Macauley.
“What do you know of fighting ships, MacMillan?” Macauley asked from his place across from Lachann. Catrìona sat beside her father, next to Macauley. She sat quietly, her eyes following a white and black cat that came into the hall and sat down to groom itself before the fireplace. She appeared to lack any interest in the conversation.
“I know that the Spaniards sailed three-masted frigates when they came to the highlands on their ill-advised campaign last year,” Lachann replied.
“On their ill-adv—?”
“And that the Sassenach navy has yet to take an interest in our western shores,” Lachann continued without giving Macauley a chance to interrupt. It aggravated him no end to see Catrìona seated beside Macauley when Lachann was to be her husband.
“Do ye think that’ll change any time soon, MacMillan?” Laird MacDuffie queried.
Lachann tamped down his irritation. He was older and wiser now, and none of the bitter hatred he felt for Macauley would serve him now. “Only when the highlands have something they want,” he said to the laird. “Or when the Jacobites rise again.”
There was silence after Lachann’s last words. He knew naught of another uprising, and frankly hoped that if there was one, ’twould not happen anytime soon. In his opinion, it did not serve the highlanders well to call attention to themselves. The northern lands might have an opportunity to prosper only if they could get through a decade or two without warfare. Only then would they be ready to bring back their king. . . .
Ever since Lachann and Dugan had located the hidden French treasure, the MacMillans had used their wealth to assist neighboring allies in paying their rents, for strength and friendship in the region served everyone. They’d helped numerous others sort out difficulties arising from floods and famines, and from the loss of diseased livestock. They’d brought in grain, and cattle or sheep for the poorest clans to help them prosper. But the MacMillan brothers had been circumspect about it, not wishing to make their newfound riches too obvious.
Dugan had not done anything ostentatious beyond his purchase of MacMillan lands from the Duke of Argyll. That secret was safe, for the old duke would never let it be known that he’d been bested by a highland laird who’d found a vast treasure while the duke had searched futilely for it.
“Let us have no talk of Jacobites tonight,” MacDuffie said, raising his glass and downing a full draught of whiskey.
The laird had already swallowed more than one man’s share of spirits, and Lachann had noted from the first that the man did not have the look of a robust highlander. His complexion was sallow and his eyes lacked focus. Lachann could not help but wonder whether something ailed him.
Something besides too much whiskey.
“I wholly disagree with MacMillan,” Macauley said. “The clans learned their lesson in ’15 and will not be so quick to go to war again. . . .”
“Mayhap, but there is always the danger of raiders. Pirates,” Lachann said. He turned to MacDuffie. “Laird, do I have the authority to begin training the men to repel such an attack—as we agreed in our correspondence?”
The old man shifted in his chair. “Aye,” he said quietly.
Lachann breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair as Macauley took charge of the conversation. If MacDuffie had changed his mind, Lachann would have had to make a decision: take Kilgorra by force, or return to Braemore without accomplishing the goal that was so vital to his clan. He glanced at Duncan, who shot him a look of caution.
Aye. Best to keep his mouth shut now, just as Catrìona had been doing all through the meal. She had said naught to Lachann, but as Lachann looked across the table at her, she smiled and slid one finger down the length of her neckline.
He was certain ’twas meant as a flirtatious gesture, but he found her to be as interesting as the pitcher of ale on
“What do you know of fighting ships, MacMillan?” Macauley asked from his place across from Lachann. Catrìona sat beside her father, next to Macauley. She sat quietly, her eyes following a white and black cat that came into the hall and sat down to groom itself before the fireplace. She appeared to lack any interest in the conversation.
“I know that the Spaniards sailed three-masted frigates when they came to the highlands on their ill-advised campaign last year,” Lachann replied.
“On their ill-adv—?”
“And that the Sassenach navy has yet to take an interest in our western shores,” Lachann continued without giving Macauley a chance to interrupt. It aggravated him no end to see Catrìona seated beside Macauley when Lachann was to be her husband.
“Do ye think that’ll change any time soon, MacMillan?” Laird MacDuffie queried.
Lachann tamped down his irritation. He was older and wiser now, and none of the bitter hatred he felt for Macauley would serve him now. “Only when the highlands have something they want,” he said to the laird. “Or when the Jacobites rise again.”
There was silence after Lachann’s last words. He knew naught of another uprising, and frankly hoped that if there was one, ’twould not happen anytime soon. In his opinion, it did not serve the highlanders well to call attention to themselves. The northern lands might have an opportunity to prosper only if they could get through a decade or two without warfare. Only then would they be ready to bring back their king. . . .
Ever since Lachann and Dugan had located the hidden French treasure, the MacMillans had used their wealth to assist neighboring allies in paying their rents, for strength and friendship in the region served everyone. They’d helped numerous others sort out difficulties arising from floods and famines, and from the loss of diseased livestock. They’d brought in grain, and cattle or sheep for the poorest clans to help them prosper. But the MacMillan brothers had been circumspect about it, not wishing to make their newfound riches too obvious.
Dugan had not done anything ostentatious beyond his purchase of MacMillan lands from the Duke of Argyll. That secret was safe, for the old duke would never let it be known that he’d been bested by a highland laird who’d found a vast treasure while the duke had searched futilely for it.
“Let us have no talk of Jacobites tonight,” MacDuffie said, raising his glass and downing a full draught of whiskey.
The laird had already swallowed more than one man’s share of spirits, and Lachann had noted from the first that the man did not have the look of a robust highlander. His complexion was sallow and his eyes lacked focus. Lachann could not help but wonder whether something ailed him.
Something besides too much whiskey.
“I wholly disagree with MacMillan,” Macauley said. “The clans learned their lesson in ’15 and will not be so quick to go to war again. . . .”
“Mayhap, but there is always the danger of raiders. Pirates,” Lachann said. He turned to MacDuffie. “Laird, do I have the authority to begin training the men to repel such an attack—as we agreed in our correspondence?”
The old man shifted in his chair. “Aye,” he said quietly.
Lachann breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair as Macauley took charge of the conversation. If MacDuffie had changed his mind, Lachann would have had to make a decision: take Kilgorra by force, or return to Braemore without accomplishing the goal that was so vital to his clan. He glanced at Duncan, who shot him a look of caution.
Aye. Best to keep his mouth shut now, just as Catrìona had been doing all through the meal. She had said naught to Lachann, but as Lachann looked across the table at her, she smiled and slid one finger down the length of her neckline.
He was certain ’twas meant as a flirtatious gesture, but he found her to be as interesting as the pitcher of ale on
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