Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(71)

Aulay reluctantly glanced over his shoulder. The Livingstones had crowded together and were looking around them in awe. The youngest, Mathais, who, he had to admit, had proven to be a good hand on deck, seemed particularly taken, and was pointing up at the turrets. Lottie stood next to the giant, her head bowed.

“Have you a plaid the lass might put around her shoulders?” Aulay asked Frang.

“The lass?” Catriona dipped under his arm to peer at the group. “Diah, I had no’ noticed that one of them was a lass.”

“Aye, Captain,” Frang said and disappeared inside. He returned in a few moments and wordlessly handed the plaid to Lottie. She seemed confused, but wrapped it around her shoulders as the party was shown into the cramped foyer. Aulay signaled them to follow him down a close corridor lit by a few tallow candles that made the air pungent.

The wind, a constant at Balhaire, groaned and rattled the old fireplace flues, but the gloomy corridor gave way to the great hall, where things were considerably brighter with its enormous windows that overlooked the sea in the distance. Great iron chandeliers hung above their heads, blazing with candles. Thick carpets muted the sound of many people and dogs and added some warmth to the room. At one end of the hall was a raised dais, a long table and upholstered chairs where Aulay’s family took their meals. At the other end, a massive hearth. It was always lit, for even in summer these old stone walls trapped the cold.

Two dogs, napping before the warmth of the fire, came to their feet and loped forward with tails wagging to greet Aulay. But they quickly lost interest in him and moved on to sniff the rest of the group. The giant was delighted by them and went down on one knee to nuzzle the mutts.

“Aulay, mo chridhe!” his mother cried. She was seated next to his father at the dais, and she came swiftly down the steps, hurrying to meet him halfway in his progress toward them. Margot Mackenzie was an elegant, silver-haired beauty. She held out her arms to embrace him, and Aulay put his up hand. “Donna Màither, aye? I’m filthy.”

“I will greet my son as I see fit,” she said, and put her arms around him as Catriona had, hugging him tightly, enveloping him in the sweet scent of her perfume. But she abruptly withdrew, her nose wrinkled. “Oh dear,” she said. “Have you come from a public house?”

He shook his head. “No, madam, but what you smell is whisky, aye.”

“Aulay! How do you fare, my son?”

The Laird of Balhaire, Arran Mackenzie, did not come down from the dais due to a leg that pained him terribly, but he eagerly leaned forward across the massive dining table. “Are you well?”

No. He was broken in half. “Well enough, Athair, I am. There is much news to tell, but first, might we have some ale and something to eat?” Aulay asked. “It’s been a long journey.”

“Yes, of course!” his mother said. “Frang, darling, will you? There is stew, I think, and Barabel made the most delicious bread this morning.”

Frang signaled a serving boy to fetch ale, and went out to instruct their kitchen.

“Please,” his mother said graciously to the Livingstones. She had no idea who they were, but she’d never lost the decorum she’d been taught as a girl on an English estate. Anyone under her roof would be treated well, no matter what they’d done—a theory Aulay would soon test—and she invited them to sit.

“They’re no’ guests,” Aulay said as she returned to his side and walked with him and Catriona to the dais. “They are in our custody.”

“Custody?” his father repeated.

“Aye, Aulay, tell us!” Catriona said excitedly, and took a seat next to her father, leaning across to balance on the arms of his chair so she’d not miss a word.

Aulay had hoped for at least a glass of ale, but he knew his family, and they’d not leave it until he’d told them everything. He shoved a hand through his hair, made stiff by the saltwater and the sun. “My lord, I—”

“’Tis my fault.”

Aulay started at the clear, strong sound of Lottie’s voice. She’d walked up to the dais without his notice, and stood holding the plaid tightly around her shoulders, her hair spilling over her shoulders. “My fault,” she said again.

Aulay groaned with exasperation. “For God’s sake, woman, if you donna mind—”

“I do,” she said insistently and set her gaze on Aulay’s father. “Everything that has happened, all of it, ’tis my doing. ’Twas I who stole his ship, and ’twas I they pursued from Aalborg.”

“What? Aalborg?” Aulay’s father repeated, his woolly eyebrows cascading down in confusion as he swung his gaze to his son. “What, then... Denmark?”

“’Tis my fault the ship sunk.”

“What?” Catriona all but shrieked.

“For God’s sake, allow me to speak!” Aulay said sharply, and Duff stood up, putting his hand on Lottie’s arm and drawing her back.

But she shook his hand from her arm. “I want to help, to explain,” she said to Aulay.

“You’ve helped enough, aye?” he snarled.

“’Tis my doing! At least allow me to explain why!”

“It doesna matter why!” he said loudly. “You will kindly allow me to tell my family what has happened ere you begin your long and winding tale,” he snapped.