Page 6 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

“Working,” Margaret replied, trying to give him a cheerful smile. “I help some of the traders down at the docks.”

“You’re a lady, not a dockworker.”

“Yes, well, we all do what we must,” Margaret replied, taking the chair beside his.

“You, a lass, and are wearing trousers to present yourself to the laird of your clan,” he groaned as his hand massaged his temple. “Tis as if you were raised by beggars and not one of the most prominent merchants in Scotland.”

“Well, I did attempt to dress in a way that would have pleased you more,” or at least displeased you less, “but you insisted that I come to you immediately.”

“Aye, because I assumed that my niece wouldn’t be dressed in rags that are not even well-suited to cleaning my floor.”

Margaret tensed, annoyed at the realization that he thought her current state was more shameful for him than it was for her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Uncle?”

He shifted in his chair, clearly not ready to let the topic of her appearance go even though etiquette now implored him to allow her the change of subject. “I would rather discuss that when your brother returns.”

“Ah, so then you plan on staying with us for a while?”

His brows knit together. “Of course not. When will he return?”

“Well, the last allowance you sent arrived one week and five days ago.”

“So?”

“So, that means he is not due to be home for another two weeks and two days. Correction, one day. He always comes home the night before the next allowance comes,” Margaret replied. “Though I am sure you could find him sooner if you are willing to search every tavern, brothel, and gambling house in Thurso.”

Her uncle leaned back in his chair and looked around the room, as if he was starting to understand why things looked so decrepit. “And you just let him take the money and leave?”

“You ken, I never thought about stopping him,” Margaret said, slapping her hand against her leg in mock discovery. “Next time, I’ll just keep him here at sword point.”

His eyes flashed over to her, his face tight with annoyance. “Tis not—”

“Oh, wait,” Margaret interrupted, “you are right. I am your niece and a lady. I should keep him here at needlepoint. Perhaps less effective, but far more appropriate.”

The laird looked suddenly exhausted, as if her words had leeched away the last vestiges of energy left in his bones. Margaret thought she even saw a few of the hairs on his head turn gray. “I always thought you to be the perfect image of your father, but here I am finding out that you had your mother’s mouth all along.”

“What are you doing here, Uncle?” Margaret asked, trying not to let herself feel warmed by the comparison to her mother, for he hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

He sighed, long and deep, turning his gaze to the crackling fire in the hearth. “Isobel is gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“I believe the meaning is quite clear. We do not ken where she is or when she is returning.” He hesitated, a look of pain coming over his features. “Or if she will ever return.”

“But, why would—”

“Because your cousin is a foolish girl with dreams of grandeur that reach far beyond her means,” her uncle snapped.

“Her and that Mackay lad exchanged one bloody letter and I guess it was not poetic enough for her. She said that the marriage would be pointless. I thought she was putting on airs to show her displeasure at having to marry a Mackay, as any good Gunn lass would, but that foolish lass actually had the nerve to run off.”

Margaret twisted her fingers to keep them from ripping her hair from her head as she processed the news. “But what about the queen’s order? She’ll have her head—all of our heads.”

Her uncle, who mere moments ago had been shaking with rage, was suddenly still. His green eyes, which were a perfect match to Margaret’s own, were twinkling with what looked like happiness. It took Margaret a moment to realize why and, when she did, she felt the color drain from her face. “No, absolutely not.”

“Like your life here is so fine?” her uncle said, gesturing around the barren room with its worn-out carpets and emptied shelves.

“Tis finer to live like this than to wed a Mackay.”

“Is it?” her uncle pressed. “Will it still be so fine when the queen marches north to burn every Gunn she can find to satisfy her anger?”