Highland Hellion (Highland Weddings #3)(26)

William grunted. “I’ll see her wed to Niul first.”

“Ye think ye’d have a choice in the matter?”

William merely shrugged. “The man might just have to take what alliance I give him.”

Boyd didn’t correct his laird, but he had his doubts. The Earl of Morton was king, or at least he might as well be, and from what news came up from Edinburgh, it was clear the earl was intent on making sure he maintained power.

“For now, put that wench in the cellars.”

Boyd was shocked. “Ye’d do that to a lass?”

William nodded. “I need her more submissive, ready to do me bidding, and too a-feared to cross me. Make sure Angus knows I’ll cut off his balls if he fucks her. The earl might have her inspected.”

“Well now, taking an English bride is bad enough,” Boyd agreed. “Getting saddled with another man’s leavings… That’s downright pitiful.”

William made a low sound of agreement in the back of his throat. He pointed at a pitcher, and Boyd refilled his mug. He detested having to ask for help. The damned wooden leg he was saddled with was almost more than his pride might bear. It had been Rolfe who refused to let him stay abovestairs, and it had proven that Rolfe was a man grown. William would be wise to listen to him.

Yes, he was a fine son. More like his mother when it came to his honor, but a woman could afford to be devoted to things such as honesty and integrity. A laird had to temper that with the will to improve his clan’s lot. A noble title. It was a fine thing to want. The regents surrounding the young king made sure to not hand out titles to the Highlanders, preferring to keep them all beneath their higher stations. The Earl of Sutherland was one exception, and William planned to be another.

Rolfe would come around in his thinking.

*

Grant land

“Ye are very fetching,” Niul complimented Brenda Grant honestly.

The woman was breathtaking and a few years past the first blossom of her youth. He decided maturity suited her even better, and wondered just what skill she had when it came to riding a man. Virgins were tiresome with their shyness.

“And ye”—Brenda looked straight into his eyes and fluttered her eyelashes—“are clearly accustomed to yer handsome face melting the hearts of the women on McTavish land.”

Niul chuckled. “Perhaps I’m the lucky one to be sent up here after all. And here I was thinking it was another duty thrust upon me by me brother.”

“Happy to be proven wrong?” Brenda asked him in a lyrical tone.

Niul took the opportunity to lean closer to her, but froze when he felt the point of a dagger against his thigh. Brenda’s eyes flickered with hard purpose.

“Brenda,” Symon Grant spoke his cousin’s name in warning. “Tell the man ye are no’ interested and be done with it.”

Brenda withdrew the dagger and looked at Symon. “Men such as…him do nae listen to a female. They think us all creatures to serve their needs.”

Brenda rose and lowered herself before the new laird of the Grants. In a motion that was so graceful that Niul discovered himself enchanted by it, she turned and left the hall.

“Why do ye allow her to behave in that manner?”

Symon angled his head so he could make eye contact with Niul down the head table. “Brenda did her duty in wedding her father’s choice of husband for her. The Earl of Morton used her cruelly, and me own father arranged a match for her that was distasteful, so…” Symon sent him a hard look. “It was me father who decided she would be her own woman on account of the service she’s done for the Grants. Make no mistake, McTavish. I will be keeping me promise to me father. If ye want her, best learn a thing or two about courting.”

Niul didn’t care for Symon’s words, especially when the Grant captains were listening in. “I’ve heard rumors of the way it is here on Grant land now that ye are laird.” Niul took a deep drink from his mug. “Heard ye spent a year following that Lindsey wench about before she agreed to wed ye.”

Symons knuckles popped as he curled his hand into a fist. “Never”—his voice was as tight as his body—“speak of my wife again.”

The Grant captains were shooting Niul hard looks. He wasn’t willing to back down, and not just because he wanted to pick a fight. There was a chill in the air in Grant Castle. It raised Niul’s hackles and made him want to kick Symon Grant in the arse. The man had a full mourning beard on his face, growth that was over two years old.

“This place needs life,” Niul began. “Ye and yer cousin are the only members left of yer line. Ye need some weddings here.”

Symon slammed his fist onto the tabletop. “I did so and buried me wife before a year had passed. No more talk on the matter.”

He’d loved her. Niul drew off a long sip of ale and contemplated Symon. Since Niul was a bastard, William had made sure his half brother never wed. Never produced another branch of the family tree. The laird had no idea how much Niul resented his ways or how Niul longed for a son of his own. One he might recognize and raise up. Without one, he found himself seeing Symon as a younger man in need of guidance. Everyone around the new laird was too intimidated by his position to do what needed doing.

Being a bastard had its advantages at times.

“Women die in childbed, man. Ye sound like me brother, cursing Fate for the loss of his leg when he is hardly the first man to suffer a wound that festers.”