When the Laird Returns Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    Drummond led the way to another room, a hall that bore an aura of neglect. “My wife, Leah,” he said gruffly, kicking out the chair at the head of a long, rough-hewn table. “Alisdair MacRae,” Drummond added, the introduction swift and grudgingly made.
    Alisdair turned in the direction of Drummond’s wife. She was seated beside a cold fireplace, her head bent as if she diligently worked on the needlework in front of her. But her hands had stilled and she sat so stiffly quiet that he could almost feel her tremble.
    “Thank you for your hospitality, madam,” he said, walking to her side and bowing slightly.
    She glanced up, obviously surprised.
    For a moment Alisdair thought she was the woman in the ruins. But she was much older than the girl he’d seen, even though their coloring was the same.
    “You are a MacRae?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
    “I am,” he said.
    Laying her needlework in her lap, she tentatively smiled up at him. A wisp of greeting in that look, one that charmed him.
    “Who is your father?” she asked unexpectedly.
    He hesitated in answering. Any questions about Ian MacRae were always viewed with suspicion.
    “My mother is Leitis MacRae; my grandmother was Moira,” he said instead.
    “I knew your uncle,” she said, her voice low.
    “Did you?” he asked, surprised. Two of his uncles had died before his birth and the third only a few months ago, prompting his errand to London.
    “Fergus,” she said simply.
    His mother’s brother. Alisdair wanted to ask her about the man whose name brought such sadness to her face, but he was only too conscious of Drummond standing behind him.
    “You are welcome here,” she said softly, smiling up at him. “Could I offer you some ale, or perhaps some wine?”
    “What are you gabbing about, woman?” Drummond demanded brusquely. “He’ll drink good Scots whiskey or he’ll go thirsty.”
    Glancing quickly at her husband, she nodded. “Of course,” she said. Gripping her needlework tightly, she stared down at the delicate stitches.
    There was a woman at home who’d appeared often in public with bruises on her arms and neck. “The cow kicked me,” she would say, or claim it some other clumsiness on her part. But the truth, well known throughout the village, was that her husband beat her. Alisdair had offered him a berth upon The Thistle , a new ship whose voyage to the China Sea guaranteed that the man would be away for months at a time.
    His wife had met Alisdair in the square one day, pulling his face down so that she might kiss his cheek. The dead look in her eyes was gone and her face aglow with happiness.
    Leah Drummond reminded him of that woman, especially in the furtive way she glanced in her husband’s direction.
    Alisdair bowed once more and walked back to Drummond, sitting on one of the narrow benches flanking the table.
    Neither spoke until the whiskey was brought.
    “You’ll buy the land, then?” Drummond asked, his hand held tight around his tankard. He pushed the other cup across the table to Alisdair.
    Not a bad blend, he thought, tasting the drink, but not asgood as that distilled on Cape Gilmuir. The people of Scotland had not lost their talent for whiskey simply because they’d left their homeland.
    “On one condition,” Alisdair said, placing the tankard on the table and leveling a look at Drummond.
    “You’re not in a position to argue terms, MacRae,” Drummond replied contemptuously.
    “Give me your oath that you’ll leave MacRae land free,” Alisdair said.
    “Do you trust my word, MacRae? It’s the first time one of yours has ever done so.”
    “Is your oath of no value?” Alisdair asked.
    The other man’s face seemed to darken. Drummond’s mouth pursed, his brows coming together in a frown that rivaled Alisdair’s long-dead great-uncle’s, and the old man had been master of the glower.
    Before he could utter either an insult or a demand, Leah spoke. “If our guest is