The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

The flash of pity in the woman’s glance sent a ripple of foreboding down Fiona’s spine. “Please wait here.”

“Diarmid…” Fiona whispered, her fingers turning into claws on his arm.

“Whisht, lass. We’ve got further than I thought we would. Dinna give up hope yet.”

Settle down, Fiona.

He was right. She was on the verge of panicking, and that would do no good at all. She stiffened her backbone and sucked in a deep breath to soothe rioting nerves.

The woman was only absent a few minutes. When she returned, her expression was unreadable. “This way, if ye please.”

They left the hall and followed a corridor to a closed door. The maid opened it. “Fiona Grant and her man, sir.”

The fellow behind the desk was old and decrepit, and as he limped forward, Fiona smelled whisky and stale sweat. William, Laird of Trahair, was pudgy and gray-faced, but beneath the fat, she could make out the familiar Grant features.

“Allan said you’d turn up, and I was to watch for ye, Fiona.” He didn’t offer his hand, and he spoke with blatant contempt. “Och, I never thought to hear a Grant had sunk to marrying a Mactavish. That is if ye are married. Thomas seemed to think ye are betrothed to him.”

Fiona didn’t falter, although she’d been nervous about this encounter with her daughter’s jailer. Last time she’d seen this man, she’d been hysterical, fighting to prevent Christina falling into his clutches. Now she realized he was yet another satellite of Allan Grant’s, impotent away from his cousin’s reach.

“Good afternoon, William,” she said coldly. “I’d thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Would ye indeed, ye wee besom? And ye whoring yersel’ around the Highlands. Worse than harlotry. You’re sleeping in a Mactavish’s bed.”

Diarmid stepped up to the man until he towered over him. “Ye will apologize to my wife, sir.”

“I willnae.” Bleary eyes stared up at him. “I heard about the trollop carrying on with ye.”

“I hesitate to strike a man in his own house, but I will if ye dinna withdraw that remark.”

“Aye, aye, nae need for that. I meant nothing by it.” Fiona watched William cringe away from the threat. “I beg your pardon, Fiona.”

She’d met him several times at family weddings and christenings. She’d never liked him. “Is Allan here?”

He looked shifty. “No.”

“But he has been here?” Diarmid asked.

“Aye, why no’? He’s my cousin.”

“I want to see Christina,” Fiona said.

William retreated behind his desk, clearly relieved to put a barrier between him and Diarmid who still conveyed a belligerent air. “Och, ye cannae.”

“My wife is the girl’s mother,” Diarmid snapped. “She has a right to see her bairn.”

For the first time, a smug smile creased William’s pasty face. Fiona knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“That’s all braw and bonny, but the brat’s gone back to Bancavan. Allan was here a few days ago and took her.” He shot Diarmid an assessing glance. “And he left ye a message, Mactavish. He said if ye want the lassie, come to Bancavan and see how well ye fare. He also said if Fiona sees sense and returns to where she belongs, he’s willing to let bygones be bygones.”

“Did he indeed?” Diarmid said in a grim voice. “I’m assuming this forgiveness involves appropriate punishment, followed by a quick wedding to Thomas.”

William shrugged. “If it’s true that she married ye, she cannae marry Thomas. Unless of course something happens to ye.” He didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at that prospect. “If you’ll take my advice, laddie, you’ll steer clear of Bancavan. Swine by the name of Mactavish dinnae receive much of a welcome in the Grant family keep.”

“Och, I’ll keep that in mind,” Diarmid said sarcastically.

Disappointment at the news of Christina’s absence left Fiona staggering. She’d been keyed up to see her daughter, whatever the outcome of today’s negotiations.

“How was Christina when she left?” she asked, abandoning pride.