Free Until the Knight Comes by Sue-Ellen Welfonder Page B

so, Jamie found himself at a loss for words and dug his fingers deeper into Cuillin’s ratty coat, holding tight to his boyhood companion, his sole connection to home.
    “Well, laddie?” Another clansman peered across the table, mirth wreathing his bearded face. “What sort of charm keeps your da’s shaggy black beasts the envy of every other cattle-rich laird this side o’ the Highland Line?”
    “Naught that has to do with witchery,” Jamie blurted, feeling conspicuous with so many stares turned his way. “’Tis only a remedy—but an ages-old one. The original was given to my father’s father’s father by Devorgilla of Doon, Clan MacLean’s
cailleach.
”
    At once, all babble ceased and as Jamie looked round, his spirits lifted to see that the inimitable crone’s name had taken the smirk off the other men’s faces.
    He pulled in a breath, couldn’t quite help the slight puffing of his chest. “A Macpherson once gave Devorgilla refuge back when she was young and folk didn’t yet appreciate her healing art. In gratitude, she gave my forebear a small clutch of rowan branches tied with red thread. It’s still affixed above the byre door, though the clan women hang a fresh cluster beside it each autumn, before the cattle are brought down from the summer pasturings.”
    Someone harrumphed.
    Others exchanged sidelong glances.
    “O-ho! And no witchy magic, you say?” A barrel-chested clansman leaned forward, his meaty hands clamped on the table edge. “Och, laddie, I ken some fine braw men who wouldn’t cross paths with Devorgilla even if you promised them a roll in the heather with three bonnie, big-breasted lassies.
Naked lassies!
”
    Jamie swallowed, some of the swell leaving his chest.
    Naked, big-breasted lassies, indeed.
    And uttered in the same breath as the venerable Devorgilla.
    “Jest as you will,” he said, “but so long as we follow the practice, Clan Macpherson enjoys fat cows the whole winter through.”
    “Havers!” The meaty-handed clansman snorted. “Nigh all cattle beasts are slaughtered and salted on Michaelmas—save a few kept to replenish the next year’s stock. Even on Macpherson lands, I’ll wager.”
    “I do not lie,” Jamie said, coloring. “And neither does my father, though he surely enjoys . . . bargaining. And, of that I would warn you.”
    “Aye,” someone called from another table, “Munro Macpherson is crafty. But he’ll no see you wrong so far as the quality of his beasts.”
    The man pushed to his feet, glancing round. “Indeed, if you pour enough coin into his coffers and smile through his jabber, he’ll look after your cattle till spring and then hand deliver you the finest creatures a Highland heart could desire!”
    And mayhap look with more favor on his youngest son.
    A fine lad who deserved better and ought not suffer for having been sired by an indifferent father, chiefly or otherwise.
    As well Kenneth knew.
    He looked over at him, his mind set. “Jamie—is it true your father will care for the beasts through the winter? Deliver them hale and hearty after the first thaws?”
    “That is so,” Jamie confirmed. “But he’d demand payment now, like as not claiming he’ll require the coin to lay in winter fodder or perhaps build an extra byre to house the beasts.”
    “The coin would be well spent,”
she
declared, stepping up to the table and looking far too fetching for such an early hour.
    Her lush beauty almost hurting his eyes, Kenneth cocked his head at her, feeling a sharp need to touch and taste her.
    “And what do you know of Jamie’s father’s cattle?” he asked, sending up a silent thanks to the saints that his plaid and the table edge hid the sudden rise in his braies.
    “What do I know of Munro Macpherson’s cattle?” She slid a glance at Jamie. “Bulls,” she said, the challenge in her eyes at strange odds with the delicate pink staining her cheeks. “My father swore by the . . .
craft
of Macpherson bulls; he even secured a