Free The Chieftain's Feud by Frances Housden

occurrence.
    The gatekeeper opened a wee door high up on the gate, but not so high the McArthur couldnae see through. Words were exchanged, but the key that opened the door was the whereabouts of a missing daughter.
    Only four of the Buchans were allowed into the Keep, and only after the McArthur made sure they dismounted before entering, and a pretty sorry-looking lot of horses they were, with their riders not much bonnier. A swarm of brawny housecarls removed the visitors’ weapons, a condition they didnae question. Who would, when the weather itself was killing—sharp enough to cut like a knife?
    The great hall smelled every bit as delicious as it had when they’d left, yet somehow the hunger the scents wrought were acuter, fiercer, and he wondered if the women had disappeared to the kitchens with the bairns to eat their fill, suspecting the talks would be long and drawn out. Far better if they stayed hidden upstairs and gave the Buchans’ nae notion of their number.
    As the Buchan men unwrapped and shook off snow that hissed on the hearth, Nhaimeth, listening, felt anxious enough to do a wee bit of hissing himself … but, as usual, the McArthur had it all in hand.
    Ruthven sat shoulder to shoulder with the McArthur at the high board, as did his cousin Graeme and Gavyn Farquhar, taking the heights where Buchan would have to stand below them pleading his cause. To Nhaimeth’s mind, the only one of the four who stood out was Ruthven. The way he stroked his beard, his mien grim, didnae seem to bode well.
    If there was aught that took Nhaimeth aback, it was the arrival of the women. Morag first, as Lady of the Keep, followed by the other wives, who ranged themselves beside their men. A rare show of feminine force, nae doubt unheard of in Buchan’s Keep.
    Then the talking began, hindered by the staging of the scene—Buchan with nae sword and naught to hammer his fist upon.
    “My daughter has run away, and her maid said she was coming here,” he ground out, making nae attempt to be conciliatory.
    The McArthur spoke softly, velvet smoothing the hard edges of the iron underneath, “It would take a brave lass, or mayhap a foolish one, to run away into a snowstorm. Why would that be?”
    Finger shaking, Buchan pointed at Jamie’s father. “The blame is his,” he blasted Ruthven with his temper and sent Jamie’s father leaping to his feet, sword hilt clasped. “Him,” Buchan persisted, and his bluidy son! And he cannae deny it. I have witnesses.” Iseabel shifted closer to her father and pushed her arm through his, tethering his sword arm. “Where is the lad? Too much of a coward to face a father with right on his side?”
    “I am here.”
    Jamie’s voice resonated with a timbre none had ever heard him use afore that day, forceful enough to send those at the high board spinning around, mouths agape, including Nhaimeth. It was nae laughing matter, yet he felt a chuckle building in his throat at the nerve of Jamie.
    On the second stair up frae the hall Jamie stood—tall, broad of shoulder and chest, a Ruthven plaid draped o’er a chainmail shirt. He looked every part the warrior the McArthur had trained as he stood one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other holding a lass to his side. Slim and beautiful with red hair curling around her bonnie face, she held her head high, as if the folk in the great hall couldnae see the obvious signs of a bairn in her belly because of her plaid.
    Nhaimeth looked at Buchan. Either the man was already aware of her condition or he was a fool.

Chapter 8
    Jamie’s announcement had every head in the hall turning in his direction. Pleasing though it was to see Buchan dumbfounded, he tucked Eve in close to his side, feeling her quiver through the thickness of his mail shirt. A muscle in Jamie’s cheek lifted, pulling his lips in a sneer as he snorted in derision.
    Some would say that the scowl on Buchan’s face made Eve tremble; they would be wrong. The lass who battled a storm