The Highlander's Stolen Touch. Terri Brisbin
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she said with confidence. Latin was one of the languages she loved and she was, as her tutor had told her parents, quite proficient in it. She waited for Tavis to react, but he simply laughed and shrugged.
‘I do not ken Latin,’ Tavis said. ‘Unlike you, I have only the Gàidhlig and some Scots. Oh, and a bit of the English.’ From his tone, she did not think him insulted by her knowledge or embarrassed by his lack of it.
‘I could teach you some of the words,’ she offered. ‘Or to read.’ She was his friend and she wanted to help him however she could. Even now at ten-and-three years, she could at least do that for him.
‘There are other ways you should be spending your time, lass,’ he said, winking at her as he spoke.
Her mother had been speaking, or rather complaining, to him again. She sighed and looked away. Most likely bemoaning that she did not take her needlework as seriously as she did her study of languages or numbers or … well, not seriously at all.
‘I hate needlework,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her chin. Surely he would not take her mother’s side of it?
‘Ah,’ he said softly, while taking her hand in his. ‘Needlework is a worthy task and a needed skill. Along with numbers, speaking your five languages and reading a few more than that.’ He tugged her hand and they continued their walk towards her home.
‘If ’tis such a worthy skill, why do you not learn it?’ she asked, irreverently. Shrugging off his hold on her, she waited for his answer.
Oh, aye, she understood the different roles of men and women. But as she was exposed to more and more knowledge and experiences by her father, she doubted she could ever simply return to the constricted life expected of a young woman in her time and place. Did her father know that by allowing her education to surpass other girls her age, he was creating a need within her to learn more and more? Since Tavis was still a man, she waited for his rebuff of her challenge.
‘I can already sew, lass. Many warriors have need of it after a battle. Needlework is no different than that,’ he answered as they arrived outside her parents’ cottage.
Then he offered her the most beautiful, most irritating, aggravating smile, the one that told her he was certain he would be victorious over her in this matter. Ciara wanted to stomp her foot and scream. Of all the things she thought safe to challenge him on, why did it have to be that? While still considering what to say next, he reached over and lifted her chin so he could look at her as he spoke.
‘My sister Bradana and Saraid are both skilled at it,’ he began. Glancing over his shoulder at her door, he leaned in and whispered, ‘And both softer taskmasters than your mother. Though you should never tell her I said such a thing.’ He released her and stepped back, motioning towards her home. ‘I can speak to either of them about it, if you wish?’
How had this happened? She had manoeuvred herself right into doing the one thing she most wished to avoid. All by trying to show off her skills to her friend. Without uttering a word of surrender, she just nodded and walked away. Ciara almost reached the door when he called out to her.
‘I will tell Saraid to expect you on the morrow.’
Ciara did stomp her foot then and slammed the door behind her as she pushed inside, making it rattle the frame on which it was hung. Tavis’s laughter echoed outside as he walked away.
As much as she’d like to ignore his offer and refuse to practise sewing and embroidery, Ciara could not. This was another instance of him guiding her to the right choice. She let out an exasperated sigh and walked into her room. Her gaze went right to the collection of wooden animals that sat on her mantel. Tavis had been her friend forever, or at least since she’d been only five years and he came with her stepfather to bring her to Lairig Dubh—her new home and new family.
Though she never wanted to admit he belonged with someone else, watching him with his wife had given her a glimpse at true love. Just as her parents’ marriage was a love match, Tavis and Saraid’s was as well, even she could see it now. And just as Tavis would do anything to make Saraid happy, so she would do for him—even if it meant becoming proficient with a needle and thread.
Ciara showed up at Saraid’s door the next day and on many other days, too. Sometimes she remained after her lessons to help the young woman. Sometimes, may God forgive her weak character, she remained only to see Tavis. Saraid, for her part, seemed to understand that Ciara was important to her husband and accepted her presence and help. Tavis approved and Ciara found herself drawn into friendship with Saraid. With younger siblings, Ciara was familiar with being the oldest sister, but with Saraid, she felt like the younger one, for they were nearer in age than Ciara was to Tavis.
Over the next few years, Ciara grew in her knowledge and skills until her father allowed her to assist him in his work for the laird. But the kinship that developed between her and Tavis’s wife was torn apart when Saraid died and a distance grew between Ciara and Tavis, too.
As close as they’d been, nothing Ciara said or did mattered to or helped Tavis in his grief. Some time passed before he seemed at ease with her again, but the recognition that she was growing up and reaching adulthood changed things between them. Tavis began taking on more and more duties and travelled on the laird’s business almost as an escape, she thought, from having to face the village alone and to avoid the now-empty cottage where he lived.
Ciara continued to excel in her studies and her father allowed her to accompany him and to read his contracts and documents, leaving her little time for needlework or other womanly skills. And that suited her just fine. By that time, Tavis’s attentions were focused solely on his duties to the laird and anything she did went unnoticed by him.
And still she waited.
Chapter One
Lairig Dubh, Scotland—spring, AD 1370
Ciara Robertson sat away from the table, almost in the corner of the room her stepfather had chosen for the meeting. It was a large chamber and comfortable, but did not offer too much comfort. The shuttered windows were open, allowing the cool spring breezes in. Food and drink were offered, but sparingly. This was not about hospitality—this was about business.
She met no one’s gaze and most of the men there probably thought she was a servant awaiting their orders. But she was no servant—she was the eldest daughter of the MacLerie peacemaker, Duncan, and was being trained by him even now.
As he had instructed, she listened to every word said, watched the expressions of those speaking and even the way they sat or gestured to gain an understanding of who held the true power in these discussions. ’Twas not always the oldest or wealthiest or the loudest, he’d told her many times. The true power usually sat out of the attention. The true power delegated to lessers and set their leash. The true power spoke quietly and wielded their control carefully.
Now listening and watching, she believed that the MacLaren’s younger brother was the one making the decisions in this series of negotiations for a trade agreement with the MacLeries. Though another man, older and calmer, spoke the MacLaren’s position, it was clear to her he was not in charge.
The session went on for a few hours, each side clarifying and posturing, and several times Ciara had to force the smile from her lips as she watched her stepfather work—pushing here, cajoling there, complimenting egos, urging that one or the other—to get the best terms for the MacLeries. By the time they agreed to complete the agreement in the morning and break for their evening meal, Duncan the Peacemaker had guided the MacLarens down the paths he wanted them to follow and would close the deal on the morrow. She stood, curtsying to them as they left, and waited for her stepfather to discuss the day’s work.
She understood how he worked, for he’d not taken notes during the talks, but he would remember every word and clause agreed to by both parties. He would write