Page 47 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

By the time they returned home, laden with wood chips and logs for various uses, Alistair felt comfortably tired, and well-contented with the way his day had passed. He was considering a hot bath and a tankard of mead when a sight in the courtyard made him stop and stare, oblivious to everything else for a moment.

Niamh. In the courtyard. Working with the women to prepare the meat, as if she’d been born to do so. She looked more comfortable than he would have imagined possible, and happier than he’d seen her for some time. She had the sleeves of her dress rolled up to her elbows, and an apron that looked like one of Catriona’s old ones around her waist, and her hands were streaked halfway to the elbow with juices from the meat and the residue of the herbs the women were using.

There were ladies who wouldn’t have bothered to get involved with such things. The fact that Niamh was willing to join in the preparations, to work alongside the rest of his clan… Alistair couldn’t recall when he’d ever seen anything so entrancing.

As if she’d sensed his gaze, Niamh looked up, and her emerald green eyes met his. Something passed between them, like sparks dancing in the air. Then a faint blush spread across her cheeks, and she looked away and turned back to her work.

“Och, are ye woolgathering?” Ewan’s voice startled him into motion. “I thought we were plannin’ tae inspect the armory this afternoon, in case we’ve need o’ more weapons, or tae commission the blacksmith for repairs.”

“Aye.” Alistair forced his gaze away from Niamh. “I was thinking tae have a drink and a bath, but I can manage with a flagon o’ mead and something from the kitchens. The bath can wait.”

Ewan followed his gaze and smirked. “Aye. I’ll wager it can.”

“Och, mind yer manners.” Alistair gave his brother a half-hearted punch to the shoulder, then made his way toward the armory.

The large stone room that housed the clan’s weapons was guarded by a heavy oak and steel door. Ewan unlocked it, then lit the torches all around the room. The two of them studied the racks of spears, ranks of swords, and walls lined with shields, knives and battle axes, as well as other weapons. Ranks of unstrung bow staves, carefully packaged bow strings, and wrapped quivers of arrows were set in and around everything else, along with fighting staves. A few sets of spare armor stood on armor stands, for those warriors who might need to temporarily replace armor damaged during battle.

Alistair studied the assembled inventory. It looked impressive - but only if everything there was in good condition, and he was certain it wouldn’t be. Even with the best of intentions, steel rusted, wooden staves and shafts splintered or rotted, and weak points developed. Arrow fletchings became too tattered to fly straight, or the strings turned frayed and prone to snapping.

Of course, the castle armorer did his best to keep it all in good repair, but he spent much of his time helping warriors keep their personal gear in proper order. Since a warrior’s weapons and armor were his first line of defense, that was always the priority. It did no good to have your spare weapons and armor gleaming if the ones your men needed to defend themselves were falling to pieces.

“Let’s get tae work, then.” Alistair poured himself a tankard of mead, then moved to the nearest rack of spears to begin the inspection. “Assuming all our men tak’ proper care o’ their own weapons - and I’ll be kenning why if they dinnae - how much o’ a loss can we afford tae tak’ afore we used the dowry gold from the MacBeth clan tae replace the weapons, rather than the stones on the walls?”

“’Twere nae fer MacTavish, I’d say there’s nay question - repair the walls. But if he decides tae bring the fighting tae ye… we’ll need every warrior armed we can get, and as much as we can spare.” Ewan scowled as he set aside a spear that had visibly warped. It could be repaired - unlike the sword Alistair was studying, which had rusted close to the handle, to the point of rattling ominously against the guard. A closer look revealed a crack in the blade as well, small but dangerous. He set it aside to be smelted down.

“Aye. Ye’re nae wrong. I was thinkin - if a quarter o’ it has tae be resmelted, best tae use some o’ the gold tae replace it.”

“Quarter is bold and may stretch us thin if it comes tae fightin’. I’d say if more than one in every ten is beyond repair.” Ewan shook his head as he tossed aside a dagger that looked as if it had been used to hew stone.

“I’ll trust yer judgment then.” Alistair agreed. It was the sort of thing Ewan had a better handle on than he did, especially as he’d been occupied with other matters for the last month.

“Ye can trust me judgment in other things as well, braither.” Ewan’s voice was soft, and there was something about the tone of it that made Alistair feel instantly on guard, the way he might if he found unidentified tracks near the keep.

“And what’s that supposed tae mean?” He kept his voice calm and neutral, despite the edge of tension that wanted to turn the words into a snarl.

“Ye gave yer bonny bride yer ring - Constance’s ring. An’ mayhap ye can convince others that ye did it as a convenience, that ye didnae have time nor money tae get her another, but ye and I both ken that’s nae true. And even if it were… what o’ mother’s rings? Or some o’ the family heirlooms? Or even asking Catriona tae seek out somethin’ suitable? Nay, brother, ye had other choices.”

“And what o’ it?” Now the words were a snarl, but Ewan didn’t appear to be willing to heed it.

“Why would ye give her Constance’s ring? Ye loved Constance true, I ken ye did. So why? And what was it on yer wedding night that the witch would find so funny? What is goin’ on between ye and yer little Lowland lass? There’s something, I’m fair sure o’ that. I saw the way ye were lookin’ at her in the courtyard just now. Whether ‘tis feelings ye dinnae want tae admit, or something else, I dinnae ken, but I can tell ‘tis tearin’ ye up inside.”

Alistair bit his lip and kept quiet. With any luck, Ewan would realize his silence meant he was unwilling to talk about the matter, and he would let it go.

And really, why was his brother so insistent on knowing what was between him and Niamh? Yes, his brother was one of the few who knew there was a curse to contend with. Yes, his brother was close enough to him to see his turmoil and be concerned. But why could he not let the matter alone? Why did he have to continue asking questions and prying into matters that were Alistair’s business?

“Ye willnae answer?” From the heavy tone of Ewan’s voice, thick with irritation and the edge of resentment that sometimes overwhelmed him, he wasn’t going to cease his questions any time soon. “Why nae? Are ye embarrassed? Or dae ye just think that yer younger braither doesnae deserve tae ken?”

There was no good answer to that, and Alistair was of no mind to lie, or give an answer that would further the growing tension between them. He kept silent, though he could feel the anger burning hot within him, and knew that, if Ewan didn’t take his silence as a hint and leave him be, there would be trouble.

“Alistair MacDuff, the laird’s eldest and most important son - pride o’ the family.” Oh, it was rare for Ewan to get so sharp tongued with him. “And I suppose ye’re tae wise and powerful tae ever heed the words o’ yer younger braither. And what am I tae ye, but a shadow, tae be used when needed and ignored the rest o’ the time?”

Ewan stalked closer. “I’m tired o’ ye dodgin’ me questions and ignorin’ me words, braither. Tired o’ everyone and their cousin kenning more than I dae about me own braither. Tired o’ wondering what ye’re thinkin’ and what ye’re planning, and whether I’ll be sidestepping arrows from MacTavish, or takin’ yer place after the curse claims yer life.”

And there it was. The witch must have said more to Ewan than he’d told Alistair. Or perhaps the constant state of wariness, when they had no idea which direction the next attack would come from, had worn his brother’s nerves to threads. It was hard to constantly worry about ambushes, or poison, or raids that might destroy precious crops and stores of grain for winter. And with Alistair occupied with Niamh, Ewan had been forced to bear the burden. A burden he wasn’t ready for, had never been trained for, and didn’t want.

“What? Ye willnae answer? Ye’re tae good tae even speak tae me now?” Ewan’s voice was harsh. When his hand landed on Alistair’s shoulder, as if he might pull him around or strike him, Alistair reacted.

All his tension, all his frustration and turmoil and uncertainty, exploded out of him in a single, white-hot burst like a lightning strike. His fist caught Ewan on the chin at an upwards angle, and sent him sprawling to the floor, dazed.