At this, all his men did slowly drop their muskets and knives onto the ground, all except for Faing, who remained belligerently holding his musket, now pointing it directly at Alasdair who, in turn, very steady, aimed his pistol at Faing.
And then Alasdair lowered it.
Fiona wanted to scream out her fear.
In the air itself, like a poisonous mist, seemed to thrum the very real possibility that Faing, now the lone defiant one, desperate, his pride and authority challenged, would do something rash. Her gaze flashing to the Penhallow men, Fiona saw at once that they were very nearly on the brink of all shooting Faing, slaughtering him, in the impetuous hope of killing him before he could do the same to their leader. Only their absolute obedience held them back, but in the meantime Fiona could see Faing, perspiring copiously, tightening his grip on his musket. Her icy terror froze her in place, and she looked with her own desperation at Alasdair.
He stood there very cool and calm, completely steady and in control, the sheer force of his own personality seeming to Fiona the only thing keeping this awful situation in check. Horrifying her by not even acknowledging Faing, he flicked his gaze to Crannog and said, with a civility that in other circumstances she would have found amusing:
“Laird Sutherlainn, I believe?”
Crannog dipped his head awkwardly. “Aye. You are Laird Penhallow?”
“Aye. Your men follow your orders save for one. What is your clan’s punishment for such behavior?”
“Dishonor, banishment, death, should I so desire it,” slowly answered the younger man.
“You wouldn’t dare!” growled Faing. “You stripling! You callow beardless wonder! You—”
“Be—be quiet, Uncle,” interrupted Crannog, very pale. To Fiona it seemed as if he was somehow drawing strength from Alasdair’s powerful presence. “You are not laird,” Crannog went on. “I am. Put down your musket, or you’ll face my judgment.”
Looking comically astonished, Faing slowly laid his musket on the ground.
Relieved, relieved beyond measure, Fiona felt like applauding. Which reminded her. She nudged Crannog again, and quickly he bent down to help her to her feet. She was stiff, cramped; she staggered a little, and then to her pleased surprise Alasdair was there, his arm around her, supporting her, and gratefully she leaned against him, his solid warmth, as together they made their way across the clearing, where they were flanked by the Penhallow men.
“Are you hurt, Fiona?” he said quietly.
“Nay, laird.”
“I’m thankful to hear it.” With swift efficiency he pulled a knife from his boot and cut through the rope that bound her wrists. She rubbed at them, thinking ruefully that she was going to bear the marks for some days to come. Much better to enjoy the marvelous feeling of Alasdair’s strong arm around her again, and to lean into him. It was only now that she fully realized just how tired, how cold, how hungry she was. She shivered and burrowed a little closer, and with pleasure flickering through her felt his arm tighten. Goodness, but he had a lot of muscles. How very nice they felt.
“What now, laird?” said Crannog. “I—I deeply regret the theft of your cattle. ’Twas wrong. But I take full responsibility. Your punishment should be directed only at me, not my men.” His voice trembled a little, but he squarely faced Alasdair with such desperate courage that suddenly Fiona wanted to cry. Instead she tugged at Alasdair’s jacket and whispered:
“Laird, have you any food?”
He smiled a little (giving her just enough opportunity to admire those lines bracketing that very attractive mouth of his). “You’re hungry, lass, of course. Aye, we’ve enough for an army. Begbie insisted on filling up our saddlebags before we left. Can you wait just a little?”
“No, laird, it’s for them. Only see them, Alasdair.”
He did look. Then, in a quiet voice, to one of his men: “Marston, the food Begbie had you stow—you and Waldroup place it before Laird Sutherlainn.”
They moved quickly to comply. Dried beef, oatcakes, apples, neatly wrapped hunks of cheese, small brown loaves of bread. Crannog stared at Alasdair with wide eyes.
“For us, laird?” he asked tremulously. “After the harm we’ve done to you?”
“It is yours,” responded Alasdair, as one chieftain to another, and Crannog nodded to his men, who—his uncle Faing among them—fell ravenously upon the food. With newfound dignity Crannog took for himself an apple and some dried beef, and ate more temperately, although his hands were, very obviously, shaking from hunger and, perhaps, with relief.
To Marston Alasdair now said, “Bring me one of the flasks, please, opened.”