HIGHLAND PROMISE (THE SONS OF GREGOR MACLEOD)

Chapter Eight

Darach tried not to sigh impatiently as a lass named Heather told him a convoluted story about two MacKenzie lads and a pig named Zeus. If Lachlan had been there, he would have raised an eyebrow and said something indecent – to Darach's ears, at least. To the lass, it would have sounded perfectly respectable.

"So, who do you think I should choose?" she finally asked.

That's what the story had been about? Picking a lad to fancy? Why hadn't she just said so in the beginning? He knew both lads and would easily choose...hmmm, who would he choose? Each boy was a bit of a scoundrel. He'd disciplined them both on occasion. And where had the pig fit in?

"Neither," he said, thinking the bizarre meeting was over.

But the lass pouted her lip. "You canna say neither, Laird MacKenzie, you must choose."

Darach's eyes widened, amazed the lass had contradicted him. The same lass who three days ago could barely look him in the face. He couldn't stop the grin that creased his cheeks.

"'Tis verra poor manners to tell your Laird what he can and canna do, Heather. Neither lad is grown enough to be a good choice. Either wait a year or pick another lad."

She returned his smile shyly. "Aye, you're right. My mother said the same thing. 'Tis just that me sister Rose is seeing Tavis MacKenzie and she ne'er stops talking about him. 'Tis most aggravating. I would like to have me own stories to tell."

"You will, lass, you're a bonnie girl. Doona fret."

He turned to leave, but she placed her hand on his arm and patted it awkwardly like she would a dog. "Maybe someone older then?"

"Aye, that's a good choice."

"How much older?"

By the love of God, how much more of this could he take? She was the third woman to stop him this morning. Anice MacKenzie, the clan weaver, had brought him a beautiful, new plaid. He'd been very touched, but the woman had spent a considerable amount of time regaling him with stories of her twelve grandchildren. Then Robina MacKenzie had waved at him from across the bailey and brought him a package of sweets. It was the fourth such package he'd received in two days.

And yesterday in the village, women had surrounded him enquiring about his health and asking him in for a cup of mead. His meeting to discuss the repairs needed after the winter storms had to be rescheduled. Not to mention with all the mead in his belly, he'd scarcely been able to sit his horse on the ride back to the castle.

"Laird?" Heather prompted.

He glanced at her, trying not to let his exasperation show. "I doona know, lass. Maybe another woman could advise you best. I must see to my duties now."

She blushed, but still smiled. "Certainly, Laird. I thank you for your time...and for your sacrifice, of course."

He hesitated. "Sacrifice?"

"Aye. As our Laird. You take such good care of us. 'Tis much appreciated."

His chest tightened, cutting off his breath. For a moment, he could not speak. None other than Caitlin had ever said those words to him. 'Twas not necessary, for it was his duty, but the sentiment affected him greatly.

Heather did not notice. Instead, her eyes lit up and she giggled. "If you see my sister, ask her to tell you the story about the priest, the cow, and the English woman. I laughed so hard, I hurt my belly. After that, Rose would 'moo' every time she saw me. Do you think it's possible to die from laughing?"