Free Highland Scandal by Mageela Troche Page A

the lairdess. He had seen her look—shock that changed to anger. He wasn’t up to hearing a reprimanding speech from her, the same one he had been having with himself since Rowen’s arrival. Of course, Duncan would see her riled and she would tell him because she told him everything. Then Duncan would come to him.
    He pushed away from the fence. He had other duties. First, he gathered the men who watched the Murray men camped outside the walls. There had been a few quarrels between MacLeans and Murrays. Good thing the MacLeans won many of them.
    His men spotted him coming out the castle gates and started toward him. Jock and Lunn were flushed from too much drink, but were steady on their feet. As long as their duty was seen to, Lachlan did not care if they shared a few toasts with the Murrays.
    Jock crossed his arms. “I na heard such rot in my life. I ha’e heard more aboot the length of their members than any lass on Murray land.”
    “I heard more aboot yer member than any lass on MacLean lands,” Lunn said.
    “But the lasses ha’e seen it.”
    “Ye the only one that talks aboot it.”
    In the center of the Murray men milling about was Eacharn’s trusted man—Bran. He stared at Lachlan. Nay, he glared at Lachlan. His men surrounded him, shooting glances at Lachlan as Bran went on about something. Lachlan knew he was near to shouting, but the growing cold wind blew away his words. He chopped his arm in Lachlan’s direction.
    “I dinna think he likes ye, Lachlan.”
    Two men grabbed Bran by his shoulders. Bran shoved by them and stomped straight toward Lachlan.
    “I dinna like ye.” Bran swung at Lachlan. He clipped Lachlan on his chin.
    Lachlan swung off the blow with a shake of his head. His jaw throbbed. All he saw was Bran’s flaring nostrils. Lachlan punched him right on his nose. A snap sounded. Blood gushed.
    Bran tottered back three steps, finally getting his stance on the fourth. “I’ll—”
    Lachlan wasted no time. He punched him in the face again. His hard knuckles slammed against bones. Bran grunted but stayed on his feet. Lachlan chopped at his throat. His hand slammed into Bran’s thick forearm. With his other arm, Bran slammed his fist into Lachlan’s gut.
    He grunted. Bent over, he saw Bran’s knee coming for his face. Lachlan grabbed his leg and tossed the bastard aside.
    Bran rolled and sprang to his feet. He rammed into Lachlan and lifted him off his feet. Lachlan brought his fists down on his back. He hit him again. Bran’s grunts fueled him. He struck him again, roaring his rage with each strike. Then he was slammed against a building. His bones rattled and a sharp pain shot through his back. His breath went out in a gust. Bran dropped him.
    Dust and dirt from the thatched roof rained down. Bran gave him the chance to recover. Fool closed his eyes against the debris. Lachlan kicked him in the knee. Bran fell to one knee and looked up at Lachlan.
    He drew back his hand. With a war cry, he rammed his fist on Bran’s chin. Blood, spit, and teeth flew out as Bran toppled into the dirt and a nice size pile of manure.
    He shook out his hand. Eacharn came to his man’s side. Behind him, before the onlookers, MacLean and Caelen stood. The onlookers parted for him. No one followed him as he made his way into the great hall. He needed a damn drink.
    On the table was a flagon. He went straight for it and snatched it up. He drank deeply. Hell, he drank it all. He slammed it down on the table. The clang of pottery striking wood was drowned by a sharp inhale. He turned toward it.
    Rowen hurried to his side. He held out his hand, motioning her to halt. “Go away, Rowen and stay away.”
    He turned from her. His rage gave him the will to end it. Much like the pains and possible bruises he’d have later, he’d have to deal with the heartbreak, too.
    “Come Rowen. Someone will care for Lachlan,” the Lairdess said.
    He couldn’t hear if she had departed over his roaring heartbeat drumming