There was a giggle.
He looked up as Kalan scampered by. The eldest of Malcolm’s daughters was just four winters old. The child clutched a doll as her nurse, Mae, stuck close to her heels. There was a smile on Kalan’s face because she was too young to grasp the day’s events. The child spent far more time with her nurse than she ever had with her mother.
Kalan had no idea that she might be smothered in the dark hours of the night now that there had been a shift in power, and she represented the wrong bloodline.
Gilmor slowly grinned. McKay blood flowed through her veins. But more importantly, there was Grant blood, too. The Grants wouldn’t be very happy to hear of the shift in power inside the McKay clan. Not when the shift nullified their allegiance.
“Do ye want to play?”
Kalan had stopped and was staring up at him.
Gilmor smiled. He lowered himself to the ground, so he was level with the child. “I will send me aunt to play with ye, Kalan.”
Mae’s eyes widened. The nurse didn’t lack wits, and Gilmor stood and shot her a hard look. “Take yer charge to see me aunt.”
The nurse worried her lower lip in indecision.
“Ye can be useful to me or not.”
The nurse quickly lowered herself in obedience.
“I’ll go straight away,” Mae muttered.
She extended her hand, and Kalan took it immediately. Gilmor watched them disappear down the passageway. He turned when they were out of sight and went looking for his supporters.
Chapter Seven
“Ye slut!”
There was a crash and the sound of pottery breaking. Faolan turned away from the stairs he’d been making ready to climb.
“I thought to be rid of ye for the winter, and now ye are back and taking to thieving!”
The Head-of-House’s voice bounced between the stone walls of the passageway, which ran between the towers. Faolan came around the bend in time to see Orla raising a rod up high as two of the men from the kitchen held Brynna down on her knees with her arms behind her.
“I was no’ thieving,” Brynna declared. In spite of her dire circumstances, the girl’s voice was firm and steady. She didn’t cower but stared straight at Orla.
“Not thieving?” Orla demanded. She used the rod to point at the broken pottery jar on the floor. “I gave ye no permission to take anything from the stillroom.”
“The salve is for the mistress. Since ye sent her to the laundry to scrub the day through, her hands are near to peeling.”
“Mistress?” Orla demanded. “The mistress is resting in her grave. Little wonder ye think Cora Mackenzie is anyone worthy of serving, for she is cut from the same cloth as ye. Doing whatever she pleases whenever she decides to. Well, I saw the sheet this morning with me own eyes, and it was clean.”
“What matters is the way the laird looks at her,” Brynna continued. “It’s the same way yer son looks at me.”
Orla laughed. It was a low sound so unpleasant, Faolan pushed himself the last few paces so he might intercede.
The Head-of-House was startled. Faolan pulled the rod from her grip as he sent the men holding Brynna a stern look. They released her instantly, bending slightly as they backed away and tugged on the corner of their caps. Faolan looked back at Orla. The Head-of-House was no stranger.
“If ye’ve something to say to me, then so be it.” Orla proved she wasn’t going to snivel. “Being Head-of-House means keeping order.”
“Ye sent me wife to the laundry?” Faolan inquired softly.
Orla propped her hand on her hip. “I sent yer bride to prove what she knows about running a large house. It would be foolish of me to allow her into the kitchen without testing her. Unless ye fancy food poisoning. Since the sheet was clean, she clearly does nae see performing her duties as something important.”
There was a snicker from one of the maids hiding in the shadows.
“Yer authority does nae extend to me wife’s character,” Faolan said. “And since ye sent Brynna to me towers, the girl is mine to direct.”
“All the better.” Orla refused to back down. “For me son has already seen the error of his ways in setting his sights on her.” The Head-of-House looked at Brynna. “Me Cameron is set to wed a girl who is nae a foundling like ye.”
Another round of snickers came from the shadows. Faolan bristled. He sent Orla a harsh look. “Since ye are willing to show me yer face when ye insult me, ye may keep yer position because ye are not a coward. But I will make one thing very clear to ye. There will be no banishing from this stronghold without my approval. Cross me on that Orla, and ye will suffer the same fate ye gave me mother. I swear that to you.”
Orla shut her mouth so quickly, there was a click from her teeth. Behind him, there was complete silence.
“Brynna?”
“Aye, laird?”
“Bring me a jar of the salve.”
Brynna inclined her head before she turned and returned to the stillroom. Orla narrowed her eyes, for the stillroom was a place only those with permission entered. Inside it was the costliest items the kitchens had. Herbs, spices, medicines. Orla was charged with making certain there was ample supply for the winter. Faolan understood the need for the Head-of-House to instill fear of retribution, but Orla enjoyed those moments too much for his taste.
But replacing her wasn’t so simple. He might just end up with someone incompetent who really would give them all food poisoning. Or see his Retainers rebelling against his authority because the storerooms ran out of grain before the next harvest.
Brynna returned and offered him a small jar. He could close his hand all the way around it because of how little it was, but the contents were precious. He turned to look at Brynna.
“Tomorrow, ye will attend to me wife. Unless she decides otherwise.”
Brynna lowered herself. Half a dozen Retainers had followed him. Faolan watched the way they took in the moment. The staff inside the kitchens remained silent. He started to walk away but stopped and looked at one of the Retainers.
“Reece.”
The young man reached for the corner of his cap. “Laird?”
“See that Brynna is placed in a sleeping chamber for the night. One befitting her position as Lady McKay’s attendant.”
“Aye.”
Faolan turned and headed for the stairs. His head was pounding as he climbed. Tension knotted his shoulders far worse than he could recall ever having endured in his life.
Even when he and his mother had been turned out in the bitter cold.
Being laird was taxing, to say the least.
Faolan was contemplating a healthy pour of whiskey when he reached the outer doors of the chamber his wife was in. He rapped on it and pushed it open a moment later.
All thoughts of whiskey vanished instantly. She stood a few paces from him, her hair unbound and flowing down her back in naught but a shift as she reached up to close some window shutters. The light from a candle flickered behind her, illuminating her body beneath the thin linen.
Christ, he craved her…
*
“Ye are supposed to wait for me to invite ye in,” Cora informed him.
Faolan responded by firmly closing the door.
She stood still for a long moment. Her toes had been chilled, but now, there was warmth rushing along her limbs. She stared at the closed door, contemplating the choice Faolan was affording her.