Faye Fletcher had been a quiet, sweet girl who had always seemed so delicate with her slim frame and pale blonde hair and blue eyes. She’d be a biddable lass; that’s what his da had said of her. Granddaughter to the Ross Chieftain, she and Ewan would bring peace to their clans. Their union was made to dissolve the hatred of the last two centuries and unite the clans as one.
Ewan recalled his hope at such an idea. But he was no longer a lad swayed by fanciful notions. He was a man who led other men. His decisions dictated who lived and who died.
“What does her dowry offer?” Monroe asked.
Ewan folded his arms over his chest. “Coin, much more so than what the betrothal with the Gordons, as well as lands to the west of us and…peace.” He sniffed at the ridiculousness of the latter.
Unfortunately, the offer was a tempting one. The lands to the west were rich and ideal for raising sheep. With the cost of wool rising, it would be an opportunity to amass wealth. As of late, the constant battles between clans had been expensive.
A marriage to Mistress Faye Fletcher would resolve both issues, as well as hopefully provide him with an heir.
Monroe turned in his chair to face Ewan and his dark, smooth hair gleamed in the firelight. “How much land does the Ross lass bring?”
“A considerable amount.” Ewan returned to his desk and regarded the letter once more. “More than they’ll get from Berwick. I dinna know why they’ve wanted that land for so long.” Berwick was over a fortnight’s journey away and overrun with reivers and thieves. The Sutherland clan hadn’t bothered to maintain any sense of order there. Such a feat was nearly impossible.
“Ross insists that I consider the betrothal and meet with him next month to discuss its renewal.” Sutherland glanced at the agreement beside the letter, the one that would seal him to Mistress Blair Gordon.
The girl Faye had been rose in his thoughts. What kind of a woman would she be now? Had her skinny body blossomed out to be more robust? Had her white-blonde hair stayed fair or turned the color of wheat?
“What will ye do?” Monroe asked.
Ewan’s chest constricted at the thought of marrying again. Lara had been a good wife to him. She had not bickered or complained, nor had she desperately clung to him as some men’s wives did. She had performed her duties at the castle promptly and in good order. Aye, she had not given him a bairn in their three years together, but she had tried.
It had been almost two years since her death, and Ewan was not getting any younger. He required a wife and a son and had two contracts lying at his fingertips. He heaved a sigh that sent the parchments shifting over the desk.
“Aye,” he said, at last, his mind finally made up. “I’ll meet with Ross to discuss the possibility of marriage to Mistress Faye Fletcher.”
2
Faye bent the bean shell in half over the bowl until the snap sounded sharp in the stillness of the room. The manor was always extraordinarily silent after Drake’s departure.
She sighed and reached for another handful of pods.
“’Tis too quiet,” Kinsey complained. The youngest of them had red curls that she didn’t bother trying to control. She propped her cheek on her fist, so her mouth stretched up the left side of her face.
“Yer face will freeze if ye keep it like that.” Faye popped another pod open and let the beans plink into the bowl.
Kinsey rolled her eyes in reply. “Why is he aiding the English anyway? They’ve done nothing but cause us strife.”
“’Tis English money that’s paid for this house.” Their mother joined them at the large wooden table and shooed her hands at Kinsey.
Kinsey moved with her elbow dragging across the table’s surface to keep her face propped in her hand.
Mum took several pods and scooped out the beans in a deft, practiced move. She’d had blonde hair like Faye when she’d been younger, though most of it had gone white early on, not long after Faye’s da had been killed.
“The English have been kind to us.” Clara took the bowl full of shelled beans and swapped it for an empty one. She was only one year Faye’s junior, her color favoring their father’s dark hair as Drake’s did.
“Kind to us?” Faye ripped open a fresh pod so the beans spilled out violently, rolling in errant directions before settling at the bottom. “Do ye recall how they shunned us after Da’s death? How we dinna have food to eat or—”
“Enough.” Mum’s gentle rebuke stilled Faye’s words but did nothing to cool her ire.
“I only meant Lord Werrick has been good to Drake,” Clara said gently. “I thank God every day he is in such care.”
Faye’s cheeks were hot with outrage, but she bit back her angry words. She was not as forgiving or patient as Clara, who was practically a saint. Nay, Faye was still raw with unhealed wounds left by how quickly friends had turned on them after Da had been killed in combat. He’d been an English knight, honored by his people, a man who died bravely in an effort to keep them all safe. Those very people shunned Mum for being Scottish, and Faye and her siblings for being of mixed blood.
Mum’s hand rested on Faye’s forearm, cool and dry. Her eyes found Faye’s. Green as grass in the summer. Just as the man who claimed to be her grandfather had.
“Mayhap ye’d like to go for a walk to cool yer blood?” Mum suggested.
Faye gestured to the bowl. “The beans—”
“I can do them for ye,” Clara offered with a genuine smile. “Ye know I didn’t mean to offend.”
Faye gave a grudging nod and scooted off the bench.
“Can I join ye?” Kinsey asked.
“Nay,” Faye and her mother said at the same time, albeit Faye replied with more force.
Kinsey dropped her head back with exaggerated
