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“Somethin’ the matter, me friend?” he asked as he took the seat across the desk from the accomptant’s.
“O’Donnel is at it again,” Thomeas said without any preamble, as he sat down again, too. “He’s sellin’ to the Macrories and the MacDonalds as well as half o’ our allies, I swear to it.”
Alexander groaned. “The Macrories have been off-limits for a decade, since the last fightin’,” he said. “An’ everybody kens ol’ MacDonald is keepin’ materials from us. We cannae be seen tradin’ as if everythin’s all right.”
“Aye, well, Farmer O’Donnel doesn’ae seem to care,” Thomeas said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Me sources claim he’s been tradin’ wi’ the Macrories regardless o’ the insults the whole time.”
The accomptant was much older than Alexander, forty or so, with tidy brown hair, glasses, and sharp gray eyes. He was tall—though not compared to Alexander himself—and slender, and he often reminded the Laird of a sly gray wolf. He was quick, territorial, and cunning, and had seen Clan Gallagher through more problems than Alexander wished to recount.
Alexander drummed his long fingers on the table, listening to the clacking noise they made to try to center his thoughts. He hated this. Hated it. He’d always liked things tidy and orderly, and that need had only increased since he inherited his father’s title.
Most of his subjects were respectable, even if they found him a little intimidating. He was known for his harshness when laws were broken, but in general, the clan was thriving. As long as taxes were paid on time, and rules were followed, there were no problems. They had good wealth, better even than under the previous Laird, and relations with most other clans were decent.
An’ I help out where I can, though I dinnae want the people kennin’ a’ that.
He gave tax breaks, brought in external workers, supplied shops with extra stock—anything to help his people prosper. But he did this all out of sight of the people, not wanting to build up a reputation of sentimentality. He’d been a lad when he took the seat, but he’d made sure they didn’t think of him that way for long.
For the most part, it was fine. But then there was Cameron O’Donnel. The man had been a thorn in Alexander’s side for twelve years, even though Alexander had never met him. He was a farmer on the very borders of the Magee lands, at least a seven-day journey from here.
Which is why he keeps gettin’ away wi’ this.
O’Donnel had been making illicit trades and deals over the borders for years. Still, whenever Alexander sent a man out, the farmer had gotten enough warning to cover his tracks. In a strange way, Alexander had respect for the man. That wasn’t enough to make him tolerate this any longer, though.
Since his declaration of Lairdship, Alexander’s irritation with disorder had spiraled deeper and deeper into a near obsession. He wanted, no, needed his affairs in order so that he could feel comfortable.
Cameron O’Donnel was like an itch, one he couldn’t scratch, burning in a dark corner of his brain. Every time Alexander remembered that this one tiny thing was out of order in his otherwise perfect clan, it made all the hairs on his arms stand on end and his teeth clench.
Well. Nae more o’ this. He might be clever, but he is nae as smart as me best man.
He laid his hands flat on the table. “Right,” he said. “Right. He might nae care, but I do. It’s time we put an end to this nonsense once and for all.”
Thomeas raised an eyebrow. “Oh aye, Laird? O’Donnel’s nae fool, dinnae have any doubt o’ that. He’s secretive and stays well back. He sends his taxes to my collectors through a middle man to avoid bein’ seen. What exactly do ye have planned?”
Alexander nodded, pondering this information. It didn’t change anything. In fact, it made him even more determined to proceed with his idea.
“How would ye feel,” he asked his accomptant, “About takin’ a wee trip to our borders?”
Chapter 2
Non Loqui Sed Facere
Not Talk but Action
Three weeks passed between Thomeas’s departure and his return. In that period, Alexander tried his level best to stay focused on other things. Still, a small section of his mind was stuck on what, exactly, could possibly be going on at that farm.
He didn’t bother looking up when the door to his quarters opened without anyone knocking first. Only one person in the world would dare to interrupt him like this. “Ye ken I’m yer Laird, Barcley?”
A chuckle came from ahead of him, and then Nathair Barcley swung into the chair opposite him and said, “Aye, I ken. Hard to believe it, but I ken. We’re still waitin’ for the reveal that it’s all been a big jape.”
“Charmin’,” Alexander said dryly, finally looking up from the document he was trying to read.
Nathair was his Man-at-arms. He was outgoing, loud, and rough-looking—in short, he was everything that Alexander was not. The men stood at the same heigh
t exactly, but that was where the similarities ended.
Where Alexander’s hair and beard were dark and well-kempt, Nathair’s wild honey-blond curls surrounded his face like a mane. It was hard to tell where the facial hair started, and the head hair stopped. That, combined with his narrow tawny eyes, was one of the reasons he’d gained his nickname in the army.
The Chieftain was known as Leòmhann amongst his men, the Lion of Gallagher. It wasn’t just for his appearance; he was fierce as a lion, too, and as strong a leader for his squaldron. He was friendly and sociable but never hesitated to act. He was oft untidy, but always vain, and he could tell a joke as easily as he could wield a sword.
