Page 6 of Deception and Desire
Craigg clenched his jaw and frowned at each face in the small circle. “MacDunn’s son stole a rooster just last year, and ye’ll take his side? When yer grandson, Ian, is married to a Craigg?”
“It was a dare by one ofyersons, and we brought the scrawny foul back,” groused MacDunn. “He’s been punished for his lack of good sense.”
Craigg spit at the ground again. “That’s what I think of yer punishment for thieves.”
“The MacNaughton has made a decision, and we’ll all abide by it.” Lachlan crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet, glaring at the man. “Give me a reason, yehowlin eejit. Just one reason.”
The slump of Craigg’s shoulders indicated his concession. Too cowardly to go against another man in a fair fight, he held out his arm, stiff and hostile, and sealed the agreement.
“If ye try to start anything with MacDunn,” Calum warned the unhappy man, “I’ll send Lachlan to resolve it. And ye’ll have no one to blame but yerself.”
Craigg gave no response as his sullen eyes studied the spring grass beneath his feet.
“Let’s have a swallow, then, and leave friends.” Calum pulled a flask from his kilt, tipped back his head, and took a drink. He passed it to MacDunn, who did the same and handed it to Lachlan. When Lachlan offered it to Craigg, the man refused with a shake of his head.
“If ye dinna take a swallow, ye stinking shite, I’ll force it down yer scrawny throat,” Lachlan whispered, with a smile on his face. “Let’s try again.”
This time Craigg accepted the flask, but his scowl was anything but friendly.
“That’s better.” Lachlan took back the flask, secured the cork, and tossed it to Calum. “Shall we depart, Grandda?”
Calum and Lachlan rode back to MacNaughton Castle, both eager to be home after a long day. The deerhound trotted alongside the horses. Hot bread, hare stew, and some fine whisky would be waiting for them.
“Ye showed some good restraint back there,” said Calum. “I thought yer fist would find Craigg’s face near the end.” He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out two oatcakes, handing one to Lachlan. “I ken ye whispered something to get him to drink the whisky, but I’ll no’ ask ye what.”
“I dinna have the patience for the likes of Ross Craigg. If ye’d left it to me and Black Angus”—he nodded at the hound—“we’d have settled it with fewer words and been home by now.”
“There’s more to negotiations than intimidation. Ye dinna want to mimic Ross Craigg and force others to do yer will. Ye need them to agree with ye so all parties are satisfied. It’s how ye earn the respect of all.”
Lachlan crunched on the oatcake. “I wasna born with the temperament for chief. I wouldna have cared if both parties thought it was fair or no’. Besides, Craigg didna look so content. And ye’ve cracked a few skulls in yer time, Grandda.”
“Only as a last resort,” Calum agreed with a grin. “Diplomacy is a skill, lad. It’ll come to ye with practice like it did me.”
Lachlan knew better. His personality didn’t suit the role of arbitrator. He was better at commanding than cajoling. His two younger brothers had been blessed with more patience and composure. One was in Glasgow overseeing the family weaving mill, and the other had inherited Calum’s golden tongue. The boy could convince a dog to give up his bone. Either brother could easily manage the clans and settle these petty disputes. Yet, their grandfather had always been adamant that his oldest grandson would assume the leadership of the clans when it came time.
But it didn’t have to be that way. This was Scotland, theHighlands. The designation of chief was not like an English title automatically handed down to an heir. The position rested within the most powerful family and the male within the clan who was most capable of the responsibility. Fortunately, Calum MacNaughton was a fit and healthy man. A young and robust sixty-six, he was still known for his strength and endurance. The man was like a thick, aging oak, rooted within the clan and not going anywhere unless someone chopped him down. There was still time to convince him to choose one of the other grandsons.
Thenwhat would Lachlan do?
That’s what his grandfather wanted to know each time he heard his grandson’s complaint. The question had plagued Lachlan for the last year. Leaving the Highlands caused an acute pain in his chest. Yet, without an objective, he’d be unsettled and no happier than he was now. It was as if he were stuck on a raft in the middle of a great loch. No current, no paddle, just drifting. He was a man of action, of decision. He needed a trade or post that would utilize his skills and give him purpose. But what were his skills?
He was a crack shot, fast on his feet, had an iron fist, and could outdrink his brothers. He could read a man well, and because of that, he’d rarely lost a bet. None of those attributes helped him with employment. If he had to deal with bleating sheep, dense cows, and stupid, bickering Scots for the rest of his life, he’d be mad as a March hare.
The only option seemed to be the military.
Again, that would take him away from Scotland.
They trotted up the hill toward MacNaughton Castle. Several windows in the old, round tower shone with candlelight. Most of the building remained dark, except for the torches that had been lit at the entrance. There was no need to heat the entire place. The family’s living quarters were in the round tower, with the guest and formal rooms for entertaining in the rectangular stone structure that had been added two centuries ago. His mother would open those up once summer arrived and fires were only needed at night or for cooking.
The castle, so stately and unyielding, took on a foreboding aura at dusk. The shadowed crenellations along the top of the tower, the darkened arrow slits, and mullioned windows were typical of the ancient architecture. The castle at twilight made it easy to believe the tales of fairies and ghosts his grandmother had told them as children.
He chuckled as Black Angus howled, announcing their arrival. Lachlan’s female deerhound, Brownie, came loping into the courtyard with a small boy on her heels, his red curls bouncing as he skidded to a stop. Brownie and the lad both added their yowls to the growing racket.
“Saints and sinners, what a welcome,” declared Calum with a laugh. “It’s always good to come home.”
*
Lachlan wiped hismouth with the dinner cloth and pushed back from the table. The stew had been hot, thick, and tasty. “If I eat another bite, my stomach will pop like a deer tick that overstayed its welcome.”
