MacArthur's Challenge - Laird's Love Vol. 2

The Wager

Laird Iain MacArthur strode through the village surrounding his keep, nodding to people as he surveyed the area. After a fight in support of Laird McKinnon, he was back to his favorite place in the world. Now, if only the English would remain in the God-forsaken land they'd arisen from, his life would be relatively drama free.

Well, almost.

The siege that the Lairds McIntyre and McGreary had attempted to lay on the McKinnon keep had resulted in MacArthur having a foster a quarter of the year. At present, he was looking for said ward, his irritation mounting. The lad was bloody annoying, with his ability to remain unseen when he so wished it.

"Aye, Laird," the blacksmith, Erik, said by way of greeting. "Recalling your lands?" he teased and MacArthur smiled.

"Just so," the Laird replied. He had an easy relationship with his people. He was the Laird and, of necessity, given a certain level of respect. That respect, however, had been earned through long hours working in favor of the people and a willingness toward joviality when seriousness was not required.

"'ave you seen the lad McIntyre," MacArthur asked, raising his hand to about mid-chest. "Roughly so tall, hair of hay, sour expression?" he continued. Erik's lips twitched as he nodded and gestured toward the far fields.

"Aye," Erik replied. "The boy was off to slay dragons near the loch, if I recall correctly."

MacArthur nodded his thanks and turned his feet in the direction indicated. Though his mind was on his charge, his eyes kept moving. It might be that this was his land, but he'd long been of warrior blood. It was not in his veins to idly view things. He was always looking for threats.

Coming over the rise that led to the nearest loch, MacArthur found a curious sight. The McIntyre boy was there, but he was talking to a lass who had to be several years older. Though her back was to MacArthur, he was able to see that her figure was womanly and her hair was long. It flowed over her back in a thick braid of brown that reminded MacArthur of the darker bark found on the oak tree.

When the wind gusted, the woman turned into it as she lifted a hand to remove a strand of hair that had broken free of its braid. MacArthur's steps faltered as he viewed her in profile. The lass was bonnie, rivaling even McKinnon's new bride, though in a different vein.

Whereas McKinnon's wife was lush in her curves, the woman speaking to the lad McIntyre was more svelte in composition. She had dips and valleys, but they were closer to her frame, lending an appearance that brought the soft hills to the north of MacArthur's land to mind. Her skin was creamy, though as MacArthur approached, he noted that it was dusted with soft brown freckles that mimicked the lighter pieces of her hair.

MacArthur's approach had not gone unnoticed by Aimil. As the Laird closed the span between she and Daidh McIntyre, she turned back to the lad. The poor boy had been terribly homesick and of awful disposition, but Aimil and he had formed a bond of sorts in the months since his arrival.

"I must go, lad," Aimil said softly. Daidh frowned and looked over her shoulder, breathing heavily through his nose upon seeing the Laird.

"Why canna he leave me be?" the lad whined. At two and ten, the boy was old enough to know better than to take that tone, but young enough to be willing to risk the consequences on the mistaken belief that they wouldn't be harsh.

"Because he is your guardian," Aimil responded. The Laird was within ten feet now. Sighing, she reached out and laid a hand upon Daidh's cheek. "Go easy on the Laird," she instructed. "He's tryna do right by you."

The words were barely spoken before the Laird himself appeared at their sides. Aimil gave a nod, keeping her eyes cast away from MacArthur, while Daidh met the leader's gaze with resignation that can only be found in the bluster of adolescence. As Aimil moved to leave, the Laird put out a hand.

"I doona believe we've met, lass," he said. Aimil nodded and then moved as if to leave again, causing the Laird to frown.

"Will ya no' tell me your name?" he questioned.

Aimil grimaced and then looked to Daidh for help. It had taken the boy nearly all of his three-month stay to secure Aimil's voice. It was from her that Daidh had learned the means of hiding and, knowing that MacArthur's presence was because of him, the lad spoke up.

"Her name is Aimil, Laird MacArthur," the lad said. As the Laird looked ready to ask more questions, Aimil's name was called. She gave a polite but distant smile to the leader of the clan and then hurried away, thankful for the interruption.

MacArthur, however, was not so pleased. He wished to know more about the lass whom he'd never met. Although the village was not small, it had struck him as odd that he would not before have encountered her. And, as he watched her graceful though swift exit, he acknowledged a desire to meet with her again.

"How did you meet her?" MacArthur asked, turning to his ward. Daidh shrugged as he moved opposite of the direction where Aimil had gone.

"I doona recall," the boy said, lying through his teeth. MacArthur's almost black eyes narrowed as he took in the lad.

"I willna countenance fabrications, boy," he stated, his temper sparking. Daidh nodded in response, but did not speak again.

"She's of the clan," MacArthur said, folding his arms as he came to a stop in front of Daidh. "She'll no' escape me," he finished.

Unable to stop the sound, Daidh snorted. Aimil was an expert in hiding in plain view. Daidh had learned that she had been part of the MacArthur clan since her da perished and her ma remarried nearly four years prior. If the Laird hadn't met her in that time, then the better odds were that Aimil would not be seen again for another four years.

"You doubt me, lad?" MacArthur asked, his interest rising even further. The lad clearly had a friendship of sorts with the bonnie lass, who MacArthur would place at nearly eight or ten years younger than himself. It was an interesting development, seeing a woman of roughly twenty developing a rapport with a child of two and ten.

"I'd naer dream of it," Daidh responded, though his tone said the opposite. MacArthur smiled in anticipation. He'd always relished a challenge and, with an anticipated peace settling over his lands for at least the close future, this was one he could find himself enjoying.

"Care to wager, lad?" the Laird asked, his brow quirked. Daidh looked at him in confusion and MacArthur gestured to the keep.

"If I develop a friendship," or more, MacArthur thought, "with the lass by the time you return," he stated. "Then you will no' hide from the training I establish." Daidh's lips curved as he faced the Laird fully.

"An' if ya don'?" the boy asked.

"Then I'll le' you have a full three months of respite while here," MacArthur offered.

"'Tis a wager."