A Hellion for the Highlander

The Man-at-arms swore. “Ye’re sure?”

Ye’ve got nae proof. Just Cicilia’s words, nothin’ else. Ye have nae even kent her for so long.

He thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “Aye. Aye, I’m sure as a man can be o’ anythin’.”

Nathair swore. “Then ye should ken I just saw him nae so long ago headin’ up the main stairway towards the residential wing.”

Alexander cursed loudly. “How long ago?”

“I dinnae ken,” Nathair admitted. He tightened his hold on his Leith ax, preparing for the next wave. “But I can handle things here. Go. Now.”

Alexander nodded, gratitude shining in his eyes, and began to run. He hoped, more than he’d ever hoped for anything in his life, that he wasn’t too late.

Once Alexander had run off, Nathair’s entire world became the battle. He assumed a personality he only ever found on the battlefield. The kind, easy-going friend of the Laird vanished, replaced entirely by Leòmhann, the Lion of Gallagher.

He roared as he fought, and his men rallied around him as they always did when Leòmhann called for aid. His favored ax flashed as it swung through the air, the light of the wall candles reflecting off it like it was on fire.

In this mode, his mind was capable of detaching almost entirely from his body. It was as though he watched himself fight while his brain worked, the muscle-bound warrior separated from the man who considered the information he’d just gotten from the Laird.

So Thomaes did this, did he? Well, I cannae claim to be unduly shocked. Wily bampot has been plannin’ somethin’ as long as I’ve kent him.

He knew that Alexander wouldn’t want to believe it, but Alexander was an intelligent man. Whatever evidence he had, Nathair knew it was solid in his heart.

And besides all that, it made sense. Alexander may have his sentimentality about the man, but Nathair could see him through the cold, logical eyes of an army commander. Thomaes had never been shy or apologetic about his belief in the power of the Lairdship. He counted coins like a shepherd counted sheep, and not even Alexander was as aware of the clan’s financial situation as much as the accomptant was.

An’ he’s kent by the people. A familiar face when things get scary.

Because wasn’t that how these whispers started? The claims that Alexander’s financial skills were too low to responsibly run a clan. The insinuations that he was hardhearted and uncaring—but who had shaped him to be such in his vulnerability and grief after the death of the previous Laird?

If I can work it all out, Alexander can. Probably he’s got even more evidence swimmin’ around his brain than I do. That’s why he ran off like that.

And where had he gone? The residential quarters. Where he was protecting the thing—the person—the people most precious to him. Suddenly, another piece of the puzzle made sense to Nathair.

This all sparked again after Cicilia arrived. The rumors have been debasin’ her, castin’ aspersions on her honor, usin’ her faither’s death against her. Who kens enough to spread the truth mixed in wi’ the lies?

Thomaes. Only Thomaes.

Someone lunged at Nathair, and he moved to the side, fury filling his gut. He had let this pass by unnoticed, left Alexander unprotected. If anything happened, if any permanent damage occurred, then he would be the one at fault.

He had enough. He stormed the doors, batting combatants from both sides out of the way until he was in the passageway leading up to the balcony that overlooked the entrance hall. He rushed up the thin spiral staircase, then to the edge of the balcony overlooking the riot below.

Nathair cupped his hands over his mouth and authoritatively growled, “Stop!”

The sound echoed around the chamber, magnified by the stone walls, distracting those inside enough that the clashing metallic sounds stopped. Many of them looked wildly around the place, while a few of the more intelligent looked up to the source of the noise.

“Ye’re bein’ deceived, ye great pillocks,” Nathair shouted down. “An’ me. We ken who was behind this now, all o’ it. He’s manipulated us all. Look at ye! Ye’re fightin’ brother against brother, an’ for what? Gallagher is better than this, both the man an’ the clan as a whole!”

Muttering broke out, then one of the rebels called out, “Where’s yer precious Laird now, Nathair Barcley? If he’s so much better than all o’ this, if he cares so much for his castle an’ his people, why’s he cowerin’ away somewhere while we spill blood?”

The angry agreement started to swell, but Nathair quelled it with a loud reply. “No! Alexander is, at this moment, tryin’ to save the lives o’ an innocent lass an’ a couple o’ bairns from the man who has tricked ye into thinkin’ he could be a Laird. Yer Laird. Thomaes Cunningham cares naught for ye, an’ I can prove it.”

Now Nathair’s own men were whispering loudly, unable to believe he’d just pointed the finger at the Laird’s trusted accomptant.

“What are ye tryin’ to pull, Barcley?” one of the men called, though he couldn’t tell for which side he fought.

“I’m nae tryin’—look. Call a truce, just temporary-like. Stop the bloodshed until we all agree it’s necessary, aye?” Nathair suggested.

“An’ how do ye suggest we do that?” demanded the first rebel who had spoken. Squinting down, Nathair could just about make out Ron Jacobs, the baker. He seemed to have taken some sort of leadership role, for the men were rallying around him. Ron snorted, glancing around at his fellows, and said, “Barcley sounds like me wife! I thought ye were supposed to be a Man-at-arms?”