Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) by Angeline Fortin (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

like you. A woman who’s lost something and is just trying to make a new life without it.” She wasn’t certain but she thought she was getting through to the woman. The wildness in her overly-bright blue eyes had softened. She seemed to be listening. Perhaps understanding. At last. “You’ve lost the men you love. You’re angry, I understand that. You want to lash out at something. But this isn’t going to change anything. It won’t bring them… Ow!”

Stumbling to the side, Al cradled the side of her head and stared at Maeve and the huge leather-bound tome she was wielding in astonishment. So much for sympathy. The woman was completely psychotic.

She lifted the book to take another swing and Al lifted an arm to shield herself.

“Maeve.” A firm male voice rang out over the room, freezing Maeve in place before she lowered the weapon with one last snarl.

But it wasn’t Keir who had come to her rescue. Artair stood at the door, piercing Maeve with his most solemn gaze. “Leave her alone.”

“May the devil cut the head off ye and make a day’s work of yer neck,” she growled at Al. With one last huff, she dropped the book and spun on her heel. Her ominous words echoed throughout the room as she left.

“Ye’ll hae to forgi’ her,” he said quietly, watching his cousin leave. “Ye’re an easy target for her tae place blame upon and she has little else tae occupy her time, I’m afraid.”

“Glad I can give her something productive to do.” She rubbed the side of her head. Her skull was ringing but nothing more harmful than that. “What did that mean ‘a day’s work of my neck?’”

“Och, that,” he scoffed, strolling farther into the room, hands clasped behind him. “Pay her nae mind.”

“What does it mean?” she pressed.

“In essence, she was merely wishing ye tae the devil.”

“Oh.” She could live with that. While a part of her felt sorry for the woman, there was another part happy to wish her a cheerful journey down the same path. Uncharitable, perhaps, but so was cursing people and hitting them with books.

Artair’s intense gaze rested on her until she shifted under its weight. As if sensing he was making her uncomfortable, he shifted his gaze, scanning the empty room. “Is Keir aboot?”

“No, he had business in Inverness. He said he’ll be back for dinner.”

He nodded. “I wanted tae discuss the eulogy wi’ him. Make sure he approves of my words.”

“The eulogy?”

“For Frang’s funeral. Didn’t he tell ye?”

He hadn’t, but then he was remarkably reticent in speaking of his family. Though he was open and even verbose with his answers once asked directly, as she had the previous night, he never volunteered new information.

She hadn’t decided if it was because he was a private person or if he just wasn’t used to anyone showing interest in his personal life.

Over the past few days she’d begun to think it was the latter.

“When is it to be?”

“‘Tis uncertain. We wanted tae postpone it until Father returned tae Dingwall, but since we’ve nae idea when that will be, I thought tae be prepared.” He drew a roll of parchment from behind him and unrolled it. The large page was covered front and back in his tight, cramped handwriting.

It was going to be a hell of a eulogy.

“Would ye like tae hear it?”

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m sure whatever you wrote will be perfect. Just perfect. I wouldn’t mind hearing more about Frang though. Would you like to talk about him?”

His flat blue eyes lit with an inner light normally lacking in his gaze. “Ye’re a fine woman, Miss Maines. Allorah. Ye show a true interest in people. ‘Tis a rare quality. I find ye most amiable.”

“Uh, thank you. You’re very nice as well.”

He rocked back on his heels, his eyes dropping to her toes before rising once more. “I’ve enjoyed our conversations verra much. Ye listen, truly listen when others speak. Yet ye ne’er speak aboot yerself.”

“Well, I ca—”

“Frang was a serious man,” he cut in.

Al grimaced. Perhaps she never spoke and appeared to be a great listener because he didn’t stop talking long enough for her to get a word in edgewise. Ugh, she wasn’t a fine woman at all to think such thoughts. But in her own defense, she wasn’t used to socializing much either.

“He knew he was destined for the military from birth and took his occupation seriously. He fostered wi’ the earl of Athol and ‘twas his ranks he joined for the recent battle. Are ye sure ye dinnae want tae hear my eulogy?”

She should have stayed in her room, but no.

Al dropped down into one of the chairs and surrendered. “Sure. Go ahead.”

He beamed down at her in approval. “As I said, ye’re a fine woman, Allorah.”

*

“What’s all this?”

Al’s head shot up from where she’d been resting it—not at all snoozing—while Artair worked his way down the front page of the eulogy, pausing every now and then to make notes in the margin with a pencil. He’d even started over twice, after changing the wording of a sentence.

Even the old footman Archie’s random but forgetful interruptions hadn’t broken his flow.

Keir’s arrival was her salvation. Heavenly deliverance framed in the doorway to the terrace like a sunlit god.

She wanted to run to him, throw herself at his feet. Sob her eternal gratitude into the pleated hem of his kilt.

“Ah, Keir,” Artair glanced up from the paper. “Allorah was being kind enough tae go o’er Frang’s eulogy wi’ me since ye were nae aboot, but since ye’re back, perhaps I should begin ag—”

“No!” She bit her lip. “I mean, I told you. It’s just perfect. Really.”

“But I hae nae e’en progressed past his childhood yet,” he protested.

“Leave it, brother,” Keir spoke up, striding toward them. He unbuckled his scabbard and tossed it on his desk along the way. “I’ll read it o’er later.”

“But I…” Artair sighed and walked over to put the parchment on