The Lion (Clan Ross of the Hebrides Book 1) by Hildie McQueen (ereader for android .TXT) 📕

were no meetings between the lairds that both of us were not present at. I can attest to there being animosity and reluctance on the Uisdein’s part. He did not seem to care for the alliance.”

“Then why did he agree?” Ewan asked.

Stuart shrugged. “Because the lass and I were intimate.”

“Ah.” Darach let out a breath. “That makes sense then.”

Deciding he would speak to Stuart alone later and find out exactly what transpired, Darach stood. “I must go dress for this festival. Gideon, what am I competing in?”

His brother lifted an eyebrow. “Since ye didna want to lose, I signed ye up for the sword dance.”

From the grins and exchange of looks, it was obvious his brothers had planned it together.

“Ye have a challenger. Miles MacTavish is claiming to be a better dancer and will win against ye.”

Darach stared at his brothers. “I will not be dancing.”

“It has been announced,” Gideon replied. “Ye cannot back out now. Ye will not win the hammer throw, but ye may give Miles MacTavish a good run.”

Not sure what else to say, he shook his head and stalked from the room.

Despite him sending the valet off, he was grateful that Ramey was there to help him don his chieftain clothing. Kilt, dark tunic, and a sash pinned with the Ross crest across his chest.

“Sporran?”

“No,” Darach replied, annoyed at the thought of the damn thing slapping against him when he walked, or if his brothers had their way, danced.

Outside the sounds of bagpipes and drums sounded and he went to the large windows to look down. Many people had gathered and milled about. A group of young lasses danced, holding hands and prancing in circles.

Blankets were spread and groups of people sat in front of the area, that had been marked off for competitions, and watching the activities.

At the moment, two hogs turned on spits, and he imagined the aroma wafting through the air. It would be a good day for his clan. A day of celebrating, eating, and hopefully the beginning of a tradition.

“Son?” his mother said, and he turned to find her also wearing the clan colors of blue and green. Her hair had been intricately braided into a style that looked like a crown. She’d applied coloring to her face and smiled warmly at him.

“Ye look beautiful,” he said, meaning it. “I will be so proud to walk out with ye on my arm.”

She blushed prettily. “And ye look stunningly handsome. The women will lose their breath.”

Darach laughed. “Will I require guardsmen to keep the hordes of lasses from attacking?”

“That is a good idea.”

It had been a long time since he’d felt so lighthearted and Darach couldn’t help but hope the rest of the day would continue to feel that way.

They went down the stairs and mounted horses that had been draped in elaborately embroidered caparisons. His brothers as well as Ella and Catriona were already mounted.

Darach assisted his mother to her horse and then went to the large warhorse at the front.

Someone signaled for the drummers to sound the announcement as they made their entrance, much to the delight of the people, who clapped and called out greetings.

They rode in a circle, waving to the gathered crowds. His family threw coins to the children and elderly while some of the people tossed flowers at him.

When they arrived at the stands where they’d watch over the proceedings, they dismounted.

Guards took the horses off as his family went to find their seats. Darach would remain on the ground to greet and wish the first competitors luck.

Four huge men, including his brother, Duncan, lined up to compete in the first event, which would be the caber toss.

“Brother,” Darach said, greeting Duncan whose flat gaze met his. If not for knowing his brother his entire life, Darach would say the man was made of stone and had no emotions. But it was not so. His huge brother was a loner, one who could not find a place in the world no matter how hard the family tried to bring him into the fold.

Over the years, they finally came to terms that the experiences that brought him to be distant from everyone was an inner battle that Duncan had to fight alone.

“Laird,” Duncan replied. “Ye look well.”

“I am glad ye came today.” Darach squeezed his brother’s shoulder and then continued down the line to greet the other competitors.

Horns signaled the beginning of the games, and Darach made his way back to the stands. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a cluster of women gathered under a colorful tent. They sat on a blanket with their gowns spread around them, reminding him of a flower garden. It was their hope to attract attention as these women were the type to seek beds to warm that night.

Lilia sat among them, dressed in deep red. Her dark hair pulled up into a pile of waves, some flowing to her shoulders.

At noticing him looking toward her, she pursed her dyed lips and narrowed her eyes. He gave a subtle nod in their direction, and several of them waved back with saucy winks or smiles. Lilia just glared.

Taking one step at a time, he climbed up to where he’d sit. Only once he sat would the games begin.

It felt odd that everyone’s attention centered on him, making Darach understand why some men lived for the kind of power that had been laid on his shoulders. He wanted to huff at the idea that many envied someone like him, with the title of laird. In his opinion, the burden of responsibility far outweighed any kind of control or power.

He looked for his mother, as he would sit on her left. His gaze swept past Lady Macdonald, then her daughters, first Beatrice in pale green and then next to her Isobel.

At least he thought it was her. A vision of beauty in a deep amethyst gown that fell just off her shoulders. Around her neck from a velvet