Free A Scottish Love by Karen Ranney

disputes, pay their yearly rents, or meet before battle.
    The room had not been furnished for comfort but for gatherings. In the corner, on a small pedestal barely a foot high, sat the laird’s chair. Constructed of wood that had once been painted but was worn and dark now, it had two broad arms, and a tall back inscribed with the clan’s badge: five upward pointing spears gathered by a ribbon on which were written the Gaelic motto: Be afraid of nothing .
    She stared at it for a moment, wondering if any of the lairds of the past faced what she did now—a penury so encompassing that she worried about food.
    Two round tables with accompanying chairs sat on either end of the room. Other than a series of benches arrayed against each wall, there was no other seating. Comfortable chairs, settees, and lamps were reserved for the Family Parlor.
    The echoes of war seemed to linger in this room, and it had always been odd to her that no one had ever sighted any of the ghosts of Gairloch in the Clan Hall.
    “I think it would be best,” she said, looking over the room, “to begin from the top down. We’ll lower the chandelier, clean it first, then dust, and lastly sweep and wash the floors.”
    “A masterful plan of attack, my general,” Fergus said from the doorway.
    She turned, surveying him from head to toe. His clothing was wrinkled, but that was to be expected. His hair was brushed, however, and he’d taken the time to shave. Neither Fergus nor Gordon wore beards, so at odds with fashion that she wondered if it was a small rebellion of theirs.
    His eyes, however, were clear, and if he leaned a bit too heavily on his cane, she wouldn’t mention it.
    “Did you use the back stairs this time?” she asked, arranging the buckets, brushes, and rags as if they held more interest than her brother’s health.
    “I nearly slid down them,” he said.
    She quickly glanced up to see the smile he and Helen exchanged.
    “I care about you,” she said, annoyed. “Or I wouldn’t ask.”
    “You care too much, Shona,” he said, entering the room. “One would think you were my mother. Not my younger sister. My much younger sister.”
    His look was steady and this time she glanced away first.
    “We left toast for you,” Helen said.
    “Found it, ate it, and looked about for more food. Shouldn’t we solve that problem before we begin to clean?”
    “I’ll solve the food situation,” she said, handing Helen a bucket and some rags.
    Inside the bucket was a jar of ashes to be used to brush into the carpet in the Family Parlor. If they could finish the almost monumental task of cleaning the Clan Hall, they’d move on to that room.
    “We could live here,” Fergus said. “We’ve the forest for wood and there’s plenty of game. You could set the kitchen garden to rights. Who cares if there’s only the three of us, plus Old Ned, rattling around?”
    He could barely walk. Now he was talking of hunting and chopping wood?
    She pushed down her impatience, remaining silent as if she was entertaining his idea. He didn’t know that she’d spent many, many sleepless hours trying to figure a way out of their dilemma. The lamentable fact was that the three of them were woefully unequipped to fend for themselves, even at Gairloch.
    “Have you come to help?” she asked.
    When he nodded, she smiled, having figured out a task that would leave him his pride and not exhaust him.
    She went to the doorway, pointing to where a rope was wound around a pair of iron spikes set into the wall.
    “If you’d lower the chandelier, please,” she said, “Helen and I will clean it.”
    She walked away, determinedly not looking to see if he needed assistance. The chandelier was heavy, and even with the rope on a pulley, it would be a chore. But the effort would require his arms, not his wounded leg, and use enough strength that Fergus wouldn’t feel she coddled him too much.
    What a delicate thing was a man’s pride.
    She grabbed her bucket and walked