turn. You see, I fancy myself a bit of a—”
If Abby could have reached MacHarg’s instep, she would have forgone her heel and plunged his sword through it instead. In place of that, she fired off a look that would have flattened a lesser man. Just because Sir Alan was talking to him didn’t mean her proscription against talking to Sir Alan had expired.
“A bit of a what, sir?” Sir Alan said.
MacHarg, paling, considered. He snagged a salmon cake from the platter. “Fisherman. That is to say, I advise on fish and I fish. I am all fish, truth be told.”
“Oh, well, I am a man of fishing myself. A very fine stream runs through my property in Fife. You must try it sometime.”
Another servant appeared and met the eyes of the footman, who immediately straightened and announced dinner was ready. The group moved into the Great Hall. Abby had purposefully put MacHarg in the middle of the long table, between Serafina and Undine, so that he would be as far as possible from both Sir Alan, who would be seated next to Abby at one end, and Rosston, who would be seated next to his men at the other.
However, her plans were not to be. Serafina, who had stopped to rearrange her skirts, was swept up by Rosston on the way to the hall, and MacHarg was repeating a particularly drawn-out story to Sir Alan about the enormous size of a salmon he had once caught. It seemed to Abby, who had almost no interest in fish except those Mrs. Michael baked into her pies, as if gentlemen these days were almost as invested in the size of their catches as they were in the size of their—
“Battering rams, milady?” Sir Alan had paused to observe the pair of intricately carved columns of wood that hung in an X over the dining room’s massive hearth. “Rather an unsubtle touch.” He smiled.
“My grandfather used to say the larger the weapons, the fewer the wars.”
“Is that a sentiment you and your father also share, Lady Kerr?”
And just who was being unsubtle now?
“Perhaps,” she said with a forced chuckle. “Though I suspect it was for different reasons. My father liked his swords sweeping. I prefer my peace that way.”
MacHarg said, “I understand the people of the borderlands have been quite pleased with the peace Lady Kerr was able to negotiate. More than a year now, is it not? That has to be a record.”
He raised his goblet and Abby’s cheeks warmed. That was the second time he’d helped her navigate a difficult situation. She found herself flustered by his support. The last few years had been so turbulent and her ascension to the chieftainship so fraught with controversy, she had grown used to expecting every decision to be a fight and every fight to be fought alone.
While she was most grateful for his help, she was very interested to know the source of his information. His “reinterpretation” of the army’s message—patently false—was predicated on knowing that a messenger had come to Kerr Castle. And now for him to know she’d brokered a peace with the English army a year and a half ago? Was he a borderlander? But no. Everything about him was a degree divorced from the expected, from the cut of his clothes to the odd length of his hair to his sometimes surprising choice of words or phrases, suggesting that the odds of him being from the borders were small. On the other hand, there was no mistaking that lovely, deep rumble for anything other than a Lowland burr. She looked at him and he gave her a lopsided grin. But even that, she had to admit, carried a note of something in it marking him as an outlander.
She lifted her glass in thanks. He gave her a generous smile.
“Sir Alan, surely you didn’t come to Kerr Castle for fishing?” Rosston popped a gobbet of lamb in his mouth.
“I did not. Though I could surely be tempted.” He gave MacHarg a gentle poke. “No, I am here to talk to Lady Kerr about her canal.”
Abby pushed a small mound of peas around her plate. She had hoped to keep the nature of
If Abby could have reached MacHarg’s instep, she would have forgone her heel and plunged his sword through it instead. In place of that, she fired off a look that would have flattened a lesser man. Just because Sir Alan was talking to him didn’t mean her proscription against talking to Sir Alan had expired.
“A bit of a what, sir?” Sir Alan said.
MacHarg, paling, considered. He snagged a salmon cake from the platter. “Fisherman. That is to say, I advise on fish and I fish. I am all fish, truth be told.”
“Oh, well, I am a man of fishing myself. A very fine stream runs through my property in Fife. You must try it sometime.”
Another servant appeared and met the eyes of the footman, who immediately straightened and announced dinner was ready. The group moved into the Great Hall. Abby had purposefully put MacHarg in the middle of the long table, between Serafina and Undine, so that he would be as far as possible from both Sir Alan, who would be seated next to Abby at one end, and Rosston, who would be seated next to his men at the other.
However, her plans were not to be. Serafina, who had stopped to rearrange her skirts, was swept up by Rosston on the way to the hall, and MacHarg was repeating a particularly drawn-out story to Sir Alan about the enormous size of a salmon he had once caught. It seemed to Abby, who had almost no interest in fish except those Mrs. Michael baked into her pies, as if gentlemen these days were almost as invested in the size of their catches as they were in the size of their—
“Battering rams, milady?” Sir Alan had paused to observe the pair of intricately carved columns of wood that hung in an X over the dining room’s massive hearth. “Rather an unsubtle touch.” He smiled.
“My grandfather used to say the larger the weapons, the fewer the wars.”
“Is that a sentiment you and your father also share, Lady Kerr?”
And just who was being unsubtle now?
“Perhaps,” she said with a forced chuckle. “Though I suspect it was for different reasons. My father liked his swords sweeping. I prefer my peace that way.”
MacHarg said, “I understand the people of the borderlands have been quite pleased with the peace Lady Kerr was able to negotiate. More than a year now, is it not? That has to be a record.”
He raised his goblet and Abby’s cheeks warmed. That was the second time he’d helped her navigate a difficult situation. She found herself flustered by his support. The last few years had been so turbulent and her ascension to the chieftainship so fraught with controversy, she had grown used to expecting every decision to be a fight and every fight to be fought alone.
While she was most grateful for his help, she was very interested to know the source of his information. His “reinterpretation” of the army’s message—patently false—was predicated on knowing that a messenger had come to Kerr Castle. And now for him to know she’d brokered a peace with the English army a year and a half ago? Was he a borderlander? But no. Everything about him was a degree divorced from the expected, from the cut of his clothes to the odd length of his hair to his sometimes surprising choice of words or phrases, suggesting that the odds of him being from the borders were small. On the other hand, there was no mistaking that lovely, deep rumble for anything other than a Lowland burr. She looked at him and he gave her a lopsided grin. But even that, she had to admit, carried a note of something in it marking him as an outlander.
She lifted her glass in thanks. He gave her a generous smile.
“Sir Alan, surely you didn’t come to Kerr Castle for fishing?” Rosston popped a gobbet of lamb in his mouth.
“I did not. Though I could surely be tempted.” He gave MacHarg a gentle poke. “No, I am here to talk to Lady Kerr about her canal.”
Abby pushed a small mound of peas around her plate. She had hoped to keep the nature of
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