Read Online MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol by Tanya Anne Crosby - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tanya Anne Crosby
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would change once returning to Aldergh, Afric tamped his foot merrily as the bride and groom came dancing near. None of Hugh’s men would even think to question him when he came to seize control, for Hugh was stingy and mean and one good turn with these Highlanders would hardly buy him indulgences.
“Long life to ye,” he shouted at the happy couple, raising a toast to the pair. Little did they realize it was a flout in their faces.
“Thank ye kind sir!” exclaimed the bride. She rushed over to kiss Afric upon the cheek, her breath warm and sweet.
All too easy, he thought to himself. How fortuitous this would be… in one fell swoop he would rid himself of father and daughter both.
“’Tis a bonny pair they make, dinna ye think?”
Careful to hide his accent—for his mother had been a Frankish maid—Afric nodded to the man who’d spoken—the Montgomerie laird, he surmised, for he wore the Lion-head livery beneath his blue tartan cloak. His lovely wife stood at his side, unmistakable in her beauty, her face the inspiration for bard’s tales for leagues around.
Some day, Afric could have a wife like that—bought and paid for with his father’s gold.
Piers de Montgomery stared at him a bit too long and Afric realized he was waiting for him to speak. “Indeed,” replied Afric. “To you and yours, sir.” He raised another toast.
Lyon Montgomery smiled uncomfortably and so did Afric as he took a heaping swig of his uisge —the only good thing to come out of these Highlands. Although he must be careful not to drink over much, or he’d end up again in a pile of limbs. Moving slowly away from Lyon Montgomerie, he watched and waited for the opportunity to strike…
----
A mid laughter and drink , Malcom’s warnings were already forgotten, though he wasn’t so much angry as he was frustrated. He did realize his Da had reason to question his intuition, but he had good cause to feel the way he did…
He had very nearly become a prisoner of a cold war. That he was a free man now was in no small part due to the piggishness of Page’s Da, who’d valued his king over the love he’d born his own flesh and blood.
His father so often said, “If ye’re no’ fighting for the ones you love, who the devil would ye be fighting for, son?”
Even so, not once had Page ever spoken a cross word about her father, despite that Malcom had spent enough time at Aldergh to know how her father had valued her—which was to say, not at all. The oaf had ignored Page, leaving her to sup at the lower tables in the great hall. In fact, he’d sometimes give Malcom a seat at the high table—the son of his enemy—sharing his trencher, whilst his daughter scraped her morsels from the bottom of the pot.
All in all, Hugh FitzSimon had treated his daughter more like the daughter of a servant, leaving her to wander free without aim. Even at the tender age of six, Malcom had felt sorry for Page.
Peering over his shoulder, he watched as his father took her now by the hand, luring her away from the celebration.
A tentative smile returned to his lips, pleased to see them happy, even after all these years. But more to the point, with his father’s attention now on Page, Malcom was free to follow his gut… he didn’t need his father’s men. He could search the woodlands alone.
It might have simply been rotten luck—the direction of the wind and the trail of kindling that had been so conveniently left between huts, but something about the fire raised Malcom’s hackles. Coincidentally—or perhaps not so coincidentally at all—the flames had remained clear of the woodlands. Had the fire but swept the other way, there would have been far more to lose, for it would have burned through the lands of three adjoining clans—the MacLeans, the Brodies and Montgomeries. Yet it left the woods untouched, despite them being so near, and that was rather fortuitous, Malcom thought, although his suspicions were not so much drawn toward the
“Long life to ye,” he shouted at the happy couple, raising a toast to the pair. Little did they realize it was a flout in their faces.
“Thank ye kind sir!” exclaimed the bride. She rushed over to kiss Afric upon the cheek, her breath warm and sweet.
All too easy, he thought to himself. How fortuitous this would be… in one fell swoop he would rid himself of father and daughter both.
“’Tis a bonny pair they make, dinna ye think?”
Careful to hide his accent—for his mother had been a Frankish maid—Afric nodded to the man who’d spoken—the Montgomerie laird, he surmised, for he wore the Lion-head livery beneath his blue tartan cloak. His lovely wife stood at his side, unmistakable in her beauty, her face the inspiration for bard’s tales for leagues around.
Some day, Afric could have a wife like that—bought and paid for with his father’s gold.
Piers de Montgomery stared at him a bit too long and Afric realized he was waiting for him to speak. “Indeed,” replied Afric. “To you and yours, sir.” He raised another toast.
Lyon Montgomery smiled uncomfortably and so did Afric as he took a heaping swig of his uisge —the only good thing to come out of these Highlands. Although he must be careful not to drink over much, or he’d end up again in a pile of limbs. Moving slowly away from Lyon Montgomerie, he watched and waited for the opportunity to strike…
----
A mid laughter and drink , Malcom’s warnings were already forgotten, though he wasn’t so much angry as he was frustrated. He did realize his Da had reason to question his intuition, but he had good cause to feel the way he did…
He had very nearly become a prisoner of a cold war. That he was a free man now was in no small part due to the piggishness of Page’s Da, who’d valued his king over the love he’d born his own flesh and blood.
His father so often said, “If ye’re no’ fighting for the ones you love, who the devil would ye be fighting for, son?”
Even so, not once had Page ever spoken a cross word about her father, despite that Malcom had spent enough time at Aldergh to know how her father had valued her—which was to say, not at all. The oaf had ignored Page, leaving her to sup at the lower tables in the great hall. In fact, he’d sometimes give Malcom a seat at the high table—the son of his enemy—sharing his trencher, whilst his daughter scraped her morsels from the bottom of the pot.
All in all, Hugh FitzSimon had treated his daughter more like the daughter of a servant, leaving her to wander free without aim. Even at the tender age of six, Malcom had felt sorry for Page.
Peering over his shoulder, he watched as his father took her now by the hand, luring her away from the celebration.
A tentative smile returned to his lips, pleased to see them happy, even after all these years. But more to the point, with his father’s attention now on Page, Malcom was free to follow his gut… he didn’t need his father’s men. He could search the woodlands alone.
It might have simply been rotten luck—the direction of the wind and the trail of kindling that had been so conveniently left between huts, but something about the fire raised Malcom’s hackles. Coincidentally—or perhaps not so coincidentally at all—the flames had remained clear of the woodlands. Had the fire but swept the other way, there would have been far more to lose, for it would have burned through the lands of three adjoining clans—the MacLeans, the Brodies and Montgomeries. Yet it left the woods untouched, despite them being so near, and that was rather fortuitous, Malcom thought, although his suspicions were not so much drawn toward the
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