Page 126 of A Highland Bride Disciplined
“Shut the door and sit.” Kian broke the seal.
Inside lay a folded letter on good vellum and, beneath it, a small, wrapped parcel tied with green-and-amber twine. He set the parcel aside for the moment and flattened the letter on the desk. The hand was old-fashioned but firm.
He read aloud at first, “To Kian Murray, Laird of Crawford clan —” He skimmed ahead for a moment and then Kian’s eyes met Tam’s just briefly enough to dismiss the man silently.
Kian continued to read as Tam slid out of the study without another sound.
I write in grief and in shame. Word reached me by your rider, and by the body you sent home with the care due to a fallen man, that my youngest son, Roderick, came to you under false cause and compounded those lies with violence and insult beneath your roof. I can give you no excuse for him. He was of my blood. But his choices were his own.
Kian breathed in deeply and read on.
You speak in your letter of a kitchen maid once in my household, Nieve O’Brien, and of a bairn left at your gate. I am made to understand that my son wronged the lass grievously and sought to wrest the child from your keeping by force. If there is a rot in my house that allowed such conduct to flourish, I will cut it out to the root. The captain who lent my guard to Roderick on his private errand is stripped of rank and awaiting judgment. Men who followed, knowing the errand was not of clan duty, will answer for it.
A heavy sense of those men’s fates weight heavily across Kian’s shoulders. He rolled them, then stretched his neck back and forth. This note was written with care, and he knew to afford the man all of the respect that was due. He lost a son after all…
You returned my son to me for burial when you might have left him to hard earth. For that, I thank you, man to man, father to father. There will be no vengeance from McTavish for what passed at Crawford Keep. My son came as an enemy and fell as one. I set my seal to that.
As to the child, you write that she is called Elise, and that the mother desired that she be kept in your care. I grieve that I did not know of the lass’s burden sooner. I grieve that a woman under my roof was made desperate. If I could undo it, I would. Failing that, I will honor her last wish.
Kian’s heart raced as his eyes tore across the page, devouring every single word as quickly as possible.
Let the bairn be reared at Crawford Keep with your lady, as the mother wished. I will not contest it now or hereafter. If you would have me stand as sponsor at her christening, say the word and I will come under the banner of truce and without sword. If not, I shall send the child’s portion by your steward each Martinmas — coin enough for a dowry or schooling as you deem fit, and grain against a poor harvest.
Know also: my roads and passes are open to your messengers; my men have order to treat Crawford colors as friend. Should harm ever threaten the child on my lands, she will be shielded as my own.
I enclose a small token. It is fine cloth woven by the women of my house in our colors, to wrap the lass when winter sets in. It is not a claim. It is contrition.
Kian read the final part out loud, the words running into each other as they rolled off of the page as rapidly as possible, “If trade serves us both, I would speak of it when time is decent. Timber from our northern slopes for your cooperage. Barley.Beeswax. In exchange for whiskey we cannot match. Let what was born in ashes end as alliance, not feud.
By my hand,
Euan McTavish, Laird of McTavish
Under seal at Dun Ruadh, the seventh day since your messenger rode…” he flipped the parchment over and continued.
“Postscript. There are hotheads yet who swore to my son and think honor means shouting. I am cooling them as quick as the law allows. Keep a watch to your south pass for a fortnight, then ease your guard.”
Kian let his hand drop to his side for just a moment before he lifted it and read the letter again, and then a third time, letting each line settle in its place.
The first feeling that moved through him was not triumph. It was a tired sort of sorrow. Sorrow for a father forced to bury a son and write this kind of letter. For a girl in a kitchen who’d needed help and hadn’t gotten it in time. For the shameful waste of it all.
But beneath that, quieter, came relief. The kind that loosened the jaw you’d kept clenched for days. No vengeance. No claim. Just a hand offered, even if it trembled.
He picked up the little parcel next, and loosened the twine. Inside lay a shawl no bigger than Kian’s palm, fine as spidersilk, light but warm to the touch. It was McTavish colors, as promised, green and amber worked in a careful check, the edges hemmed by someone with patient fingers. A grandmother’s work, Kian thought, though he didn’t know if McTavish had a living wife. He imagined the old laird sitting at a long table with ink-stained fingers while a woman at the far hearth sewed, both trying to make sense of the hole Roderick had left.
Tam knocked once, and peeked his head into the room. “Well?”
Kian snorted despite himself and set the cloth down as if it were something sacred. “An alliance.” He said simply, pressing a finger to the parchment. “On his word. We’ll double the watch on the south pass for a fortnight, then rotate light.”
“Aye,” Tam said, without even the hint of a question in his response, and stepped into the room fully letting the door close behind him.
“And we’ll be sendin’ thanks to Muir and MacLennan for standing with us. Barrels to each. Tell Campbell he’s to return the casks for refilling or I’ll charge him double.”
“Aye, I’ll take care of it.” Tam said. “And the men?”
“We ease the alert, not the drills,” Kian said. “Nay victory parades. We’ve work enough. Send word to the parson. We’ll set a christening. McTavish means to sponsor, and I’ll have it under truce and under every saint we can name. Nay swords, nae even for show.”
Tam hooked a thumb toward the door. “Ye’ll tell Lady Scarlett yerself?”
