Page 57 of Highland Spy

“Please, leave me alone, Valan,” she said, bending down to pick up her book. His hand got there first, and he snatched it up.

“What have we got here?” He opened the book and flipped through the pages.

“Give me that.” She reached for it, but he held the book away from her.

“Somethin’ in here ye dinna want to me to see?”

“Why are ye doin’ this, Valan? And why are ye even here at the competition?”

“The competition is open for anyone to watch, or have ye forgotten that?”

“I havena forgotten anythin’,” she told him. “Especially no’ the way ye treated me when we were married.”

“Now, now, is that any way for a woman to talk to her ex-husband?”

“Ye are a cur and a connivin’ bastard, and I will no’ let ye make me feel poorly about myself again.”

Valan slowly lowered the book, leaning forward and speaking through gritted teeth. “Ye are naught but a barren whore.”

“Dinna call me that!”

“I ken ye spent the night with that MacKeefe, and ye’ve probably spent the night with many men tryin’ to be planted with their seeds. Well, it will never happen because ye canna bear children, and will never be wanted by any man except for those willin’ to pay to take ye to bed.”

Bridget reached out and slapped him hard across his face. “Get away from me, before I call a MacKeefe over to have ye removed from the grounds.” She yanked the Highland Chronicles from his hand.

“Ye put too much faith into the MacKeefes, wench. And soon, ye will see that they are no’ as grand as ye think them to be.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, but he didn’t answer.

“Bridget! Bridget, I finally found ye,” called her father, pushing his way toward her through the crowd.

Valan glared at her and turned and disappeared into the sea of people.

“Da!” she cried, hugging her father. “I’m sorry to leave ye alone so long.”

“Never mind that. We need to get over to the king immediately. He has been askin’ about the Highland Chronicles and he is wonderin’ why I am no’ at his side recordin’ the events.”

“What did ye tell him?”

“I told him ye had the book and that I was goin’ to find ye. Now hurry.”

They ran to the dais, but when they climbed the stairs to be at the king’s side, someone was already there recording the events of the competition.

“Sorley?” asked Bridget as they approached them. “What are ye doin’ here?”

“I’m recordin’ the events of the competition for the king,” he said proudly. His friend, Sim, a small man, stood behind him, smiling. A cheer went up from the crowd as Clement MacLean finished his throw and the herald announced his points.

“Did ye see that?” asked the king. “Did ye record the result?”

“Aye,” answered Sorley, scribbling something down on the page.

“My faither is here now, Yer Majesty,” said Bridget, giving her father the Highland Chronicles and pushing him gently up to the rail, next to Sorley. “I’m so sorry we are late.”

“No matter,” said the king. “Sorley has been here recordin’ everythin’. He has been doin’ a grand job at it, too.”

“But my faither is here now,” she told him again. “With all due respect, Sire, my faither has been yer chronicler for years. Do ye really need Sorley here, too?”

“Bridget, nay,” her father said, taking a hold of her arm and shaking his head.