Highlander’s Wrath by Adamina Young
The Perfect Solution
Laird Hamish was in a towering rage. The London innkeeper from whom he had asked directions did not understand what he was saying.
“I’m speakin’ English, man! Is that no’ what ye all talk here? Awa’ wi’ ye!”
The innkeeper beat a hasty retreat, shaking his head at the rude gentleman on the snorting black horse. Not for all the gold sovereigns in the land was he prepared to risk the possibility of the Scottish laird bringing his riding crop down on a poor innkeeper’s pate.
The serving maid from the alehouse was willing to risk a tongue-lashing from the handsome gentleman, no matter how angrily he spoke.
“Sir,” she simpered, “p’raps I can assist ye? Me mither hails from Inverness, ye ken.”
“Finally, someone who speaks the rich language of my people,” Laird Hamish growled. “What madness gripped yer mither to live all the way down here?” Upon seeing that the maid was more than happy to tell him her family’s backstory, he held up his hand to show her the question had been merely rhetorical. “I seek the manor house of Mister James McDonald. D’ye ken where it is?”
It was most fortuitous for the laird when the maid replied, “Indeed, me laird, I do. One o’ me sisters serves there. But ye will have to leave yer horse here by our stables and take a wherry up the river. The waterman will ken where to stop.”
Laird Hamish tossed her a shilling and whistled for a groom to take his horse from him, telling the man he would be back to collect his mount in due course. Then he strode out of the inn courtyard toward the river, his dark traveling cloak flapping behind him like black wings.
He was fortunate to find a cheerful waterman who knew the McDonald manor house well, and after placing Laird Hamish’s saddlebag on the wherry sole, he pushed off and began rowing upstream. Both men were used to the pungent smells of rivers and seacoasts, and Hamish did not bother holding the cuff of his coat up to his nose like some other City gentlemen were doing around him. One pompous-looking man had thought to bring a pomander with him for the journey and sailed past them in the other direction with the silver ball clutched firmly to his face.
The day was overcast, serving to remind his lairdship that time was running out for him to find a willing teacher to spend the long, bleak winter with Colban at Barclay Castle. The trees were nearly bare of leaves; the fallen yellow and brown triangular shapes floated on the river. Laird Hamish dipped his hand in the water and pulled one out. It lay flat and slimy in his hand, clinging to the skin with clammy strength.
“The house is on the left, sir,” the waterman panted, not bothering to turn around and look at the stately edifice himself. The Thames current was deceptively stronger than it appeared to be on the surface. He brought the wherry alongside the jetty with some skill and pointed to the moss-covered stone stairs leading out of the water and onto dry land.
After paying the man, Laird Hamish hefted his saddlebag over his arm and walked down the wide stone-paved pathway leading toward the main house. There was no drive for horses or coaches on the river-facing side, but this had obviously not caused the owner to scrimp when it came to garden ornamentation and elegantly shaped shrubberies.
He did not hesitate when he approached a set of wide doors that abutted a small closed-in flagstone courtyard; Laird Hamish banged them open as though he owned the place and threw the saddlebag down on the floor.
“What the—”
A beautiful brunette-haired girl was seated by the fireplace in the room. The book that had been on her lap had fallen to the floor with a bang. She looked annoyed. Laird Hamish found this amusing. It had been many years since a woman had been brave enough to show him an irritable face.
“A thousand pardons, lass—I mean, mistress,” he said, the good-humored grin on his face making his grey eyes less severe for a moment. “I seek Mister James McDonald.”
The young woman stood up from her comfortable armchair and shook out her wide skirts with a businesslike air. “It’s ‘miss,’no’ ‘mistress.’ I take it ye came up by wherry?”
“Ye speak the language of the Scots?” Laird Hamish was amazed.
“Aye, of course I do, if it pleases our guests,” was the cordial reply. “‘Tis the tongue of me mither an’ faither, after all.”
“Does it please you, though?” Laird Hamish wanted to know. He said the words in English, quite in his best manner.
The girl stopped and turned around. No one outside of the family had ever considered her preferences before.
“As much as I love speaking Gaelic, and French...and Italian, sir,” she said with a sweetly candid expression on her face, “I prefer English.”
Laird Hamish gave her his most charming smile and replied in English, “Is it not always the case that we show an inclination toward the language of our friends and family?”
Then he stepped back, gave her a deep bow, and indicated she could continue to show him to her father’s study.
James McDonald looked up when his daughter entered the room after she had scratched discreetly on the door panel and asked his permission. When he saw the tall stranger come in behind her, he did not look surprised.
“Of course! Ye came up on one of the wherries. Has Coira made ye comfortable, sir?”
So, that’s the girl’s name. ‘Tis pretty and suits her well. It means “seething pool” in our tongue, but in truth, she reminds me more of cool, calm waters, although I have no doubt she could stir up some ripples if she chose to do so.
“Please, none of this ‘sir’ nonsense between ye an’ me, Mister McDonald. Let us leave those stiff formalities to our English hosts, shall we?” Laird Hamish made a low bow.
Returning his guest’s bow, James McDonald looked at his daughter, waiting for her to leave the room.
She gave herself a shake, as though she had been mesmerized by the two gentlemen before her.
“Shall I call Mama to come and make her introduction, Papa?” Coira asked.
James nodded. “No’ just yet. Run off an’ tell her to make up the south-facing bedchamber, will ye, Coira?” James replied, dismissing his daughter with a nod.
After his eldest daughter had left and shut the door behind her, James settled back in his desk chair and indicated to Laird Hamish that he could take the one opposite.
“The messenger arrived no’ two days afore ye, Barclay, with word from our dear friend, Father Abercromby. I pray ye left everything well at Barclay Castle?”
A footman knocked and entered. James asked Laird Hamish if he cared for some of the famous Macanroy whisky, and after pouring out two generous glasses of the golden liquid, the footman bowed himself out of the room again, taking his lairdship’s cloak and hat with him.
“As well as can be expected, I thank ye,” Laird Hamish said, “but the castle suffers for lack of a mistress, and me son is missing a mither.”
James listened to these words. Personally, he wondered why Laird Hamish Barclay, in possession of large tracts of land and a sizeable bank account—not to mention the fact the gentleman was also obviously in possession of a face handsome enough to turn the head of the most hard-hearted female—would be struggling to find a second wife. Maybe it had something to do with the careless way the man dressed himself. The laird had made some small concession to English fashion by wearing breeches and a serviceable pair of long, black leather boots, but James could not help but cringe at Laird Barclay’s brutally short hair and the week’s growth of stubble on his chin.
He lifted his eyebrow. “D’ye no’ have time to attend the balls at Inverness? There are sure to be plenty of womenfolk at the reels who are on the catch for a lairdly husband,” James suggested helpfully.
Laird Hamish thought it best to steer the conversation in safer directions; he did not want to tell his amiable host that every woman in Inverness would turn pale at the mention of his name, his stormy reputation preceding him.
“Och, courting and playing the fool to woo some wench is no’ to me taste, McDonald,” Laird Hamish scoffed. “It’s a nanny, or some woman specialized in the education of wee tykes I have need of. D’ye ken of any?”
James acknowledged the sense in this. “A good woman for yer son might just be the perfect solution to yer quandary, Barclay,” he said, and the two men sat chatting about where to find the best female servants until the bell sounded for supper.