“Exactly my point,” agreed Calum. “A male wants a woman who’s soft and pliant, not trying to beat him in an arm-wrestling match.”
“Is that what ye called me when we met? Soft and pliant?” asked Peigi, her tone deceivingly light.
“Och, woman, ye willna lead me into that trap.” Calum bent over and placed a noisy kiss on his wife’s mouth. “Ye stole my heart from the first. It didna matter if ye were pliant, only willing.”
She smacked his chest but gave him a pleased smile before she turned back to her grandson. “The bonfire for Beltane will be held in Dunderave. Ye’ve arrived just in time.”
Brodie rubbed his hands together. Good food, whisky, and lasses in their best gowns wanting to dance. The Edinburgh girls were bonny enough, but his heart belonged to the Highland pretties. The first of May was always a braw celebration.
“Ye’ll behave yerself, lad,” warned Calum. “Ye’re two and twenty and need to look for a wife, no’ sample the brew.”
He rolled his eyes but said nothing, not in the mood for another lecture. “I saw Kirstine down by the Dunderave path. Her pony had thrown her.”
“No! Is she all right? Shall I go by and check on her?” asked Peigi. His family had always liked Kirsty.
He shook his head but glanced at his grandfather, who now had a familiar glint in his eyes. “Only her pride wounded.”
“Now there’s a fine lass if ye want my opinion,” Calum said. “Comes from a good family, her da works hard tending the cattle and sheep, and her ma is a healer.”
Brodie snorted. “Sounds like a list of wifely qualities. We’re close but no’ in that way. I’ve had this conversation with Ma.” He popped a slice of meat into his mouth and chewed in silence. His mind strayed to the earlier encounter with Kirsty and his body’s reaction to her. A natural consequence from such close contact. He’d have to be careful of that in the future. They weren’t children any longer, as his ma had often reminded him.
“I saw Lachlan at the Thistle. On his way to Glasgow.” Brodie hoped to turn the conversation.
“Aye, yer brother needed a wee respite from Ross Craigg and the bickering. His temper gets the better of him.”
“Lachlan would rather give him a skelping than a lecture,” he agreed. “Craigg’s a blethering eejit who beats his women but avoids a mon’s fist.”
“Aye, and I wouldna trust him if he swore on his mother’s grave.” Calum scratched his jaw. “But now I have two grandsons gone.”
“By the by, Lachlan and I discussed the mill and may have found a solution to our problem.”
The MacNaughtons were partners in a textile mill in Glasgow. Brodie’s aunt had married a wealthy Englishman who had financed the venture but left the daily operations to his in-laws. It seemed English earls could invest in trade, but not dirty their hands with it. Calum had accepted his son-in-law’s proposition and put the entire clan to work, either at the factory itself, providing the raw wool, or weaving special order tartans.
Lord Stanfeld refused to travel to the Highlands, but he agreed to bring his Scottish wife to Glasgow several times a year for a family visit and to discuss business. Once their son, Gideon, was born, the two families had taken an annual summer trip to the town so the MacNaughton cousins would know their English kin. Since the old earl’s death, their cousin Gideon had assumed the earldom, and Ian had taken over the business trips for Calum.
“Ian’s no’ been successful finding a replacement for the supervisor. He hadn’t thought his absence would be extended like this, especially with a new wife.” Brodie busied himself with a piece of bread and another slice of meat but kept a side eye on his grandfather. “We hoped, perhaps, Ian could come home for a while. Let Lachlan stay in Glasgow. I can accompany you when needed for the chief’s duties.”
Calum scowled, his thick brows pulled together. Peigi laid a hand on his arm. “Ye willna be getting any grandchildren from a couple who are separated.”
“Hmmph! I suppose that’s true enough.”
“Weel, that’s settled then.” Brodie moved swiftly to the next subject. “And I’m happy to announce that we have signed a thirty-year lease on the building along the Water of Leith. By next year, we’ll have another mill in Edinburgh.”
“And after thirty years?”
“First option to buy or lease for another thirty.”
“Saints and sinners!” bellowed Calum. “Excellent work, lad. Excellent work. Time for the good scotch.” He peeked at his wife, who rose with a sigh.
“I’ll leave ye both to yer whisky,” she said as she moved toward the door. “Dinna overdo it. Ye’ll have plenty of time to drink with yer grandsons at the end of the week.”
“Just a wee swallow, mo chridhe,” Calum said with a wink. “Just a wee swallow while we finish talking business.”
*
Brodie strode over the sandy hill, between the shrubs of yellow gorse, the chain on his sporran a soft chink to the rhythm of his stride. He’d wanted to walk, take in the smells, the sights, the sounds he’d missed the past month and a half. New grass scented the air and cushioned his step. Spring flowers in late bloom danced at his feet. A hawk soared overhead, spotted a chattering rodent, and dove for its supper. He enjoyed travel—new places, meeting people—but this was his home. His foundation. Space. After a week away, he longed for the rugged mountains dotted with pine and the pastures of bleating sheep and ambling cows.
He thought of relatives and ancient Scottish surnames that had been forced to relocate. There would never be anything as beautiful as this country. But so many families had been cast out in the past decades. Large landowners had eliminated the small farmers, turning their property into sizeable blocks for grazing cattle, then sheep. Leases weren’t renewed, rents were raised, or only cash accepted. The clans had shrunk in size as people were forced out of homes occupied for centuries. Some had relocated to the coast as crofters and fishermen or emigrated to Canada or America. If his Aunt Maeve hadn’t married a rich Englishman, the MacNaughtons might have endured the same hardships. Instead, their clan thrived, along with any smaller clans that had joined with them, including Kirsty’s family, the MacDunns.
He made his way back to the path and around the bend, where a cluster of buildings came into view. His gray deerhound lumbered up to him, its long, shaggy tail wagging lazily. Brodie bent to scratch behind the dog’s ears and suffered several wet licks. The hound had been a gift from his grandfather a couple of years ago, but it preferred Kirstine’s company. She had taken care of the dog when Brodie had travelled to Glasgow last year, and he’d never been able to lure it back.
“How ye doing, Charlie?” The dog howled and thumped its tail in response. “I’d rather wake up to her face than mine too. Can’t blame ye.”
He entered the small courtyard and scanned the property. The cottage was about a hundred years old, with a thatched roof and lime-washed stone walls. The old blackhouse, a long double-walled structure built of flat rocks, held the livestock. Several other, smaller stone buildings were scattered behind the house.
With a crack of his knuckles, he knocked on the heavy planks.