“Perhaps ye should hold out on the rents as well, Lyle,” Leith told him. “Is it not time they shared some of the wealth?”
“There is no wealth,” Kyla insisted, looking from one to the other, desperation beginning to fill her as she sensed she was beginning to lose any semblance of control of this entire encounter.
“I dinna care any longer whether you are a MacTavish wench or a McDougall whore—or both—but you leave here or I’ll show you exactly what we do with the likes of you,” said the McDougall clansman, advancing toward her. Kyla stepped closer to Cadarn, her eyes flinging toward Leith, hoping that he would still feel enough loyalty to ensure she came to no danger. If he didn’t? Well, as much as she was proud of her ability to protect herself, she wasn’t sure what she would do against the lot of them. Surely they wouldn’t take out their frustrations on a woman?
“I’ll go,” she said, holding her hands out in front of her in an attempt to show surrender. “Let’s all calm down, shall we?”
Lyle looked as though he was going to continue to make trouble, but suddenly he stopped, stiffening. What had silenced him so? As she studied him, she noted his eyes gazing somewhere beyond her shoulder.
She whirled around, both relieved and chagrined to find Finlay behind her, looking strong and imposing on the intimidating Hurley.
“Lyle Young,” Finlay said, his eyes shooting daggers at the man. “Step away from my wife.” He dismounted and strode toward him. “I don’t care who you are or what lands you hold and farm, you will never, ever again speak a word toward or against her. Do you understand me?”
He towered over the man, and as he did so, Kyla saw his brothers ride up behind him. They stayed seated on their horses, but together made quite an imposing trio.
Lyle nodded his head, looking down to the ground. “My apologies, Finlay,” he muttered.
“Do not apologize to me. Apologize to her.” Finlay pointed toward Kyla.
Lyle shot her a look of annoyance.
“Apologize,” Finlay repeated.
“I… I’m sorry,” said Lyle, though it was clear there was no intention behind the words.
Finlay turned to leave when Lyle said in a burst of bravery, “Why did ye marry the MacTavish wench, Finlay? To what purpose?”
Finlay turned, made a fist, and hit Lyle as hard as he could.
“I told you not to speak of my wife like that,” he said. “She is a McDougall now, Lyle. Treat her as yer own.”
As the man shook his head and spit out a tooth, Finlay turned his back to him, put an arm around Kyla, and steered her toward Cadarn.
Kyla sensed now was not the time to say anything, and simply mounted her horse and followed the McDougall brothers.
They rode back to Galbury together, Adam and Roderick trailing Finlay and Kyla. Finlay finally turned to her and asked with some exasperation, “What were you thinking, Kyla? I thought you were leaving the McDougalls to us and Rory was to speak to the MacTavishes.”
“Rory went to Glasgow this morning, apparently,” she said, sighing. She knew what Finlay thought of her brother and in this case, there was nothing to argue with him about. He was right about Rory, as much as she wished it were otherwise. “And I followed the MacTavish men to your lands. They are trying to raise ire among your people. I’m sorry Finlay, I don’t think what happened today will help anything, but rather, make the situation worse entirely.”
Finlay nodded his head in understanding, though said nothing to further chastise her. She appreciated the fact that he didn’t say anything about her brother, finally realizing that she already knew his thoughts.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, turning to look at her, his eyes dark with concern.
“Aye,” she said, touched that he seemed to truly care. She wasn’t sure if his bluster with Lyle had been concern for her because she was “his,” or if he actually felt protective of her because he cared.
From his gaze, however, it seemed to be the latter.
And Kyla had no idea how she felt about it.
12
Kyla had just donned her nightgown when there was a soft knock on the door adjoining her chamber to Finlay’s. She hesitated as she looked at it, her heart beating expectantly in her breast…though whether from excitement or trepidation, she wasn’t entirely sure. She took a deep breath before reminding herself that Kyla MacTavish— that was, McDougall—was scared of no one, and crossed the room before pulling the door open.
There stood Finlay in his kilt—and only his kilt—one hand braced against the doorjamb as he looked up at her from beneath his shock of dark hair. Kyla swallowed hard.
“Finlay,” she said, allowing the smallest of smiles to cross her face as she opened the door wider, “would you like to come in?”
He dropped his arm and strode through the doorway, stopping in the middle of her bedroom as she shut the door behind him. He seemed unsure of what to do with himself as he looked about, likely taking in the small changes she had made to the room, the little touches to make it hers. On the bed was a quilt in MacTavish colors she had brought with her, while new flowing curtains covered the window, and her brush set was laid out on the vanity.
Finlay crossed to the window, muttering something about the smell of a fresh summer breeze that confused her—was he attempting to make conversation?—but she decided to let it go.
Instead, Kyla sat down on the stool in front of the mirror and picked up her brush as she waited for him to say whatever it was he had come to say. She thought she already knew his intention. He would tell her she has been foolish for riding out alone today, that she should take more care, that she should leave the McDougall clan alone. She had heard it all before and had no desire
