“Ye should,” he growled.
“Because ye want to marry me? Lady MacBain should be demure and no’-at-all-scandalous?”
Why in the hell were they having this debate here and now?
“Lady MacBain will be brave and talented and the winner of the Highland Piping Competition.” When her expression melted, his scowl eased, and he stepped toward her and lowered his voice. “Robena, I love ye for who ye are. I just wish ye’d let these people see that, too.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by a loud call.
“Laird MacBain! My master commands ye to quit delaying!” They both turned to see a smug-looking man in a Murray kilt pointing up the hill toward the Murray encampment on the edge of the cliff. “He bids ye come seal yer alliance.”
“I want nae alliance,” Kester growled as he snagged Robena’s hand in his and strode toward his enemy.
It wasn’t until he noticed Robena out of breath at his side that he forced his steps to slow, so the pair of them took their time climbing up to the Murray’s tent. He stood outside it, flanked by two burly warriors who scowled at Kester as if they blamed him for all of life’s inconveniences.
Well, at least all of those inconveniences involving sheep dyeing, pin-stealing, and flower-picking.
Was it any wonder why Kester was grinning as he pulled Robena to a stop before Ian Murray?
“Laird Murray,” he acknowledged, inclining his head. “Ye’re looking as…lairdly as ever.”
The older man—who wasn’t just leaning toward fat, but falling, running, leaping toward fat—scowled. “And ye’re late.” He tugged at his enormous dark beard. “Ye think to insult my men by bringing only two of yers? An ancient grandda and a green lad?”
Behind Kester, Pudge growled something insulting and stepped forward, likely to prove he was as strong and capable as any man half his age, but Kester held up his hand to stop him.
With his lips still curled up at the corners, he jerked his chin. “My right-hand man, Pudge MacBain, who was the one responsible for that clever scheme involving yer chickens. And this is Robbie Oliphant, who’s going to win the piping competition.”
Murray did little more than glance at Pudge, but his scowl focused on the face Kester still held Robena’s hand. “And ye’re parading him about as yer heir, is that it? I cannae think ye’re fooking the lad.”
‘Twas intended to be an insult, of course. But Kester didn’t bother to hide his snort of amusement. The old bastard really thought Robena was a lad? Mayhap he was blind.
“See,” Robena hissed merrily from the corner of her mouth, as she pulled her hand from his and giving Murray a friendly wave. “I told ye so.”
As Kester shook his head, Murray waved away one of his guards, who ducked into the tent at their back. “Enough with the niceties.” Niceties? “Ye’ve been a thorn in my side for years, MacBain, and although ‘tis been humorous to watch ye try to keep yer tiny clan alive, wouldn't it be so much easier to just accept defeat and join the clans together under my leadership?” His tone changed to mocking. “Ye ken I’ve found a way to make peace between our clans. A marriage alliance, one of which the King approves, and ye’ll gain the meadow ye think is yers.”
Strangely, all of Kester’s good humor had fled. With a growl, he stepped forward. “The meadow is ours, auld man, but for yer dishonorable actions. It’ll always be the MacBain’s bane, but we can survive without it.” The way his chin jerked toward Robena was unintended, but true. “We’ll ally with other clans and be strong enough to take back the meadow—or ignore it altogether.”
“Ye dinnae need to take it back; it’ll be yers again if ye marry my daughter.”
With each moment that passed, Kester knew he was doing the right thing. With a curt shake of his head, he folded his arms across his chest.
“I’ll no’ marry yer daughter, Murray, no’ even to regain that which belongs to my clan.”
The older laird reared back, surprise on his face. “Ye would put yer own wants afore that of yer clan?”
“My clan needs prosperity, aye, but I’m coming to realize there are other ways of gaining it—other clans to ally with—besides pandering to yer spoiled offspring. My people will support my decision.” And I’ll be able to marry the woman I love.
“But the King—“
“The King is a good man,” growled Kester, “and when I explain what ye did after my mother’s death, I hope he’ll understand ye’re no’ the aggrieved party ye’ve been playing.”
Beneath the beard, Murray’s mouth twisted in a scowl, and he opened it—
But was interrupted when the flap to the tent opened behind him and his burly warrior emerged, tugging a female. She was dressed in a cream-colored gown, her dark hair—the same shade as the Murray’s—falling freely down around her shoulders. ‘Twas decorated with a lopsided flower crown, and the bouquet she carried in one hand looked to have been decimated by anger or fear. Aye, she was lovely, and clearly didn’t want to be here.
She also looked to be about seven years old.
“My eldest daughter, Lady Elspeth,” announced Murray sullenly. “Yer bride.”