Highland Warrior by Hannah Howell

the man was in one of his furies. One could never be certain what Sir Fingal might do when he was in a rage. Ewan did not want to believe that his father would actually hurt Fiona, but did not feel as confident of that as he would like to be.
    “Ye are meddling in things that are none of your business, woman,” Sir Fingal yelled, pointing at Fiona.
    “And what things would that be?” Fiona was pleased with how calm she sounded, for the enraged Sir Fingal made her a little nervous.
    “Ye have been talking to the women.”
    “I hadnae realized that was forbidden.”
    “Dinnae be insolent. Ye ken exactly what I am talking about. I just told Bonnie to come to my bed and she said nay. Nay! To me!”
    Ewan stared at his father as he chewed on a mouthful of mutton stew he had not really wanted. His father sounded an odd mixture of furious, outraged, and stunned. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a faint smile fleetingly grace Fiona’s face. It appeared that she had purposefully done something she knew would infuriate the man and that astonished Ewan. What astonished him even more was that she appeared to be completely unaffected by Sir Fingal’s fury.
    “That is her right, isnae it?” Fiona asked, her expression one of gentle confusion and utter innocence.
    “That is what she said ye told her. She said ye told her there was no law that she had to share my bed just because I had an itch to scratch.”
    “I dinnae believe I was wrong in that. I am sure there isnae a law that says she cannae refuse ye.”
    “There is my law! Tis my keep and I liked everything just as it was. Ye will cease putting foolish ideas into the heads of the women here or ye will be verra sorry.” He turned to leave, stopped, sniffed the shirt he wore, and cursed. “And I ken ye are the reason all my linens and clothes smell like thrice-cursed lavender so ye can stop that, too.” He slammed the door behind him as he left.
    Ewan shook his head when she started to give him another spoonful of stew. He watched her set the bowl aside and pick up a tankard. She was looking very guilty. She would not look him in the eye and there was the hint of a blush upon her cheeks. He grasped the handle of the tankard, but she kept her hands curled around it to steady it as he took a drink. His gaze never wavered from her face, but he had nearly finished the drink before she sighed and reluctantly met his gaze.
    “I ne’er thought to talk to the women,” he said.
    Fiona inwardly breathed a sigh of relief for he showed no hint of anger. “Weel, I dinnae mean to sound disrespectful, but I felt trying to talk your father into a little restraint might prove much akin to banging my head against a rock.”
    “Tis exactly what it would be like.” He exchanged a brief smile with her, then grimaced in self-disgust. “I confess, it ne’er occurred to me that the women might not want to share his bed. My father has a true skill at wooing the lasses, ye ken. I fear I just assumed all the women were saying aye because they wanted to, because he had charmedthem or the like.”
    “I suspect some do want to. I didnae lecture them about sin and all. I simply told them that, if they really didnae wish to be used by the old laird or any of the other men here, they had the right to say nay. After all, the church praises and preaches virtue and such, and surely they are a higher power than the old laird.”
    “Are ye telling me that such a thing worked where ye came from? Tis a common practice for the men of a keep to make use of the maids within its walls. Some are e’en offered to the guests.”
    “Just because ’tis common practice doesnae make it right. Where I come from, the women are treated with respect and can say aye or nay as they choose. A mon shouldnae use his position of power to get women into his bed. The women, or most of them, dinnae dare refuse a laird, or his father, or his brother, or any mon who rules o’er them. Whores gather where’er there is