Seven #2
Gordon straightened and looked around the crowd until he caught sight of his sister. Fiona stood back, away from everyone. She was dressed in her habitual black, the Lachlan tartan around her shoulders. She had not come forward to greet him. She never did.
She’d joined their number two months ago. Gordon had hoped that being here with the clan would help Fiona. Instead, she stayed well away from everyone, her features tight and pinched…accusing.
Well, the time had come for him to give her something to do.
“Fiona, take Maggie to her hut. See that she has a cup of cider. You’ll find the jug in my quarters.”
“Cider?” Maggie said, her round face now a wreath of smiles. “What a lovely gift. Why, a nice cup of cider is exactly what I need. Patty would like one, too. May we have two cups?”
“Two cups would be good,” Gordon answered. He looked to his sister, who had not moved. “Fiona?”
She pulled her shawl tighter around her body.
She was thin. Too thin. At nine and twenty, he was six years older than Fiona.
Her mother had been his stepmother, his father’s second wife.
That explained the rich mahogany of Fiona’s hair and her wide brown eyes.
He and she had lived very separate lives. They continued to do so in camp.
Just when Gordon thought she would publicly refuse him, she came forward. Offering her hand, she said, “Come, Maggie, we shall see you comfortable.”
“And let me have cider,” Maggie agreed with childlike anticipation.
“Yes, as much cider as you wish.” There was little emotion in Fiona’s voice.
Gordon watched them leave.
It was Emma who spoke. “She’s not growing any better.”
Did she speak of Maggie…or of his silent, stone-faced sister?
He decided to pretend it was Maggie because Fiona wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss.
“She has nowhere to go, Emma,” Gordon said. “And she is one of us.” He raised his voice as he spoke so that all could hear. “We are a clan, and that means we take care of our own. We stand together and then no one can stand against us.”
Silence met his words. He could see from the expression in their eyes that they wanted to believe…and yet feared he might ask more than they were willing to give.
It was Thomas who answered. “Aye,” he agreed, his robust voice giving the others courage.
“You are right, Gordon,” one said.
“Clansmen,” echoed another.
“We take care of our own,” Gordon reiterated. This time his words were seconded. This time they showed spirit.
Gordon turned to Emma Reivers. “I know Maggie isn’t right in the head, but would you leave her behind?”
Wisely, Emma didn’t answer that question.
Turning to Constance, Gordon said, “No harm will come to you from her, or anyone else, while you are under my protection.”
“What of her prophecy?” Constance asked.
“Her prophecy?” he repeated, and then realizing what she meant, he laughed. “She speaks like that all the time. We’re always going to be flooded, according to her. There’s water in all of our futures.”
Others laughed with him. Someone said, “Except for Brian. His well was dry.”
The younger man waved off the jibe, laughing.
Only Constance frowned, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t believe she has the gift of sight?”
“No,” Gordon assured her. “What she has is the madness of a woman who lost all her children to a fever. ’Tis said she was not too sensible before, and losing those wee ones did not help her. Her husband left her long ago. We are all she has left. The remains of her family.”
“The Shawnee believe that the mad ones should be respected,” Constance said. “Indians believe those prophecies come true.”
Gordon shrugged. “We respect Maggie,” he assured her. “We just don’t listen to her when she’s speaking gibberish, and that is all it is. Now go with the Reivers.”
He nodded for Robbie to carry on before turning to Thomas and Brian.
Thomas stood with one arm draped around Grace McEachin.
Over to the side, Hannah Chisholm stood frowning.
Thomas adored being fought over, and in a camp where women outnumbered men, he often had his wish—although he’d developed a strong fondness for Grace.
Gordon said, “After I’ve seen to my horse, I’ll write the letter to Colster. Brian, rest up. Once I have it written, you shall be my messenger.”
“Yes, Gordon,” Brian answered.
Snapping his fingers for Tad to follow, Gordon led Tempest to the far side of the camp. They’d set up stables there, roping off paddocks for the grazing of fifty or so horses.
Gordon usually groomed his horse himself.
Back at Nathraichean, Laird MacKenna had lived a lord’s life.
There had even been servants for the servants.
At the time, Gordon had questioned the need for so many attendants, but he’d kept those questions to himself, until MacKenna betrayed them all.
The laird had stolen what money the clan had and run off to Italy to save his hide from the English, leaving the rest of them to pay the price. Even innocents, like Fiona.
So, Gordon no longer trusted those who thought of power and money.
He took care of his own horse, his own clothes, his own wants.
In turn, these tasks gave him quiet moments alone to worry over the hungry mouths that needed to be fed…
and the fear that his little army would be crushed by the English.
Gordon dropped Tempest’s reins to the ground. The horse stood while he removed the saddle. Tad plopped down on the ground with a wide yawn. A flock of birds flapped into the sky, chased by another of the many dogs in the camp. Tad stood, but didn’t chase.
“Go on,” Gordon said, knowing the wolfhound would enjoy the exercise.
Tad flashed a dog grin in his direction and took off after the others, sailing across the ground, his powerful legs easily catching up with them.
Tempest was happy to see him go and nudged Gordon as a way of showing his approval. He gave his horse a rare flake of hay. Tempest had carried two riders and earned the treat.
While he worked, Gordon started to frame in his mind the letter he would write to Colster. He was interrupted a few minutes later by the approach of two men, one as tall as the other was short. Tall Angus was a leather worker. Matthew was known for his incessant complaining.
“We need to talk to you, Gordon,” Angus said. “Matthew is not paying me for repairing his shoes last week.”
“Repairing them?” Matthew repeated. “Look here, Gordon. I’d do better work if my hands were all thumbs. I’ll not pay for what the man hasn’t earned.”
These were petty grievances, but they could split the clan apart if not addressed. Gordon wanted to hand this task of listening to complaints to someone else, but so far none of his men showed either the talent or patience for it. The few times he had given the task away, it ended in disaster.
“Do the repair again, Angus,” he said with heavy sigh. “And pay him half before he starts,” he told Matthew. “If not, then you both lose.”
“Yes, but—” Matthew started.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Gordon said, cutting him off. “You came to me for my verdict and there it is. Be done. And, Angus, you know how Matthew is. Don’t do anything for him if you don’t want to hear him complain.”
“Aye, Gordon,” Angus agreed. He turned and left. He wasn’t happy with the verdict. It meant more work for him.
“He’s lousy at what he does,” Matthew had to grumble.
“You hired him,” Gordon answered.
Not liking the response, Matthew stomped away.
Gordon looked at Tempest, who had watched it all while munching his dinner. “They are both fools.”
Tempest seemed to nod in agreement, and Gordon had to marvel that his closest allies, the ones who knew his mind halfway at all, the ones he trusted the most, were a dog and a horse. “What does that say about me?” he asked Tempest.
The animal’s response was a soft nicker.
“You are right,” Gordon answered. “At least I have some distance now from Constance Cameron. She’s a handful…but you can’t help but admire her.”
Tempest snorted.
“Come down,” Gordon said. “She has spirit. She’s not afraid to speak her mind.” He gestured with the curry comb he held. “I wish Fiona had that spirit. I wish she was stronger, like Constance.”
Tempest glanced back at Gordon as if to say he knew better, and Gordon couldn’t help chuckling.
“You’ve caught me,” he told the horse. “Another day spent with her on my lap and it wouldn’t be you I’d be riding.
” He began rubbing Tempest down. “And that is why I needed to hand her off to someone else. Colster wouldn’t like her rogered by some Scot bastard. ”
Although he wouldn’t mind bedding her, he thought. Constance wasn’t afraid to ask for what she wanted. She’d be the same in bed. Unbidden images of the sparkle of defiance in her eyes, the curve of her lips, and the swell of her breasts came to his mind.
“Oh yes, it is a good thing I passed her off,” he confessed just as a cry went up in the camp.
“She’s escaped! The English lass escaped!”
The alarm made Gordon turn. Old Rae was hobbling toward him, and Gordon swore before asking, “How?”
The older man was out of breath. As soon as he could manage, he said, “My wife was fixing her a bite to eat, and when she turned her back on her, the lass pushed her down to the ground and then ran out the door before I could even believe what was happening.”
“Did you untie her hands?” Gordon wanted to know, fearing the answer.
“Aye. She couldn’t eat with her hands tied,” Old Rae said. “And such a biddable lass, how did we know she would leave? She was as sweet as a cherry when we first took her in. Said she was frightened, and my heart ached for her.”
“Your wife should bat you over the head,” Gordon swore.
Thomas came running to join them, followed by others. “We’ve started the search for her,” Thomas reported. “She can’t go far.”
“Don’t count on it,” Gordon said. “She’s smarter than the lot of us. Organize the men. Fan out and start looking through every tent, every hut, every box and barrel in the place. And search the forest, too. We must find her.”