8
They returned to Perth, the closer of the two Drummond strongholds, by the next day. Nicholas rode with his family, ignoring the dark looks sent by William and Malcolm. Donald Mackay quietly studied his son, while Maelcolm Beg glared heatedly at Mary.
“How could ye?” Maelcolm hissed once as they rode beneath a canopy of hickory trees, a tunnel of dark green. “How could ye be so thoughtless? Have ye no pride, lass?”
Mary sat behind her brother Malcolm, arms tight around his waist, and turned to look at her father. “I could ask the same, Da!”
Malcolm grunted faintly in agreement.
“So you think ye deserve better than the man I intended? God’s blood, woman, between you and Rory I’m nigh to having a heart attack.”
The man was healthy as a horse, if smaller than one.
Maelcolm Beg sighed and shook his head in despair. “And a Highlander to boot, lass?”
Mary pressed her cheek against her brother’s sturdy back, taking comfort in his strength. “He’s not as bad as some,” she declared stiffly. “Unlike the man you