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“Who are ye?” the laird demanded, refusing to be intimidated by the old woman, especially in front of his clansmen, although he would wager that many were cowed by her.
“I am Flora Hay, the housekeeper here at Hay Tower. Whatever it is ye want, we don't have it!”
“How do ye know what I want?” the laird said, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He was curious as to who, or what, the old dragon was protecting as she stood so defiantly barring his way.
“I don't know what ye want,” Flora told him, “but whatever it is, ’Tis not here, my lord. As ye can surelysee, there is little here of any value” She curtsied and attempted to close the door on him.
Angus Gordon swiftly placed his booted foot in the door, preventing her. “’Tis a fine herd of cattle ye have in yon field,” he said.
Flora nodded. “Aye.”
“And just where did ye get such fine cattle?” he asked her.
“Get? Wedidn't get the cattle, my lord. We raised them. They are all we have, and are to be used to dower two of my young mistresses,” Flora told him, looking straight at Angus Gordon without so much as a blink.
“These lasses are Dugald Hay's get?”
“Aye.”
“And how many lasses did that devil's spawn beget?” the laird demanded.
“Flora! Flora! For shame! Don't keep the laird of Loch Brae standing on the doorstep. Ask him into the hall for a cup of cider.” A young female had appeared behind the housekeeper. She was tall for a girl, and almost too slender. She wore a simple wool gown, dark in color, and draped across her chest was the red and green Hay plaid, which was fastened to her shoulder with a rather fine silver brooch. “I am Fiona Hay, my lord, the eldest child of Dugald Hay and his wife, Muire,” she said quietly.
It was impossible not to stare. Fiona Hay was absolutely lovely. Her hair was the color of a raven's wing, with the faint hint of a blue sheen. She was very, very fair of skin. Her features were perfectly set in a heart-shaped face. She had small white teeth, a slim, elegant, straight nose, a lush mouth, and a pair of oval-shaped emerald-green eyes, fringed in thick dark lashes, that were looking directly at him.
“A-Angus Gordon, mistress,” the laird finally managed to grate out, tearing his gaze from the girl.
“And yer business with the Hays of the Ben, my lord?” she asked him coolly, ushering him into the tower house.
“I want my cattle back, lady,” he said bluntly.
She turned her emerald-green eyes on him, saying as she did, “I don't have yer cattle, my lord. Why would ye think I have yer cattle?” Her tone was deceptively innocent. She led him up the stairs into the hall. “Flora, cider for the laird.”
“There are eight head of cattle in yer meadow, mistress,” Angus Gordon said evenly as his brother and clansmen entered the hall behind them. “Eight head of cattle were stolen from my herd this very morning. The trail led up the ben to yer meadow, where eight head of cattle now graze. Ye don't have to be clever to solve such a puzzle.”
“The cattle in the meadow belong to me, my lord,” Fiona said calmly. “They are my twin sisters’ dowry. I am sorry ye have lost yer beasts, but those in my meadow are not they.”
How could anyone look so sweet and innocent and be so bold a creature, the laird wondered. He knew damned well that the cattle in the field beyond the tower house were his. She knew it, too, yet she could look directly at him and lie without a quiver. She was obviously her father's daughter. Of that he had no doubt, but it would shortly be settled. “My brother has just examined the cows for a specific marking that all my cattle bear. If the cattle bear that marking, then there can be no doubt that they are mine,” Angus Gordon told her sternly.
“The cattle are mine,” Fiona Hay said sweetly. “Imark each of our beasts by nicking them on their left ear.”
He was astounded. This was the sauciest wench he had ever met in all of his life! “What a most odd coincidence,” he replied through gritted teeth. “My cattle are marked in the exact same way.”
“Then it is simply my word against yers, Angus Gordon,” she said in a dulcet tone.
“Yeknow verra well that the cattle are mine, mistress,” he responded angrily. “They are mine, and I mean to take them back!”
“The cattle are mine,”Fiona responded, but then her voice softened. “My younger sisters, Elsbeth and Margery, are to be wed tomorrow. Each brings her bridegroom four cattle apiece, my lord. Would ye ruin the only chance these poor lasses have to be respectably married?”
He had not yet gotten his cider, and he badly needed it, he decided. His own men were crowded about, listening avidly to the exchange between their chieftain and the lovely girl. He could see that their sympathies lay with the girl, not because they were disloyal but because Fiona Hay was fair, orphaned, and obviously doing her best by her family.Or so it would appear.He muttered a dark curse under his breath.
“Yer cider, my lord,” Flora said, shoving a tarnished silver goblet into his hand while casting him a black and disapproving look.
“Jamie-boy, the cattle?” he asked his brother. James Gordon nodded in the affirmative. “Left ears, all notched,” he said cheerfully. “Theycouldbe ours, Angus.”
“Could?”The laird shouted at his younger brother.“Could?”
“Well, Angus,” Jamie replied, nonplussed by theoutburst, “if Mistress Hay notches her cattle on the left ear as we do, then who can tell whose cattle they are, unless, of course, the beasties could talk.”
