Page 79 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
Put the man in a ballroom and the lasses would doubtless be queuin’ to make his acquaintance.
“So,” Captain Bolton said, in his crisp and officious accent, “at last we meet in person, Laird MacAlpein.” He took a sip of his tea. “What a delight.”
The Laird said nothing for a good few moments. Just sat and watched the English captain. He was fighting––fighting damned hard––not to simply reach out, take the man by the throat and squeeze the life out of him.
Captain Bolton smiled, as if he could read the Laird’s very thoughts. “My goodness me, look at the two of us, controlling the seething anger that we feel for one another. All in the name ofdiplomacy.”
The Laird could not conceal his contempt at the word issuing from the lips of such a man as Captain Bolton.
“Diplomacy? Ye’d dare utter that word in me presence after what ye have taken from me and me clan, Bolton? By God, I kenned that ye were the sort o’ deceitful, serpentine man who would nae stoop from stealin’ the coins off a dead man’s eyes, but fer ye to talk to me ofdiplomacy…” The Laird huffed a laugh. “Ye’ve a set o’ bollocks on ye, I’ll give ye that at least.”
Captain Bolton took another sip of tea, draining his cup. Then he poured himself another.
“I would offer you some, sir,” he said, “but I’m afraid that tea is best served to the cultured––those who might best appreciate it––and as far as I can tell, culture of any kind is yet to make an appearance this far north.”
He set the delicate teapot down on the table.
Tormod MacAlpein, might have been a Laird but, first and foremost, he was a man––and men are only a short step away from being boys. His knee came up and he jogged the table. The expensive bone china teapot lurched sideways, teetered, and fell to the grass where the soft impact broke it neatly into three large pieces.
“Do nae worry about me, lad,” the Laird said, smiling blandly at Captain Bolton. “I dae nae drink that muck anyway. Much prefer a drop o’ whisky meself.”
He could see, with some satisfaction, that there was a vein throbbing in Captain Bolton’s temple.
“Now, I do nae wish to spend any more time in yer presence than is humanly possible, Bolton,” the Laird said, keeping his tone pleasant but injecting each and every word with steel and fire, “so let us talk, man to man. What the bloody hell do ye think ye are doin’ here, on MacQuarrie lands, with yer army o’ red coats, eh?”
Captain Bolton leaned forward, his face splitting in a tight, revolted grimace, as if the very sight of Laird MacAlpein offended him.
“I believe,” he said, “that you are in possession of something that belongs to me.”
The lass was nae jestin’ when she said that her faither treated her more as a commodity––a personal bauble––than anythin’ else.
The thought shot through his head before he could possibly block it off. It was an uncomfortable one, but he pushed it aside. Face-to-face with Adair Bolton was not the time to let sentimentality creep into the proceedings.
“If ye mean did yer daughter fetch up at me castle after shefledye, Bolton, then that might be strikin’ a little closer to the mark,” the Laird replied.
“She did not––” Captain Bolton tried to rejoin.
“I’ve had the whole story from her own lips, Bolton, ye fool,” the Laird cut in. “And, anyway, ye lie like a tombstone, so I’d nae take anythin’ ye say as the truth.”
“She did not––” the Captain tried again.
“She ran away from ye––her own faither, no less––and was found by me son in the wilds outside of yer camp. She agreed to run away wi’ him, Bolton––of her own volition, ye ken?”
“That dirty savage that you call a son abducted her!” snarled Captain Bolton.
“And who told ye that, Bolton? One of the men that ye sent after the two o’ them? One of the men who planned to take advantage of yer own daughter and then blame it on me son?”
The two men sat seething at one another, each of them leaning forward in his chair, gripping the armrests in white-knuckled fingers.
Captain Bolton was the first of them to regain enough poise to say, in his chilly voice, “The specifics are irrelevant, MacAlpein, all that matters is whether or not you have my daughter.”
The Laird’s face scrunched his face up in disbelief. “O’ course the specifics are important, Bolton. They’re the difference between someone bein’ kidnapped and someone takin’ a journey fer the sake o’ their health,” he said.
He pointed a thick finger at Captain Bolton’s face. “The particulars are what make the difference between what you have done a sanctioned invasion of Scottish soil, or treason against that oaf ye call a King.”
Captain Bolton sat there, his glittering blue eyes narrowed with fury.
“Such a thing is an irrelevance, MacAlpein,” he said. “The King and his representatives would never take the word of some jumped-up Scot over that of an English captain who has proved himself many times in battle and on campaign. The only chance you have to save the people that are hidden away behind the walls of that dung heap you call a castle, is to give me back my daughter.”
