And when his brother ran his hand over his auburn hair and looked away, Alistair could guess why. Still, he forced a smile and clapped his hand on Rocque’s shoulder. “I’m glad for ye, brother. Truly I am. Ye will make a fine da.”
“Aye, I’m—we’re—verra happy. Mere’s been blessed without sickness, unlike Fiona.” Their brother Finn had married Fiona earlier that summer, and even if he hadn’t announced she was carrying, the whole clan would have known it from her frequent bouts of morning illness. “She says that’s a sign she’s carrying a lad, but I dinnae ken if ‘tis true.”
He said the last part in an almost apologetic tone. They’d reached the solar, and before they went in, Alistair stopped him.
“If she does bear a son, Rocque, ye’ll make a fine father and a good laird.”
His brother eyed him doubtfully. “Ye mean it?”
“Aye!” Alistair forced a smile. “The Oliphants will be lucky to have such a strong laird.”
“If Fiona gives Finn a son first, the clan will have a diplomatic laird,” Rocque countered.
And if I could manage to find myself a wife, who’d give me a son, the Oliphants could have a laird who actually kens how in damnation to run the clan!
But Alistair just shrugged. “It’s in God’s hands now.”
At the beginning of the summer, Laird Oliphant had gathered his six sons together and explained, since they were all bastards and all born the same year, there was no fair way to choose which would succeed him as the clan’s chief. Therefore, he’d leave it up to fate, and declared whichever son married and presented him with a grandson first would become the next laird.
Charming Finn had already long been in love with Fiona and had made short work of securing her hand in marriage and planting his seed. Finn’s twin brother, Duncan, might not have intended to fall in love with Fiona’s twin sister, Skye, but the stoic goldsmith and the firebrand were now happily married.
Then Rocque had married his long-time mistress Merewyn, the clan’s healer and midwife. Most recently, Rocque’s twin, Malcolm, had found love with Evelinde. Alistair was still amused by that as Malcolm, the scholar of the family, had decided the smartest way to go about it would be to find a widow with sons…he just hadn’t counted on falling in love with his new wife and her bairns. But he did, and Alistair didn’t think the man could be any happier.
And every single one of them has a better chance of becoming the next laird than ye!
Damn Kiergan for not agreeing to Alistair’s scheme. He’d proposed his twin—the rake who had a different lover each fortnight—find him a wife. ‘Twasnae as if Kiergan had duties to see to, and he was infinitely better suited to wooing females than Alistair was.
When it came to women, Alistair was all…stiff.
In more ways than one.
Apparently, his vigorous calisthenics weren’t helping to temper his unfulfilled needs.
Sex, lad, just say it. Ye havenae had sex in ages, and yer humors are out of order. Ye just have to make time to find a willing wench.
His brother was still watching him warily, so Alistair clapped him on the shoulder once more. “Truthfully, Rocque. Ye and Finn—and Duncan and Mal—are all good men. We have our differences, but if one of ye become the next laird, I’ll be happy to follow ye.”
“Nay, ye’ll writhe in irritation that ye have to serve one of us.”
Alistair blinked and dropped his hand. “I wouldnae— What makes ye say that?”
His brother shrugged. “Ye practically run the clan now as ‘tis, Alistair. Ye do the work of a seneschal and the laird. ‘Twould be a cruel twist of fate to no’ have the title as well.”
Frowning, Alistair shook his head. “I would ken ‘tis what’s meant to be.”
“Ye believe yerself to be the best choice though, do ye no’?”
Rocque wasn’t going to let this go, and Alistair was surprised. The largest brother of theirs was usually considered the brawn of the family, while his twin, Malcolm, was the brains. Since when did Rocque get so…introspective?
“I think…” Alistair began carefully, “I’m the one among us who has the most experience with running things. I ken what the clan needs.”
He’d spent the last two years living in the room they were about to enter; the laird’s solar had become his territory when Da had passed on the day-to-day business of running the clan to Alistair. Hell, he even had a small cot moved into the room so he could work late into the night.
His brother was nodding. “Ye’ve devoted yer life to the clan’s needs. But are ye happy doing it?”
Alistair reared back. “What?”
Chuckling, Rocque shook his head. “Yer reaction tells me ye havenae even considered the question. But here’s some advice, brother…” The big man winked. “Marriage has taught me that what I once thought I wanted isnae what really matters. I had to stop and consider my goals and what was truly important.”
“The clan is important,” Alistair snapped with a frown, wondering what the hell Rocque was speaking of.
“Aye, but so are ye.”
With a nod, Rocque jerked his head toward the solar door, apparently not realizing how he’d rocked Alistair with his casual statement.
I’m important?
Well, aye, of course Alistair was important. He was the brother who was running things, was he not?
But there was something in Rocque’s tone which told him his meaning had been more than that.
“Are ye two going to stand out there forever?”
The bellow came from inside the solar. Frowning, Alistair glanced at the door, which was open just a crack. It had sounded like Finn, although he and Kiergan often sounded alike.
‘Twas not uncommon for the six brothers to meet like this, but for Kiergan to be the one to call the meeting, was odd. Alistair was curious and replying to his brother allowed him to bury whatever feelings Rocque’s words had raised so unexpectantly.
“Keep yer kilt on, we’re coming.”
Beside him, Rocque’s chuckle rumbled. “ ’Tis what she said.”
Rolling his eyes, Alistair reached for the door. The dumb joke had been invented earlier this summer by—had it been Malcolm or Kiergan? ‘Twas impossible to remember, but ‘tis what she said was now running rampant through the clan and—
Thank St. Elzear he happened to be rolling his eyes at that particular moment, because Alistair’s gaze landed on the bucket perched atop the door.
He froze, his palm flat against the oak slab, his gaze darting from the bucket to the sliver of the room he could see through the opening, then back to the bucket.
“What’s wrong?” Rocque asked from behind him.
Alistair hummed. “It seemed Moira’s housekeeping skills are flagging.”
“What do ye mean?” His brother’s voice had dropped to a murmur, as if sensing danger. But when he stepped up beside Alistair, and saw the bucket, he snorted a laugh. “Do ye think ‘tis full of water?”
“If our brothers set this up, and who else would have, ‘tis likely full of piss.”
From inside the room came Kiergan’s—definitely Kiergan’s—call. “What’s taking ye so long?”