Hannah and the Highlander by Sabrina York Page A

Andrew said. His expression sobered. He looked away. “Hopefully you will hear back soon.”
    â€œI hope so.” The wait was untenable.
    The man on the ground stirred and then, with a leery glance at Alexander, scurried away. The two brothers watched as he ran.
    â€œShould we chase him down?” Andrew asked.
    Alexander responded with a shake of his head, “Nae. Let him run. Let him return to Olrig and explain why he has arrived empty-handed.” Let Olrig know the Laird of Dunnet would no longer tolerate these petty attempts to needle him.
    â€œDo you think Olrig is behind this?”
    â€œAye.” Indeed, since their heated altercation in Barrogill conditions on the border had deteriorated. As though Olrig had given orders to pester him into submission.
    The bastard should know better.
    Alexander would not be pestered. Or cowed. Or bullied into joining Olrig’s coalition of lairds. He could not be compelled to commit what was, in his mind, treason against his overlord.
    â€œShall we continue on?” Andrew asked.
    Alexander nodded and headed back to Wallace, who stood patiently on the rise nipping tufts of grass. He waved to the men in his company to collect the purloined cattle and return them to the farmer from whom they had been stolen, and he and his brother resumed their rounds.
    They stopped at several crofts, checking in on the crofters, and made a side trip to visit Agnes, an aged widow who lived on the border. Technically she was Olrig’s vassal, but Alexander always made it a point to stop by when he was in the area and slip her a mutton chop or a chicken. The poor woman was nearly bedridden and but for her son, who stopped by to work her fields each day, she lived alone. It was likely only a matter of time before Olrig remembered her. And when he did, he would evict her. Alexander wanted her to know, when that happened, she would be welcome in Dunnet.
    With their rounds completed, the brothers headed back to the castle. As they clattered over the moat bridge and into the bailey, Fergus, Alexander’s factor, hailed him, scuttling over the cobbles. His brow rose. Fergus never scuttled.
    â€œMy lord,” he huffed as he ran up.
    Alexander leaped from the saddle and fixed his attention on Fergus’ face, steeling himself not to wince. Though his factor’s visage was familiar and dear, it was difficult not to wince whenever he saw that scar. It brought back memories he longed to forget and incited far too much guilt. Determinedly he thrust all that from his mind. “Aye, Fergus?”
    The factor’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile. With the puckered skin tugging at his features, it could be difficult to distinguish a smile from a frown. “It has come, my lord.”
    He stilled. His muscles clenched, nerves hummed. “What has come?”
    â€œThe letter, my lord. The letter from Dounreay. It has come.”
    *   *   *
    Holy God.
    As Alexander stared at the letter lying on his gleaming desk he idly scratched Brùid behind the ears. The beast, his fierce protector and ever-loyal friend, nipped him when he stopped. Alexander chuckled and riffled Brùid’s fur again.
    There was something soothing about petting a dog when one’s mind was in a welter. He was torn between the desire to rip the missive open and devour its contents … and the fear to do so. Why his pulse skittered so he didn’t know.
    Or maybe he did.
    As he contemplated the scrap of parchment, his fate, he washed down an oatcake with a liberal gulp of coffee. He tossed a bite of it to Brùid, who caught it mid-air … and then spat it out.
    Alexander could sympathize. He didn’t care much for oatcakes, either, but Morag took such pride in her recipe— handed doun from cook tae cook through time immemorial —he felt, as laird of the manor, he was obligated to eat at least one each morning. He would much