A Hellion for the Highlander

“Look,” Nathair pointed out. “An’ old man’s approaching yonder. Perhaps he kens where we’re supposed to be goin’.”

Alexander looked where Nathair indicated. There was, indeed, an elderly gentleman, perhaps seventy or so but sprightly for it, making his slow way along the path they’d just ridden. “Hail, Grandfaither,” Alexander called. “Will ye stop for some poor lost travelers?”

He ignored the look Nathair gave him at that, more interested in the surprised expression on the old man’s face.

“Ye’re talkin’ to me, sir?” the old man asked cautiously as he approached. “I dinnae have any money nor status. If ye’re lookin’ for—”

“Simply directions, me good man,” Nathair told him jovially. “To the O’Donnel farm. Do ye ken it?”

The old man’s eyes widened in alarm. Closer, his age was much more apparent. While he was hale and healthy, and obviously had been quite fit in his youth, his dark eyes had lightened with time. His forehead bore the many

creases of age under his shock of white hair. “What business do ye have wi’ Farmer O’Donnel?” he asked cautiously.

Alexander and Nathair exchanged looks before Alexander said, “If ye dinnae mind, Grandfaither, me name is Alexander MacKinnon, an’ this is me friend, Nathair Barcley. We—”

The old man squinted at Nathair. “Barcley? The Man-at-arms Barcley?”

Nathair gave a little flourishing bow, made more impressive from the fact he had not yet dismounted his horse. “In the flesh, good sir. Ye ken me?”

“Aye,” the old man said absently, suddenly looking alarmed. His eyes were darting around the place, and Alexander wished that he could read minds so that he might understand the calculation in the old man’s head. “Aye, me granddaughter, me wee Jeanie, she met ye once when she was a-courtin’ one o’ yer soldiers. I—”

Then the old man’s eyes widened as he seemed to fully take in Alexander as well.

“And ye’re the Laird o’ the castle,” he said, with something like a tremor hidden in his old voice.

“Aye, that I be,” Alexander agreed. “An’ hopin’ to reach the O’Donnel farm before true nightfall. Do ye think ye can help us out?”

Swift calculation crossed the elderly man’s brow, almost too quickly for Alexander to read, and then his old face cleared into a smile. His alarm all but vanished as he said, “Aye, Me Laird. If ye and the good Chieftain just take a right here an’ keep ridin’ for a mile or two, ye’ll come across the farm in nae time at all. Ye cannae miss it.”

“Good,” Alexander said. He reached into his pocket and drew out a gold coin, which he gently tossed towards the old man. The fellow caught it with surprising deftness and a look of shock. “For yer troubles,” Alexander explained.

Nathair grinned. “Thank ye kindly, Grandfaither,” he said, and with that, the two men and their horses turned to the right path and began to ride.

Chapter 4

Pater Familias

Master of the House

“Cil. Cil!” Jamie called at the top of his voice. “Cil, come down. Someone’s here! An’ it looks urgent!”

Alarmed, the farmer called downstairs, “Has somethin’ happened? Who in the world is callin’ at an hour such as this?”

“It’s Old Man McCaul,” Annys’s voice harmonized with their brothers. “He’s right out o’ breath. I’m gonnae fetch him somethin’ for his thirst, an’ let Mrs. Humphries ken he’s here, but he’s askin’ for ye.”

The farmer let out a shaky breath, allowing some relaxation. The last time they’d received a visitor this long after dark, it had been the healer visiting, merely to make their father comfortable before the inevitable.

Cameron O’Donnel had been a hearty man, only just into his fifties, and his three children had thought him untouchable. Immortal, even. But the fever that took him cared not for his children, for his youth, and now he was gone, leaving a son too young to run the farm, his twin daughter, and no wife remaining alive.

All of that, and an older child, who’d quietly taken over and lived in daily fear of being caught and having the farm taken away.

An’ here I am, a year later, still hidin’ me shameful womanhood so they dinnae try it.

Cicilia knew what would happen if they caught wind of her father’s death. The farm would be taken from her and placed in the Laird’s trust until Jamie was of age, or perhaps even forcibly sold to one of his lesser men. That a young, unmarried daughter would take over—such a thing was unheard of.

And yet, Cicilia loved the farm. Cameron had adored his children and taught them well. Until the twins were born, Cicilia had spent seventeen years as the only apple of her father’s eye, the only child in his life, and he had doted upon her.

I wonder what Mammy would say if she could see me now? And Daddy?