Broc said, “Thank God and Eva.”
As they climbed the path to higher ground, Broc took the time to admire the scenery. He loved the Isle of Mull for all its opposites. This path along the southeastern side of the isle wascompletely different than the edge near Duart. Ben Buie was to their right, forestry and deer abounding. But his gaze was drawn to the coastline, something they didn’t have on Grant land.
Sylvi shrieked. “Mama, look at those birds with the orange beaks!”
“Those are called puffins. Are they not adorable?”
“I want one. Can we get closer?”
“Not now, but when we get to MacLean land, we’ll be closer to the water, and you may see them there.”
“I want to make a puffin to sleep with. Could Grandmama help me make one?”
“I think so. We’ll ask her.”
Broc smiled, thinking on his fabric puppy who looked like the wolfhounds they often had on Grant and Ramsay land. He peered across the water from their vantage point, the gray sky keeping the sun from reflecting off the ripples of the Firth of Lorn, the jagged coastline beautiful to him. There were spots of silver-white sand that turned into an endless sea of rocks a bit more down the coastline. It struck him that the isle couldn’t decide which it wished to be known as—peaceful and serene or rough and difficult. Mountains on one side, sandy beach over the next crest.
Broc understood the contrast. Sometimes his training made him feel highly skilled, other times he couldn’t measure up to any of his cousins. What made the difference? He’d yet to figure that out.
Dyna looked over at her brother. “This is the last settlement we’re aware of on Mull. It’s important we learn as much as we can about the MacClanes. Da knows his uncle who lives in the Borderlands, I believe. We’ll spend a night or two, then return home. We should arrive before dark.”
“Where are the others?” Hagen asked.
Alasdair said, “Clan Rankin is on the northern tip of Mull, while Clan MacVey, the largest of the three, is between Clan Rankin and Duart Castle.”
“Then MacVeys must be just north of Craignure, where we landed? I saw it when we came across.”
“Exactly. I think MacVey’s wife is making a map of the isle for each of us.”
“And the last clan?” Hagen asked.
Alasdair continued, “Clan MacQuarie is on the northwestern part with beautiful beaches and not far from the isles of Ulva, Coll, and Staffa, so I’m told. Iona is just off MacLean land. Some of us have been on Ulva and Coll. There are more in the Hebrides to explore. MacClanes are the only ones on the southwestern part that we know of. Much of it looks uninhabitable.”
Hagen asked, “MacClane or MacLean?”
Alasdair said, “Thane said Chief MacLean of the Borderlands owns the land. His brother went by MacClane, and it is his son that is working on the MacLean Castle that is nearly done. It’s quite close to the water’s edge.”
The group reached a crest, so Alasdair, in the lead, held up his hand to stop the group, his gaze scanning the horizon. “Amazing.”
Dyna brought her horse up behind Alasdair’s mount. “Oh my.”
“Mama, it is beautiful. May I go swimming when we get there?”
“Mayhap, Sylvi. We’ll see. We have to meet new friends first.”
They’d been traveling half the day when the sun finally came out. “I think we’re nearly there. We should be. Keep your eye out for any structures,” Dyna said.
Broc stared out over the landscape as the group continued, taking in the beauty of the sea in front of him. Whitecaps dottedthe water, and thanks to the sun peeking out, the blue sky turned the sea nearly the same color. Up ahead, two buildings sat not far from the coastline on a knoll—one cottage and a half-finished tower behind it with a low curtain wall being constructed. There were men working, but they hadn’t noticed the approaching group until a shrill whistle broke them apart, all reaching for their weapons.
Broc stayed behind his two cousins, his hand going to the wound on his face, something he did without thinking.
Hagen must have noticed, because he mentioned the one thing Broc hated to think about. “Have you seen any boar here?”
“Nay, not yet.” If he didn’t come across any wild boar here, he might never leave Mull.
Broc had been hunting at around ten summers old when was attacked by a boar in the Highland forest. His horse had been spooked by something and threw Broc straight into the path of three boars. One had assaulted him, piercing his belly with its tusk. He’d also gotten a nasty laceration down his left cheek, one that didn’t make him attractive to the lasses. The scar bothered him enough that he’d grown his beard to hide it when he moved to Duart where he was meeting new people, though it didn’t hide it completely. He hated it. He understood that he’d been fortunate because the attack had nearly killed him.
But he still hated his scars.
