A Hellion for the Highlander

Cicilia’s expression settled into a tight frown. Yes, if he found out her secret, that was precisely what the Laird would do. Her mother and father had educated her as well as any boy. Cicilia knew without boldness that she had a good head for business and economics, as well as for Latin and Greek. More so than many sons, she imagined.

But that would matter not. Cicilia was a woman, and women were not meant to have any sort of success in the minds of these powerful men. They would take her farm from her and hand it over to a suitably gendered vassal and leave Cicilia and her siblings in the dust.

She’d love to just tell him to shove off, but she wasn’t so idiotic as to go openly against the Laird. She’d spend the night in the dungeons, or worse if she were to do such a thing!

Jeanie seemed to be able to read her thoughts, and she let out a long sigh. “Oh, Cil. How many trade shows, illnesses, an’ family visits do ye think ye’re gonnae get away wi’ until somebody calls yer bluff?”

It wasn’t a bluff. It was a gambit, not only for her way of life but for Jamie, for Annys. And for her father. So Cicilia made a grim expression as she said, “Always one more, Jeanie. Always one more.”

When Alexander picked his way downstairs the next morning, he tried his best not to notice the crooked way the stairs led down to the kitchens, or the ramshackle organization of the wall paintings. The room he’d woken in was pleasant enough, but it was not his, and that on its own was enough to set him on edge.

A young housemaid named Katie had wakened him a little time prior. She informed him that someone named Mrs. Humphries had laid out a large breakfast in honor of the Laird and the Man-at-arms and that he should make his way to the kitchens as soon as he was able.

Pleasant o’ them, I suppose, but I dinnae half wish I was still in me castle.

The house was strangely quiet as he made his way through, remembering the way to the kitchens from the night before. He heard voices before he entered, and he was surprised at how lively they all sounded while the sun was barely yet in the sky.

But then, I suppose a farmer’s home would keep hours wi’ the sun.

He reached the kitchen door just as it was flung open, and one of the two pig-riders from last night almost ran straight into him. Alexander recoiled from the child’s hands, sticky with jam as they were.

“Oh! Mr. Laird! Good mornin’!” the boy said excitedly. “I was just goin’ to use the privy. Have ye used the privy?”

“Jamie,” called Cicilia’s warning voice. “Stop teasin’ the Laird an’ go get washed before ye eat.”

Jamie winked at the Laird and hurried past him. Alexander stared after him for a moment before shaking his head and walking inside.

The sight before him wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Nathair was already downstairs, the little girl Annys on his right next to her sister. There was an empty chair with a plate before it—Jamie’s, he assumed—and another empty space with no plate, which he supposed must be for him.

But there were others at the table, too, two guests he had not expected. One was a tall young woman, around Cicilia’s age or perhaps a little more youthful, with brown hair braided down her back and bright brown eyes. She sat on Nathair’s left, and the two were chatting enthusiastically about some subject Alexander did not hear.

It wasn’t the girl who made him stare, though. Nathair was good at finding a lass to keep his attention, no matter what the setting. No, what caught his eye was the old man at the head of the table.

“Ye!” Alexander said in surprise.

“Fair mornin’, Me Laird,” Cicilia said brightly, as though he hadn’t spoken. Her round cheeks were pleasantly pink, as though she had been awake and working for hours

already. “I hope ye slept well?”

“I—” Alexander started, thrown off by her words, still staring at the old man. “Er, aye, thank ye. I did. But, Miss O’Donnel…”

“Oh, please, call me Cicilia,” said the farmer’s daughter. “An’ have a seat. I’ll have Angelica bring ye some eggs. They’re fresh this morn.”

Alexander slowly sank into his seat, still not moving his eyes from the elderly man. “Prithee, Grandfaither, are—”

Nathair looked up from his conversation and snorted. “Och, dinnae bother, Sandy. He doesn’ae recognize me, either.”

The little girl, Annys, piped up. “Cil, ye dinnae introduce anyone to Mr. Laird,” she said disapprovingly. “Mr. Laird, this is Jeanie McCaul. She’s me sister’s best friend an’ she’s the daughter o’ Mrs. Humphries, the cook, and Mr. Humphries, the driver.”

Distracted, Alexander flicked his gaze at the brown-haired young woman, who smiled politely at him. “Pleased to meet ye,” he said. “Me name is Alexander MacKinnon.”

“Aye, Laird, I ken,” Jeanie told him with a little smirk. She shot a sideways glance at Cicilia that Alexander didn’t understand, then turned her attention back to him. “The honor’s mine. An’ this is me maternal grandda, Ewan McCaul. We like to come for breakfast sometimes. I hope it dis nae bother ye.”

“It certainly dis nae bother me,” Nathair told her with a grin, and Alexander struggled not to roll his eyes.

“Aye, I’ve met yer grandfaither,” Alexander told Jeanie. “Me an’ Nathair both.” He looked to Ewan once more. “Ye sent us on quite the merry chase last night, Mr. McCaul.”

Ewan smiled without any sort of recognition. “I think ye must be mistaken, Laird,” he replied airily. “I may be an old goat, but I’m nae yet too old to remember the night before. I think I’d remember meetin’ ye an’ yer friend!”