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Fraser rubbed his stomach, wincing. “I have already had enough o’ Rowan McLachlan, an’ I have no’ been here five minutes,” he grumbled.
He was about to turn away and make his way to the kitchen when Rowan yelled: “Fraser McLachlan! I have a bone tae pick wi’ ye!”
Fraser turned to see Rowan marching toward him, his face thunderous with rage. He came to within a foot of him, then spat in his face. “I will make ye pay for this if it is the last thing I ever do!” he snarled.
Fraser wiped the spittle off his face and transferred it to the shoulder of Rowan’s tunic, looking deeply into the other man’s sinister eyes as he did so.
Suddenly Rowan raised his fist and was about to hook it under Fraser’s chin, but again he caught it before the other man could strike.
“Now,” Fraser growled, “I could break yer wrist if I squeezed just a wee bit harder, but I am not goin’ tae, even though ye have wounded my shoulder an’ hurt my stomach. I will do battle wi’ ye man tae man in a fair fight, even though I am wounded. Agreed?”
Rowan nodded, and Fraser let go of his wrist. They waited a while to gather their breath, then Rowan backed up a little and lowered his head to charge Fraser in the stomach, in the exact same spot as he had struck him before. Fraser retreated a step, then pushed Rowan’s head forward just before it came in contact with him. The result was that he stumbled backward and Fraser advanced to swipe him with first his right hand, and then his left across his face.
Rowan’s head was spinning and his face was aching, but the boiling rage inside him would not let him submit to this man whom he hated with a passion. Anger throbbed and burned inside him.
Davie had been his best friend, the one he had known from boyhood and who was the brother he never had. They had fought, laughed, and played together, and now he was gone, cut down in his prime by this big, arrogant bear of a man who simply would not lie down and die.
There was a red mist in front of Rowan’s eyes as his head snapped back, and for a moment he thought he would pass out, but his anger drove his will and his determination to stay on his feet. Although he swayed for a moment, he clubbed his fists together, intending to bring them down on Fraser’s head, but he was just too short to reach him.
Fraser caught Rowan’s hands and then pushed them back into the other man’s face; this time he could not stay upright. He toppled backward, the whole room swimming around him, and was unconscious by the time Fraser dragged him to his feet.
Fraser looked up at the men surrounding him, sending out a silent challenge to invite anyone else to take him on. When no one did, he walked into the keep and stripped off his old clothes, then washed and went down to the kitchen.
As soon as he appeared, he was spotted by the head cook, Agnes Baird, who squealed when she saw him. “My god! Is it a ghost?” she cried, rushing up to him and cupping his face in her hands. “Is it Fraser? We thought ye were dead!”
“No, Agnes.” He leaned down to embrace the little woman, who was trembling with shock. “I was wounded, but I am very much alive, as ye can see. A kind lady nursed me back tae health, an’ I am very, very hungry!”
The other kitchen maids scrambled to see to his every wish. A bowl of soup and bannocks were quickly laid before him and all work stopped while they listened to the story of what had happened to him.
“I always knew that Rowan McLachlan was a bad yin!” Mary McGonegal said angrily. “He’s got evil eyes! I never liked his mother either!”
The ladies around the table all agreed, and Carrie Munro, a young, pretty woman with the brightest red hair anyone had ever seen, said wistfully, “Ye have beautiful eyes, Fraser. They say that the eyes are the windows o’ the soul, an’ eyes like yers could never be evil.”
There was a murmur of agreement from around the table and Fraser laughed, shaking his head. “Thank ye all, ladies,” he replied, smiling and sending them all into raptures. He finished his last spoonful of soup and had barely had a chance to take a sip of ale before a bowl of roast chicken and vegetables appeared in front of him.
When he shivered as a draft of cold air blew in through the door, a blanket was immediately dropped onto his shoulders. As soon as he finished his chicken, a platter of fruit and cheese appeared in front of him. He ate until there was not a morsel left on his plate.
However, the women could only sit with him for a short time before they had to go back to work, and gradually they drifted away until only Agnes was left.
“Do ye have a sweetheart, Fraser?” she asked, brushing her fingers down his beard. She was an elderly woman who had always been very motherly toward him, and he had no objection to her touch.
“I do,” he replied.
“What is her name?” she asked.
“Evanna Mulholland,” he replied, waiting for her reaction.
However, she merely smiled, a kind and gentle smile that lit up her seamed old face. “Love does no’ care what yer name is, lad,” she said gently. “Ye go an’ find her, an’ I hope ye will be very happy together.”
* * *
Laird Gilchrist sat behind his desk, glaring at Rowan. “I cannot even look at you, McLachlan. God knows, our clan has never had wonderful relations with the Mulhollands, but before you came along, we were never spilling each others’ blood. What in hell made you do it?”
“I wanted tae make the Mulhollands part o’ our clan so that we would be one big clan, all taegether,” he answered. “I wanted tae make them submit tae us.”
“But I am the laird,” Gordon Gilchrist answered. “Did you not think to ask me about this?” His voice was incredulous. “And Laird Mulholland?”
Fraser spoke up then. “But in his mind, ye would be the laird no longer, eh, Rowan? And neither would Mulholland because Rowan would be the laird, would he not?” He raised his eyebrows and looked accusingly at his cousin, who dropped his gaze to the ground.
