his visit between Sir Alan and herself.
“The canal?” Rosston leaned forward. “I thought the project had been abandoned?”
Sir Alan had not gotten to be on the board of the Bank of Scotland by being lured into indiscretion, and he could judge enough in Rosston’s tone to know that the answer, if any were to be given, must come from Abby herself.
“I am looking to reopen it,” she said.
“And from where are the funds to come?” Rosston demanded a second before the answer came to him.
Sir Alan buried his attention in his oysters.
“You are bringing a bank into this?” Rosston shoved his chair from the table. “This is a family matter. Your father would not agree. I do not agree.”
A clansman whispered, “Nor do I,” and a few others nodded.
Abby felt the focused gazes of her men. “Rosston, this is hardly the place—”
“No,” he said, voice rising. “You dinna bring outsiders into something like this. We settle these things on our own. You dinna open our—”
MacHarg adjusted his chair. It moved no more than an inch, but the scrape carried such menace Rosston stopped in the middle of his sentence.
Abby sat with dread, waiting for MacHarg to say something that would irretrievably transform this discussion from a point of order between a chieftess and her cousin to a bollocks-driven brawl in the middle of her dining hall. But MacHarg only picked up his wine and waited politely for Rosston to finish.
Abby relaxed a degree. “Thank you, Rosston. That will be all.”
He flung down his napkin and stalked away.
With the throb of blood in her ears, she said, “I am so sorry, Sir Alan.”
“I see my presence here is upsetting to some of your men,” he said. “I wonder if I should go?”
“No,” she begged. “Stay. Please. Enjoy your dinner. I’ll talk to Rosston.”
Sir Alan tapped the edge of his plate. “Milady, I think it might be best for all concerned if you were to invite me back when there is some consensus among your men. As I understand it, each has a vote, does he not?”
“Aye, but not to the degree you think.” Abby felt like weeping. She bit the inside of her cheek.
“Perhaps, if you were able to convince Rosston, he might be able to help you convince the rest. I understand his side of Kerrs carries quite a bit of influence and, dare I say, with their investment, you may not need me and my bank at all.”
“Thank you,” she said, though she felt no gratitude at all. “I appreciate your advice.”
He nodded. “’Tis the least I could do for a young lassie like yourself.”
Abby reached for her goblet and drank.
Eight
Duncan ambled down the seemingly endless corridor of doors, candle in hand, searching for his room. The dinner had proceeded, though after Rosston left, no one seemed to enjoy it. Abby managed to convince Sir Alan to delay his departure until morning but not to reopen a discussion of the canal until she had what he termed “the unshakable support of the Kerr men.”
Abby had carried on stoically, even keeping the evening’s conversation afloat with something akin to cheer, but Duncan had seen the distress in those eyes. He’d wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but such a thing would have been both condescending and disrespectful, not to mention unlikely to be true, and he suspected she’d had enough condescension and disrespect to last a lifetime. Nonetheless, it had taken more than a little willpower to keep his mouth shut, just as it had taken more than a little willpower to keep from running after Rosston and introducing his bulk to one of the tapestry-covered walls. As well-intended as the acts might have been, neither would have served his hostess well.
Night had fallen during dinner, and rain had come, pounding the walls of the castle before moving on to the west just as the first guests rose from the table. And now, the strange, sometimes off-putting, Scottish mists were rising like walls of ghostly fire over the river.
“The canal?” Rosston leaned forward. “I thought the project had been abandoned?”
Sir Alan had not gotten to be on the board of the Bank of Scotland by being lured into indiscretion, and he could judge enough in Rosston’s tone to know that the answer, if any were to be given, must come from Abby herself.
“I am looking to reopen it,” she said.
“And from where are the funds to come?” Rosston demanded a second before the answer came to him.
Sir Alan buried his attention in his oysters.
“You are bringing a bank into this?” Rosston shoved his chair from the table. “This is a family matter. Your father would not agree. I do not agree.”
A clansman whispered, “Nor do I,” and a few others nodded.
Abby felt the focused gazes of her men. “Rosston, this is hardly the place—”
“No,” he said, voice rising. “You dinna bring outsiders into something like this. We settle these things on our own. You dinna open our—”
MacHarg adjusted his chair. It moved no more than an inch, but the scrape carried such menace Rosston stopped in the middle of his sentence.
Abby sat with dread, waiting for MacHarg to say something that would irretrievably transform this discussion from a point of order between a chieftess and her cousin to a bollocks-driven brawl in the middle of her dining hall. But MacHarg only picked up his wine and waited politely for Rosston to finish.
Abby relaxed a degree. “Thank you, Rosston. That will be all.”
He flung down his napkin and stalked away.
With the throb of blood in her ears, she said, “I am so sorry, Sir Alan.”
“I see my presence here is upsetting to some of your men,” he said. “I wonder if I should go?”
“No,” she begged. “Stay. Please. Enjoy your dinner. I’ll talk to Rosston.”
Sir Alan tapped the edge of his plate. “Milady, I think it might be best for all concerned if you were to invite me back when there is some consensus among your men. As I understand it, each has a vote, does he not?”
“Aye, but not to the degree you think.” Abby felt like weeping. She bit the inside of her cheek.
“Perhaps, if you were able to convince Rosston, he might be able to help you convince the rest. I understand his side of Kerrs carries quite a bit of influence and, dare I say, with their investment, you may not need me and my bank at all.”
“Thank you,” she said, though she felt no gratitude at all. “I appreciate your advice.”
He nodded. “’Tis the least I could do for a young lassie like yourself.”
Abby reached for her goblet and drank.
Eight
Duncan ambled down the seemingly endless corridor of doors, candle in hand, searching for his room. The dinner had proceeded, though after Rosston left, no one seemed to enjoy it. Abby managed to convince Sir Alan to delay his departure until morning but not to reopen a discussion of the canal until she had what he termed “the unshakable support of the Kerr men.”
Abby had carried on stoically, even keeping the evening’s conversation afloat with something akin to cheer, but Duncan had seen the distress in those eyes. He’d wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but such a thing would have been both condescending and disrespectful, not to mention unlikely to be true, and he suspected she’d had enough condescension and disrespect to last a lifetime. Nonetheless, it had taken more than a little willpower to keep his mouth shut, just as it had taken more than a little willpower to keep from running after Rosston and introducing his bulk to one of the tapestry-covered walls. As well-intended as the acts might have been, neither would have served his hostess well.
Night had fallen during dinner, and rain had come, pounding the walls of the castle before moving on to the west just as the first guests rose from the table. And now, the strange, sometimes off-putting, Scottish mists were rising like walls of ghostly fire over the river.
Similar Books
