The Laird by Sandy Blair

Author:Sandy Blair [Blair, Sandy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Eleven

“I want to go home,” Maeve declared. Except, where was home? “When I was in Ireland, Bridget didn’t yell at me for walking out to the paddocks, and Kevin gave me carrots and apples to give the horses.”

Preacher was not impressed by this declaration. He continued to sit beside Maeve in the saddle room, licking the daylights out of his left paw. Preacher could eat mice; he did not have to brave a breakfast room with strangers in it—English strangers, who talked very oddly indeed.

“I hate Scotland. I shall run away.”

The door to the saddle room opened, and Patrick, a red-haired groom, stood in the door. Patrick had a lot of freckles and he smiled. He had extra names for the horses, the same way Uncle Kevin had.

“The faeries have left a wee gift in my saddle room, and a great, fat banshee.”

Preacher left off washing his paw and strutted out the door, and Maeve was sad to see him go.

“I’m not supposed to be here. I didn’t tell anybody at the castle where I was going except Lachlan.”

“Then you might scamper right back and no one the wiser.” Patrick looped two bridles over his arm, suggesting somebody other than Maeve was going riding.

“I’m waiting for Uncle Angus.” The idea came to Maeve on the moment, though in truth she’d been thinking to snitch a carrot to appease the hunger in her belly.

Patrick set the saddle he’d lifted right back down on its rack. “What in the world would ye want with that auld bugger?”

No smiles accompanied the question. “Uncle Angus is my friend. He introduced me to all five yearlings and said we could come visit them again, anytime, and he would sketch them for me too.” He’d also teased Maeve about making a sketch of her, because she was such a bonnie wee lass.

The way Patrick glanced at the open door made Maeve wish even more that she’d never left Ireland, because something she’d said was creating a problem. Brenna’s scold yesterday suggested everything Maeve said, did, wished, and forgot to do was always going to be a problem.

“Don’t scold me. Uncle Angus is nice.”

Patrick swore, the same curse Uncle Kevin used when a horse came up lame. Something about the Almighty and bullocks.

Patrick draped the bridles over the saddle and appropriated a place beside Maeve on the trunk. He smelled good, like hay and horses, and he had the long, bony wrists Maeve figured must come from being a groom.

“Wee Maeve, ye stay far away from Angus Brodie, ye hear me? He’s a cranky auld mon who has no patience for others, and thinks only of himself.”

Patrick looked like he wanted to say more, but Maeve was glad he didn’t. She liked Patrick, and she liked Uncle Angus.

Sort of.

“You shouldn’t say mean things. Nobody is supposed to say mean things.” And yet, everybody did.

“I’m saying a true thing, child, and this is also true. The laird is showing off his yearlings out back to the English lord.

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