I walk through the kitchen, nodding to a few of my men who sit at the heavy farm table in the corner of the room with pints of ale and hearty sandwiches. They stand out of respect when I pass, but I wave at them to give them leave to relax.
Paisley, tall and willowy like Mum, keeps up with my long strides. She’s chattering on and on about a trip she’s taking to the island, but I only half hear her until she says she’s leaving at the weekend.
“What do you mean, at the weekend?” I ask her sternly. Why has no one said a thing about this before now?
She gives me a haughty look. “Not sure how else to say it. As in Saturday and Sunday. Perhaps that makes more sense to you then?”
God, my father spoiled the lass and let her get a smart mouth, and she’s usually the more timid of my two sisters. Honestly, I won’t put up with it myself.
I pause before I enter my father’s study, plant my hands on my hips, and give her a cutting look. “Need I remind you, Paisley, that though Dad’s the patriarch of our Clan, as Clan Captain I can override where you go and when?”
She blinks and stares, soft blonde hair falling in those wide blue eyes she inherited from my mother. She shoves it behind her ears angrily. “What?”
“Aye. I’ve been appointed Clan Captain as of January first, which you’re well aware of, aren’t you?”
Before then, I was Clan Chief, second in command. Now as Captain, I rule all members of the Cowen Clan.
She opens her mouth, then closes it like a fish out of water. “Aye, of course I bloody well know it, but I—”
“Language.”
She starts, as if I struck her, then pales. She looks at me pleadingly, and her eyes brim with tears. “Leith.”
“Mmm?”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because a woman of your stature and rank ought to know how to conduct herself better. I’ll consider allowing you to travel, but only with a firm guard in place.”
I remember what it was like being her age, but back then things weren’t the way they are now.
She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it. “Fine, then.”
Paisley bows her head and nods, then quietly walks away, her arms folded across her chest. I sigh before I open the door to my father’s study.
I remember the days when the two of us were peers. I remember teaching her how to swim in the lake nearby. I can still see the pride on her face the first day she managed to keep herself afloat when she finally learned it herself.
I can still feel her crying on my shoulder the day she was ridiculed at school, when her first boyfriend ever told lies about what she’d done with him and how he got in her knickers. I can still feel his blood on my knuckles and the bruises on my hand when I gave him a proper beating, then promised far more if he ever did such a thing again. She didn’t know about that.
I remember Christmas mornings, all of us in our pajamas, just children without a care in the world. All six of us—when there were still six of us—laughing and joking, tearing the pretty paper with glee while we opened our gifts between sipping from large, steaming mugs of cocoa.
That was in the before times. Before Paisley became aware of the weight of the power she held as a daughter of the Clan. Before my mother wore a perpetual crease across her brow. Before I assumed any of the responsibility of Clan Captain. When Tavish was still with us.
I knock on the door.
“Leith?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come in, son.”
I push open the door. The room is dark, the shades partly drawn. My father’s new medication makes him sensitive to light, so he typically keeps his study dark.
“Paisley came to fetch me, sir.”
“She’s a good girl.” His voice is gentler than usual. I shut the door behind me. “Don’t be too hard on her, Leith. The Cowen women have heavy responsibility.”
My conscience pricks me. Perhaps I was a bit too harsh just now.
My eyes quickly adjust to the dim light. My father smiles at me from beneath thick, stern brows. Even age hasn’t diminished his size or stature, his large shoulders casting shadows on the wall behind him, his large hands gently resting on his desk.
I remember when I was a child, those huge hands of his intimidated the hell out of me. All he needed to do was rest one hand on one of our shoulders, and he had our full attention. One swing of his ax split a log in two, and as a child I sometimes wondered if he even needed the ax. There was a time when Bram Cowen was a force to be reckoned with, and I wouldn’t come to blows with him even now that he’s sixty years old and the signs of age and illness plague him.