He'd told them he wanted no wife now. Why the bloody hell wouldn't they listen to him? The hoary-haired bastards!
Although rage clawed its way through his vitals, he could not send the MacRurys away now. 'Twould be the height of rudeness to deny them hospitality after they'd traveled so far.
Neacal turned and strode outside. In the bailey, he headed toward the newcomers. Although he was angry with the elders, he couldn't blame the MacRurys and would endeavor to make them feel at home.
Shoving away his ire, he offered his hand to the middle-aged man with the brownish-gray beard and collar-length thinning hair. "Welcome, Chief MacRury," Neacal said, noticing the man was dressed in a bright new plaid and his Highland finery. "'Tis nice to see you again."
"And you too, Neacal… I mean, Chief MacDonald. I was sorry to hear of your brother's passing. And your father, too, of course. Your da was a good man and I always considered him a friend."
"He thought very highly of you."
"I'm glad to see you're well-recovered from your injuries."
"I thank you."
Behind MacRury stood four women.
"This is my wife, Lady MacRury, and my daughter, Lady Ophelia," Chief MacRury said, motioning to the two well-dressed females, both dark-haired. Saints! Surely the petite lass could not be old enough to marry. She looked as if she was barely out of the nursery.
Staring at Neacal's face, she blanched and curtsied, her dark eyes wide. 'Twas his scarred face which frightened her. He ground his teeth, though she couldn't be blamed. She was practically a child, after all.
What nonsense!
Ignoring her reaction, Neacal bowed. "A pleasure, ladies."
The MacRury then introduced a few of his prominent clansmen and Neacal shook their hands.
"Supper has started. Please, join us." Walking beside the other chief, Neacal led the way into the great hall. Since the girl appeared terrified of him, surely she would tell her parents she wished for a less damaged husband. Hopefully, he would think of some fathomable excuse to let her father know he wasn't interested… without angering him.
At the high table, servants rushed to bring the newcomers food and ale.
During the commotion, Neacal slipped in behind Bhatar's chair. "I need to speak to you, uncle."
The older man pretended not to hear, blast him. He was not deaf. In fact, his hearing was almost as good as Neacal's.
He tapped his shoulder. When Bhatar glanced around, Neacal motioned with his head toward the library.
The man reddened and dropped his gaze.
"Now," Neacal growled low, then strode to the library to wait. He'd had it with the meddling elders.
Once Bhatar joined him, he closed the library door. "You sent for that young lady?"
"Not just me, all of us. Did you see how bonny she is?" His blue eyes twinkled like a mischievous elf.
"Damnation," Neacal growled low. "I told you I am not yet ready to be saddled with a wife."
"But sometimes a pretty face can help you be ready." Bhatar winked.
"Cha toir á bhòidhchead goil air áphoit.Beauty won't boil the pot. Is that not what you always say?" Neacal snapped.
"Aye." Bhatar grinned. "But it never hurts."
Neacal had the urge to hit something… or choke someone. He turned away, lest he throttle his elderly uncle. "I meant what I said. I have no intention of marrying now. If her clan is offended by my lack of interest, 'tis on your head."
"Och. You must learn how to be diplomatic, Neacal," he said in a cajoling tone. "You let your fiery temper rule you."
If Bhatar had been tortured he would no doubt have a bad temper, too.
