of oats crushed—or eaten by them.
The harvest had just been ruined. Everything, the clan’s staple, annihilated. Completely gone.
Desperation engulfed Moira, leaving her frozen in the fresh morning air. Her hand covered her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief, as dizziness spread over her.
Faintly from behind, she heard a deep voice excuse himself. She was trying to keep herself upright. Her legs, though, did not succeed in the task. Strong arms held her before she sloshed in the mud.
And then she trembled, her breath quick and shallow, her mind distanced from reality. Lachlan’s grip tightened.
“Moira,” he called, turning her to face him. His dark eyes roved over her waxen complexion. “Moira, stay with me,” he urged with a light shake.
But her eyes appeared vacant.
“Water!” he bellowed, not removing his stare. “Someone bring water. Now!”
A cool flask touched her mouth. “Come on, lass, drink,” he ordered, and lifted it until the liquid moistened her lips and dripped onto her tongue. She blinked and her focus returned. Shaky hands grabbed the flask and she gulped the liquid. The dizziness subsided and her legs supported her.
Seeing her recover, he held her arm for support and turned to the people milling around them. “We’ll find out whoever did this,” he roared. “And they will pay dearly for their crime.”
His strong hand directed her to a nearby cart. He helped her up, took the reins, and drove to the manor house.
The short trip lasted less than five minutes before he guided her to her study and helped her sit on the armchair in front of the unlit fireplace.
On the sideboard, he filled two glasses with whisky. Wide hazel eyes stared up at him, still a little dazed. Seconds went by before her hands accepted the drink. She sipped, uncaring the clock had not yet struck ten. The fine beverage from his clan warmed her, and put her senses on the alert.
As she gazed at him, she saw he had tossed back the entire drink and rested the glass on the mantel.
“We have to call in the magistrate,” he said, his arm resting beside the glass.
With the drapes drawn, morning greyish light poured in the study, the overcast weather making it diffuse.
Moira shook her head slightly. “I don’t have time to think about it now.” She rubbed her forehead. “I must find a way to limit the damage.”
In front of the armchair, legs braced, fists on his hips, he looked down at her. “No, you mustn’t,” he commanded. “The McKendricks have surplus from last year. We’ll supply it to you.”
She sat up combatively. “You cannot!” Brows pleated, she countered him. “You don’t know how much your crops will yield this year.” Surpluses served to cover for bad harvests.
“It looked good last time I checked,” he issued the statement confidently.
In agitation, she sprang from the armchair. “I’ll not accept it. We don’t have the means to pay for it.”
“No payment is required. We’re allies, remember?”
She rested her hand on her hip. “How many times will I have to remind you it is for appearances?”
His lips stretched to the side. “As many times as you wish. Only I won’t listen.”
“Damn you, McKendrick!” She huffed exasperatedly.
“Yes, I’ll be damned if I allow your clan to starve when we can help,” he rebutted.
She paced the faded rug. Shaky fingers rubbed her temple. At a certain point, she halted as if struck by a thought. Her small feet rotated toward him, two pairs of eyes clasped together.
“I’ll sow again.” Her determined stance left no doubt she would not give up to any bully. “It’s still time. If summer favours us, we have a chance of good crops.”
Long moments passed as he continued to gaze at her, a glint of appraisal in his eyes. “Have you got spare seeds?” he asked.
Her nod came with her riotous curls bouncing. “I usually keep an amount to spare.”
