Highland Hellion (Highland Weddings #3)(20)

Not that she had much choice. Now that she was warm, exhaustion took over, ripping her away from everything except her need to rest.

*

The McTavish stronghold had two main towers. A long building connected them, and once Rolfe pulled her inside, Katherine realized that the great hall was inside it. There were more refinements here, making her think of England. More tapestries on the walls, the scent of beeswax candles lingering in the air, and chairs with backs. There were still a good number of benches to help accommodate the large number of retainers sitting at the tables for meals, but there were also clusters of chairs with wide seats and armrests placed around the hall.

She understood the reason for those chairs when Rolfe brought her before his father. Laird McTavish was missing part of his leg. The wooden peg was only visible when he stood because the rest of it was hidden inside a boot.

Only a laird would have a boot made for a peg. It was an extravagance, but Katherine admitted that the hall appeared to suggest that the McTavish could afford such things.

“What have ye brought me, Rolfe?”

Katherine found herself facing a man who was clearly Rolfe’s sire. He had the same huge frame along with green eyes. His people began to gather around, aiming curious looks at her, and she resisted the urge to tug on the bottom of her shirt.

“Katherine,” Rolfe answered his father. “I found her wearing the MacPherson plaid like a lad and she will no’ tell me her father’s name, but she is English. So I brought her home after stealing her from the Gordons.”

There was a round of laughter from the McTavish.

“You have neglected to mention how I prevented you and your men from being taken by those same Gordons.” Katherine kept her voice even.

Laird McTavish’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his son. “Ye were seen by the Gordons?”

“The lass stepped between us,” Rolfe explained. “The Gordons should be grateful for that. Instead, they decided to burn her as a witch as a strike against the MacPhersons for Lye Rob’s death.”

Laird McTavish grunted and lowered himself into one of the chairs. Katherine caught a flicker of distaste in his eyes as he was forced to remove his weight from the peg.

“Colum is a fool to be seeking vengeance. Lye Rob lost a fight he started. When ye steal a man’s wife, ye have to expect any decent Highlander to come looking for yer blood. Bhaic MacPherson was within his rights, and I’d have called him a dishonorable coward if he’d failed to meet the challenge of having his wife stolen. An unbedded bride is one thing, a wife altogether different.”

There was a ripple of male agreement around them.

“Do ye have a husband?”

Katherine realized where Rolfe gained his sense of authority. Laird McTavish embodied the same, and she found herself shaking her head immediately. Unlike Tyree Gordon, neither Rolfe nor his sire struck her as undeserving of respect.

“A contract?” Laird McTavish leaned forward as he pressed her.

Katherine discovered herself hesitating to answer. He didn’t care for it and slapped the arm of the chair.

“Either ye do, or ye do no’. Speak up.”

The McTavishes didn’t care for her silence. There were hard looks sent her way as more men arrived. She resisted the urge to squirm. Wearing men’s clothing was something she’d willingly decided to do. There would be no shrinking from it.

“I have not seen my father in over ten years,” she answered smoothly. “I am bastard born.”

There was a reaction to that announcement, but it was not as great as it might have been in England. The Scots were a bit more practical when it came to what side of the bedsheet one was born on. To their minds, blood was blood. With or without the church’s blessing, it was still a tie that could never be broken.

“Who is yer sire?” Laird McTavish asked bluntly.

“It does not matter. His newest wife was quite clear that I should expect naught from him.”

Laird McTavish slowly smiled. “The fact that ye are no’ willing to tell me says the man is important.” He considered her for a long moment, sweeping her from head to toe. “Aye, ye have the look of nobility with that fine pale skin. And the MacPhersons have allowed ye to run wild. That tells me no one wants to cross yer blood.”

“You are simply disappointed,” Katherine spoke softly. “It is understandable, yet I have spoken the truth.”

Laird McTavish was chuckling. He suddenly slapped the arm of the chair and looked at his son. “When ye brought Helen Grant here, was no’ there some mention of Morton trying to force a bride on Marcus MacPherson?”

Rolfe shifted, his expression darkening. “Aye. A girl too young for marriage.”

Laird McTavish contemplated her for a long moment, his lips slowly curling into a grin of victory.

“Well done!” Laird McTavish declared. “The Earl of Morton may be willing to pay more for her than the MacPhersons. Put her abovestairs.”

Katherine felt hollow. The security she’d felt in Scotland melted away as easily as sugar in the rain. Someone gripped her bicep, and she didn’t bother to look at who it was. The two towers were on either side of the hall.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, point the way. I certainly have no wish to go back to your hall,” she groused at her guide as she was smashed next to him in the narrow stairway.