Page 4 of A Merry MacNaughton
“I will look forward to that day.” He ran a hand through his brown waves, locks sticking up here and there. “And I swear I will find a way to repay ye before this year is out.”
“Black Angus saved the day. And he’s much easier to please.”
“Thank ye, Calum. I’ll be taking my leave tomorrow. My daughter will be worried sick.”
“What about yer wife?”
“She was taken by fever seven years back. My daughter has been taking care of her brothers and me since she was thirteen.” He grinned. “It’s made her a bit overbearing, but no one makes a black pudding or sweet meat like my Peigi. She can charm the crankiest of men if they only sit down to our table.”
The next day, Calum shook hands with his newfound friend. “Safe travels and Godspeed.”
“I promise I will find a way to settle this debt. Ye havena seen the last of me.”
He watched Malachi ride out behind the stable. With a satisfied smile, he gave a final wave. A good deed with a good outcome and no harm done.
Tomorrow night there was a ceilidh in the village. Food and whisky flowing freely, bonnie lasses flushed with drink and dancing. He rubbed his hands in anticipation and turned back toward the castle, intending to put Malachi and the Craiggs from his mind.
A large hand gripped his shoulder. Calum winced at the strength emanating from the grip.
“And just who in the bloody hell was that?” The harsh voice of his father bellowed in his ear.
Saints and sinners, he’d been so close.
Chapter Two
A Preposterous Proposal
Mid-December 1777
Castle Craigg
“Have ye completelylost yer wits, or do ye think I’m ready for Bedlam myself?” Peigi stood with her hands on her hips, challenging the men in front her. “I willna be yer sacrificial lamb.”
Her uncle and father exchanged looks, one of anger and the other regret. Oh, she knew the next chapters to this book. First cajoling, wheedling, attempt at guilt, and then the anger and commands. With a deep breath, she crossed her arms and stood firm.
Uncle Archibald, the clan’s new chieftain, stepped forward with his arms open and a placating smile on his face. “Now, Peigi, my sweet lass, just hear us out.”
“I heard ye just fine. The earl is willing to hire the lot of ye on—if I agree to be his mistress.”
“Nay, he agreed to a handfasting,” he added. “It would all be fine and proper.”
“But no’ legal. Our bairns would be considered bastards in England and unable to inherit.” She turned to her father, heat rising in her face as she clenched her fists. “And ye agreed to this?”
Malachi shook his head. “Och, no, Daughter. No’ unless ye were willing. But the mince pies ye baked softened him to our cause, and we are desperate…”
Lord Fulton, the English earl who owned most of the surrounding property, had wanted the Craiggs to oversee his estate. Since he didn’t wish to spend much time at his newly inherited property, Fulton preferred to employ the chieftain as steward. But Archibald Craigg had eliminated that possibility after his first tirade directed at the younger nobleman. It seemed the son didn’t like being compared to his father. Her uncle had tried unsuccessfully to placate both men. But Fulton’s pride had been hurt, and the older Craigg would not see reason. Instead, the earl had employed the MacNaughtons and had no desire to cancel the arrangement just because the elder Craigg was dead.
“It was more than the pies, lass. He thinks ye’re quite bonnie and—”
“Do ye hear yerself, Uncle? My poor mother is scratching yer name on her list.” She looked up at her mother’s portrait that so resembled her. The auburn-haired beauty looked down on them with smiling green eyes. “Ma, do ye hear what they want yer only daughter to do?”
“Ye wouldna be the first lass to have an arranged marriage for the sake of the clan. And if ye were a Sassenach, there would be no argument when yer father told ye what to do.” Uncle Enoch’s wide chin stuck out from his broad, ruddy face. He’d always thought her father had indulged her. Archibald then said, “As the chieftain of this clan, I demand ye marry the man.”
“This isno’an arranged marriage. Ye’re asking me to be a whore, and I willna do it.” She stomped her foot, catching her heel on a stray thread from the worn and faded rug. She kicked it off, frustrated. “Now, I have work to do in the kitchen.”
With that, she picked up her skirts and stomped from the room. At twenty, she was well aware it was time to find a husband. But by the saints, she would be a wife not a kept woman.
“Peigi, wait.” Her father’s pleading voice stopped her halfway down the hall. “I am so verra sorry.”
