Duty of the Chieftain - a Highland 'Lord's Right of the First Night' novella (Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions #3) Read Online Free Page B
how they greeted him, and how they then looked from one to the other.
A blast of heat came from a workshop, and an apprentice in a thick leather apron pointed past Ranald to a man running towards them from the castle.
"A rchie, guid man!" Ranald called, "Ginny would give you my message?"
" She did indeed, milord. How can we ever thank ye for an honor such as this! Meredith? Meredith!" he yelled at the cottage window, "The chieftain is here – come out, for I have such news!"
Ranald put his hand on the man’s shoulder, staying him. "We’ll keep the detail between us, Archie, lest the potency be lost. Only this once it shall be done the way I have said."
The Swordmaker was startled at this added privilege. He bowed to Ranald, muttering his understanding and promise of secrecy. Meredith came out the cottage then, wiping her hands on a cloth.
The clue had been there and he'd missed it. Meredith was a right bonnie lass, as the Chief had said, but her hands were working hands. The Lady Elinor had clearly never scrubbed a floor in her life. How in hell could he have missed that…
The guilt stabbed at him again, and he shoved it away. He was no' the guilty one in this.
Meredith curtsied neatly to Ranald and Elinor, but her eyes met Ranald’s with a look of hurt that he sought immediately to balm.
" Long life and guid fortune to you both, Meredith," said Ranald for the second time, though for the first to the correct woman. "Archie will tell ye of a special duty I would have him do for our clan this day. And I grant him till supper time to do it, freed of his duties in the forge."
T he chieftain grinned as he bid the couple good morn and took the Lady Elinor’s arm again. He chapped the window of another cottage and pressed her firmly through the doorway.
A young woman bade them most welcome to her hearth, lifting fresh bannocks off the griddle hanging over the fire and filling her best goblets with spiced wine.
"How goes it, Martha?" asked Ranald, through a mouthful of crisp oatmeal.
"Grand we are, milord! I cannot thank ye enough for this cottage. See there, Roddy has his own room now and thinks himself quite the gentleman. Ye're looking right well yerself."
Elinor, ignored as of no matter, left her wine untouched and listened to the talk between Ranald and this Martha woman who seemed to converse with the chieftain in a manner highly unbefitting her surroundings. She discerned from their chatter that the woman’s husband was Scribe to the MacKrannans and was busy working with the clan's Bard.
A black-haired boy came running in, splashing the contents of his wooden pail in his haste. Elinor’s face wrinkled in disbelief as the distinct smell of stale urine reached her.
The boy set down the pail carefully and ran straight to Ranald who stood up to receive his bow, then lifted the delighted child up level with his face.
"Roddy, lad! Are ye still the height of my sword? Ye have no' shrunk in my absence?"
"I ’m bigger than it, I keep telling ye, milord!" The boy scampered into a side room and emerged dragging an old pock-marked sword. Ranald held it upright while the youngster stood beside it, needlessly puffing out his chest for he easily surpassed the weapon in size.
Elinor stared at man and child together. The likeness was so pronounced that Ranald’s introduction was superfluous.
"Roddy, this is Lady Elinor Keirston. Lady Elinor – my son Roddy, born from the Lord's Right atween Martha and myself five years past."
Elinor inclined her head formally to the bowing child, well aware of the chieftain's insult of putting the child’s name before her own, but diverted by a sneeze coming upon her, occasioned by the urine’s putrid fumes which now filled the room.
"Excuse me, if you please, that smell…"
"Biting yer nose, is it?" said Ranald, lifting the pail and gingerly placing it outside the door. "But the Scribe cannot miss the gathering of such
A blast of heat came from a workshop, and an apprentice in a thick leather apron pointed past Ranald to a man running towards them from the castle.
"A rchie, guid man!" Ranald called, "Ginny would give you my message?"
" She did indeed, milord. How can we ever thank ye for an honor such as this! Meredith? Meredith!" he yelled at the cottage window, "The chieftain is here – come out, for I have such news!"
Ranald put his hand on the man’s shoulder, staying him. "We’ll keep the detail between us, Archie, lest the potency be lost. Only this once it shall be done the way I have said."
The Swordmaker was startled at this added privilege. He bowed to Ranald, muttering his understanding and promise of secrecy. Meredith came out the cottage then, wiping her hands on a cloth.
The clue had been there and he'd missed it. Meredith was a right bonnie lass, as the Chief had said, but her hands were working hands. The Lady Elinor had clearly never scrubbed a floor in her life. How in hell could he have missed that…
The guilt stabbed at him again, and he shoved it away. He was no' the guilty one in this.
Meredith curtsied neatly to Ranald and Elinor, but her eyes met Ranald’s with a look of hurt that he sought immediately to balm.
" Long life and guid fortune to you both, Meredith," said Ranald for the second time, though for the first to the correct woman. "Archie will tell ye of a special duty I would have him do for our clan this day. And I grant him till supper time to do it, freed of his duties in the forge."
T he chieftain grinned as he bid the couple good morn and took the Lady Elinor’s arm again. He chapped the window of another cottage and pressed her firmly through the doorway.
A young woman bade them most welcome to her hearth, lifting fresh bannocks off the griddle hanging over the fire and filling her best goblets with spiced wine.
"How goes it, Martha?" asked Ranald, through a mouthful of crisp oatmeal.
"Grand we are, milord! I cannot thank ye enough for this cottage. See there, Roddy has his own room now and thinks himself quite the gentleman. Ye're looking right well yerself."
Elinor, ignored as of no matter, left her wine untouched and listened to the talk between Ranald and this Martha woman who seemed to converse with the chieftain in a manner highly unbefitting her surroundings. She discerned from their chatter that the woman’s husband was Scribe to the MacKrannans and was busy working with the clan's Bard.
A black-haired boy came running in, splashing the contents of his wooden pail in his haste. Elinor’s face wrinkled in disbelief as the distinct smell of stale urine reached her.
The boy set down the pail carefully and ran straight to Ranald who stood up to receive his bow, then lifted the delighted child up level with his face.
"Roddy, lad! Are ye still the height of my sword? Ye have no' shrunk in my absence?"
"I ’m bigger than it, I keep telling ye, milord!" The boy scampered into a side room and emerged dragging an old pock-marked sword. Ranald held it upright while the youngster stood beside it, needlessly puffing out his chest for he easily surpassed the weapon in size.
Elinor stared at man and child together. The likeness was so pronounced that Ranald’s introduction was superfluous.
"Roddy, this is Lady Elinor Keirston. Lady Elinor – my son Roddy, born from the Lord's Right atween Martha and myself five years past."
Elinor inclined her head formally to the bowing child, well aware of the chieftain's insult of putting the child’s name before her own, but diverted by a sneeze coming upon her, occasioned by the urine’s putrid fumes which now filled the room.
"Excuse me, if you please, that smell…"
"Biting yer nose, is it?" said Ranald, lifting the pail and gingerly placing it outside the door. "But the Scribe cannot miss the gathering of such
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