right in front of me.
“Indeed they are,” Seamus agreed just as calmly. “But no Scot would steal from the Mac Tarans. They know if they are hungry, they have but to come to my hall and they’ll be fed. We Scots understand hospitality.”
That honest answer and sly rebuke brought a smile to Adair’s lips. But the Norman, dolt that he was, didn’t comprehend. Or if he did, he felt no proper shame.
“What did yer father say?” Roban asked in a whisper. Adair and Lachlann knew French, their father having insisted they learn it, but the rest of their clansmen did not.
“He told the bastard about Scots’ hospitality,” Adair explained.
“So you don’t suspect your fellow countrymen of this alleged crime?” Sir Nicholas inquired of the chieftain.
Adair’s temper rose even more at the man’s tone, as if Scots should, of course, be the first to be suspected, although it was the Normans who were coming to Scotland and taking everything they could.
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Seamus said with a shrug. Then he smiled in a way that had chilled many an enemy’s bones in days gone by. “But the Scots also know that the Mac Tarans will punish those who steal from them.”
“I’ve heard you people take the law into your own hands,” the Norman replied.
At last Adair saw a spark of anger in his father’s eyes.
“As a thane with a charter from the king, and chieftain of the clan, I have the right to uphold the law.”
“You have a charter?” The Norman sounded surprised. “I thought you Scots didn’t hold with such legal documents, that the clan held the land in community.”
“I hold the charter for the clan, because if I did not, there would be nothing to prevent a foreigner from getting our lands.”
“Your own king gives charters. Is that not his right?”
“Of course it is,” Seamus said, his voice placid once again. “He gave me our charter, as he gave you your reward. I merely point out that I have it, and because I do, I have the right to punish offenders who steal from me and my clan. So I will, when they are caught.”
The servant with the mole on her breast reappeared, carrying a tray bearing two goblets. She offered one first to Sir Nicholas, who frowned and gestured at Seamus.
Her hands, already shaking, could barely hold the tray steady as she turned toward the Scots chieftain. She probably feared a beating for this mistake.
Adair hurried forward and grabbed the tray out of the startled woman’s hands. “It’s a Scots tradition that a guest serve the first drink in his host’s hall,” he lied, trusting to the Norman’s ignorance of local customs as he handed a goblet to Sir Nicholas.
Who was, judging by his unexpectedly shrewd expression after his initial surprise had passed, perhaps not so ignorant of Scots ways as Adair had assumed. Nevertheless, the Norman accepted the goblet without comment. So did Seamus, who regarded his son with a warning eye.
Paying heed to Lachlann’s old woman’s worrying was one thing; a look like that from their father’s gray eyes was another. But he didn’t regret his impetuous act when he saw the grateful look from the serving wench, and remembered the surprise in the Norman’s.
Adair handed the tray back to the young woman and returned to his place with the rest of his clansmen.
“You can go,” Nicholas snapped at the maidservant.
“This bold fellow is my eldest son, Adair Mac Seamus Mac Taran,” Seamus explained to the Norman as the young woman fled. “My clan has chosen him to be thane and chieftain when I die.”
As Sir Nicholas ran a measuring gaze over him, Adair wondered if the Norman had heard that Adair Mac Taran had never been beaten in a fight, whether with arms or bare-handed, since he was ten years old—after he had seen what Norman soldiers could do.
Sir Nicholas looked back at Seamus and raised a brow. “Chosen?”
“Aye, although he’s my son, we still hold to the old ways. I pick who will succeed me, and my clansmen must agree. I have, and they did.”
“And all are happy with that choice?”
“They accept it, and thus it shall be,” his father answered with a smile. “Loyalty to the clan comes first above all things.”
“Not loyalty to your king?”
“If a chieftain’s loyalty is pledged to the king, so is the clan’s, without fail. Since I swore my oath to Alexander when he gave me the charter, every man in my clan would die for him.”
“Whether there was a reward for such service promised or not,” Adair added, earning him another sharp look from his father, and a suspicious one from the Norman.
“My son is a bit hot-tempered, my lord,” Seamus said. “Something that stands him in good stead in a fight, but leads to misunderstanding at other times.”
“I see. And I sympathize. My brother is the same.”
There were two of them?
Seamus smiled as if he and this Norman interloper were good friends. “A trial at times, yet worth the trouble in a fight, eh?”
The Norman actually laughed, a harsh sound like a crow, but a laugh. “If you were to come to Henry and accuse him or his men of theft, he would have his knife at your throat before you’d finished speaking.”
And soon after that, he would be dead, Adair silently vowed.
“I haven’t come here to accuse you or your men of theft,” Seamus replied evenly. “I came to warn you that there may be outlaws afoot. I also came to tell you that we intend to mount more patrols on our land.”
His father’s intent suddenly became more clear, and acceptable. Not as good as telling the Norman they knew his men had taken the cattle—the hoof-prints of the beasts had showed they’d been herded toward Dunkeathe—but his father was a wise and patient man, so perhaps this was the better course, even if it was frustrating.
The Norman’s expression hardened. “Are you warning me about outlaws, or that you’ll attack any Norman who comes onto your land?”
“Has anyone proof that the cattle were actually stolen?” a woman asked, her dulcet French voice coming from somewhere behind the group of Scots. “Perhaps they merely wandered off.”
Adair, and all the others, turned to see who’d spoken. Then they stared at the vision of beauty walking regally toward them.
She was easily the most beautiful woman Adair had ever seen. She looked like an angel, with the merest hint of a smile on her lovely face, clear blue eyes the color of a summer’s sky, smooth cheeks and full, rosy lips. Framing her perfect face, her soft blond hair hung in long braids over her shoulders.
She was slender and shapely, too—and wearing the most motley collection of garments he’d ever seen on anybody except a beggar.
