Page 5 of Claimed by the Clan Chief

Trevor McTavish watched the pretty young maid rush from the room as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. For some reason she’d seemed spooked by his attention. He’d just come to her rescue so why would that be?

Broc was a drunken idiot. A horny one too. Not that he was any kind of stallion, and soon he’d be a gelding if he kept up his immoral ways. McTavish would see to that. He needed strong, brave fighters for the cause, men who weren’t afraid of battle and blood, but that didn’t mean morals had to go out of the window. Tomorrow he’d have a talk with all the men. Grateful as he was to have their support and following, he didn’t need rapists amongst them. Young maidens deserved protection and respect, and it was a man’s job to do that.

He returned his attention to his host and sat back down.

“Terrible business, all of that,” the laird said.

“Aye, my apologies, won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure it won’t. You keep your men in good order.”

“I’d prefer it if they could do that for themselves, at least when it comes to carnal needs. ‘Tis not hard to restrain when you’re a man brought up right.”

“Aye, I agree.” Kendal threw Broc a glare.

“Would you like me to remove him?” McTavish asked.

“Na, leave him be,” the other man, Kendal’s friend Reid, spoke. “He’s settled again, and I don’t ken he’ll try anything else now he’s felt the tip of your sword against his neck.”

“No, he won’t.” McTavish thought of the colourful punishments the maid had come up with. What was her name? Isla, that was it. Pretty. It suited her. With long raven-black hair, grey eyes surrounded by long thick lashes, and pouty lips the colour of a summer rosebud, it wasn’t surprising she drew attention. He’d seen uglier princesses in his time.

“The ale,” the laird said, nodding at McTavish’s undrunk mug. “What do you think?”

“Aye, let’s see.” He took a sip and the malty liquid flowed like honey down his throat. “Good, aye, really good.”

“Brewed right here in this castle.” The laird was clearly proud of it and McTavish took another gulp before digging into a meat pie.

The conversation moved to the cause and McTavish’s recent run-in with an English soldier. The incident had resulted in a bloody swordfight that had left McTavish with a small wound on his shoulder and the Englishman with a large wound around his neck. The laird and his guests were keen to hear all the gory details and express their admiration of McTavish’s skills as a warrior.

He was happy to talk about the incident, though what he really wanted was to get the laird alone to discuss the Duke of Cambridgeshire and his apparent offering of support to the rebellion. It was hard to ken whether to trust him or not; his allegiance appeared flimsy at best, a collaborator with the king at worst. But if it was genuine, McTavish couldn’t afford to waste such a powerful new ally.

When the meal was cleared and sweet treats—pastries filled with jam, sponges dripping with cream, sugared fruit—arrived on the table, McTavish excused himself.

The din of jovial conversation mellowed as he wandered down the long hallway, his soft boots quiet on the flagstone floor. A fire was waning in the grate and the candles on the mantel dying. Shadows flickered over the grey walls and several portraits seemed to follow his movements with their painted eyes. Noises came from the kitchen; the clatter of pans and female voices.

He peered inside, hoping to find Isla.

She wasn’t there.

No one saw him looking, which was usual. McTavish might be big but he was used to being invisible. Having a price on his head had taught him that trick.

He moved back into the shadows and ran his hand through his hair. His belly was full, and he was enjoying wearing clean clothes on a freshly bathed body. The last two weeks had been long and arduous as they’d ridden from the western coast; he was looking forward to a proper bed for the night, rather than a barn floor, or the earth. Thank goodness Laird Stewart McDonald was such a generous host as well as a man who believed in the same things he did.

But he wouldn’t take to his bedchamber until he set his gaze upon Isla’s sweet face again and made sure she was truly unharmed. He hadn’t liked her frightened expression as she’d fled the banqueting hall. There was no need for her to be afraid of his men, not now he’d set down the rules. Anyone who broke them would have him to deal with, and it wouldn’t be pleasant.

He walked deeper into the house, over the hard floor to where the air became cooler. The scent of the night reached his nose and he spotted a small arched door propped half open. Walking toward it, the glow of a not quite full moon spread its delicate light over the threshold.

It was then he heard it. A soft voice talking in hushed tones.

He peeked out of the doorway and into the courtyard. A figure was stooped low, small shoulders bent and hair falling forward. It was Isla and she was pouring cream into a bowl and whispering sweet endearments. Two black cats were waiting eagerly for their treat and appeared mesmerized by her.

Something in him melted. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was seeing someone so unguarded, or her delicateness, maybe just the act of caring for small creatures when there was so much else to be done and she must be very tired.

“Hey,” he said.

She whipped her head around, and stood. The cats backed away, but only for a second then they dipped their heads to the bowl again.

As she straightened she pressed her hand to her chest. “You scared me.” She looked down at her feet.

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