“That he did,” Grif readily agreed. “And we promised Mared’s hand to ye as collateral on yer loan, and…well, plainly put, Douglas, ’tis no secret how she feels about ye—ah, that is to say…yer reforms,” he said carefully, and exchanged a look with his mother.
“I know well how she feels, Grif,” Payton responded impatiently. Everyone in every glen in the loch region knew of Mared’s objection to marrying a Douglas and of her vehement displeasure at his introduction of sheep in and around the lochs. “’Tis no secret she doesna care for a Douglas. Yer sister, ye might have remarked, is no’ a shy lass.”
Mared chuckled softly and turned another page in the book he’d left on the writing desk, On the Winter Production of Wool and the Timely Shearing of the Na Caorridh Mora, the Big Sheep.
“No,” Grif said with a bit of a frown for Mared’s chuckle. “But ye canna fault the lass for being passionate in her beliefs.”
Mared looked up from the book then and cocked a brow above a pair of sparkling green eyes, waiting for his answer.
He, in turn, glared at the Lockharts. This was precisely what was wrong with Mared—she had been reared by this lot of blockheads. They all believed—with the exception of Grif, perhaps, and even that was a questionable assumption—that the sheep he had brought into the lochs were invading the land historically grazed by their cattle and thereby pushing the cattle to smaller areas and smaller numbers and therefore pushing them, the most exasperating family in all of bloody Scotland, into poverty.
They were right in some respects. But Payton believed their cattle could not graze properly in the Highlands and were not, and had never been, a profitable venture. Bloody fools, the Lockharts, who believed in the old system of crofting the land and raising lumbering beeves. And when that did not sustain them, they turned to stealing statues or some such nonsense from their English cousins.
He, on the other hand, believed in a system that allowed a fair wage to all the men the land could reasonably support, and sheep herding and, should a man be so inclined (as he was)—whiskey production. Which was why he was eager to be done with this nonsense and return to the four men who might invest a substantial amount of money in his distillery venture.
Grif laughed uneasily again at Payton’s stoic silence. “And…and perhaps our Mared deserves just a wee bit of pity, aye?” he tried again. “After all, she’s got that wretched curse on her”—Mared nodded emphatically that she did—“and really, Douglas, can ye honestly desire her hand in marriage with that curse hanging over her like a dark cloud?”
Payton laughed derisively. “Ach, ye donna believe in that old curse! No one but crofters who fear fairies and goblins believe that old tale!”
“But ye canna deny that no daughter of a Lockhart has ever married,” Liam quickly put in. “Perhaps it is just as true that a daughter of a Lockhart willna wed until she’s looked into the belly of the beast.”
“Do ye think to frighten me with tales of a’ diabhal?” he demanded, ignoring Mared’s amused smile as she leaned back in the chair and idly ran her fingers along the edge of the writing desk.
“Frighten ye!” Lady Lockhart exclaimed, stepping in to put her hand soothingly on Payton’s arm. “No, no, milord, no’ to frighten ye. Just to speak with ye, on Mared’s behalf.”
He checked his tongue and spoke evenly. “Frankly, milady, I’ve never known yer Mared no’ to speak on her own behalf. And quite articulately at that.”
“Oh! How kindly put, sir!” Mared said sweetly, breaking her silence for the first time since appearing in his study.
“Ye willna honor the loan, is that it, lass?” Payton asked her directly.
“The Lockharts honor their debts, sir,” Lady Lockhart interjected as she gave Mared a withering look. “But we need more time. Just a wee bit more time to find Mr. MacAlister.”
“How much time?”
“Ten months,” Lady Lockhart said quickly. “In addition to the two remaining, of course.”
Another year? With a sigh of impatience, Payton shoved a hand through his hair. He had no idea what to say to them, really. He had no idea how he felt about all of it—asking for Mared’s hand as collateral on the loan had been an impetuous act, spurred by her devilish smile that afternoon in his parlor. Like the Lockharts, he never believed it would all come to this. He wasn’t entirely certain he wanted a wife. He looked at her now, as she obviously took pleasure in his discomfort, and thought he certainly must be a madman to want this one as a wife.
But the truth, as much as he was loath to admit it, was that he adored Mared Lockhart. He always had.
In the four months since Grif’s return to Scotland, Payton had not asked about the loan or pressed the issue of marriage. But now that very little more than two months remained in their agreement—the Lockharts had been given a year to repay the money he had loaned them, or give Mared over for marriage—they wanted more time?
“No,” he said decisively. “Ye canna ask this of me—I have given ye a significant sum of money that ye’ve obviously squandered—”