Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 03] by Wedding for a Knight

Their father half-rose from his chair, his flushed features working. “’Tis little wonder I reek of the cesspit when I could well have drowned in it!” He gripped his wine cup so tight his knuckles gleamed white. “’Twas the curse again, I swear it.”
    His outburst over, he sank back onto his chair, aiming one last pointed glare at Hugh. “And that, laddie, is the reason your brother and I were late getting down here.”
    “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Here is no way to talk,” Dagda soothed, stepping up behind him to knead his knobby shoulders with strong, work-toughened hands. “You ken there is no such thing as a curse hanging o’er this household. Ill winds blow through here at times, to be sure, but no ancient curse.”
    The old laird sniffed and sipped his wine.
    “So-o-o . . . what does the cesspit have to do with your great tardiness this morning?” Dugan slung an arm around Magnus’s shoulders. Ever in high spirits, he wriggled his brows. “Did Da take a wee swim in the morass?”
    “Nay, but he may well could have if he hadn’t wedged himself in the latrine chute,” Magnus said after a space. “The seat cracked beneath him and he fell into the shaft—had it been a wee bit wider, he would’ve plunged straight through to the cesspit. As is, he got stuck after falling but a few feet. Even so, it took a while to free him.”
    All humor left Dugan’s handsome face.
    He exchanged a glance with Hugh. “That canna be,” he said, shaking his dark head. “Hugh and I replaced the seats in all the privies not longer than a fortnight ago. We used the finest, sturdiest oak. It would ne’er have given out under Da’s weight, not when we—”
    “Aye, and I agree,” Magnus cut him off, nodding almost imperceptibly at Janet.
    The lass hovered near, her bonnie face tinged bright pink. Dugan’s meaning was clear enough without words. Both he and Hugh had grown into towering, well-muscled men. If Coldstone’s privy seats supported their hulking frames, their father’s slight one should ne’er have posed a problem.
    Not if, as Dugan claimed, they’d used the best timber.
    A scarce commodity on MacKinnons’ Isle, fair as its sandy bays and rolling moorlands might be.
    So where had his brothers gathered enough of the
finest, sturdiest oak
to waste on lowly privies?
    Magnus compressed his lips. He’d wager anything he already knew.
    But to be fair, he turned to Hugh, the brother most likely to give him a swift and straight answer. “Are you certain you used good-quality oak?”
    His younger brother shuffled his feet, but nodded. “The best to be had—straight from the well-timbered shores of Loch Etive on the mainland.”
    “I thought as much.” Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose, drew a long breath. “Paid for out of my bride’s dowry, no less?”
    Looking uncomfortable, Hugh inclined his head again. Wordless, this time.
    “And how else were we supposed to pay for two shiploads of prime boat-building material?” Donald MacKinnon shot back, his voice rising. Low murmurs and scuffling noises accompanied his outburst, rippling the length of the hall as curious gazes turned toward the dais.
    “Best timber, wool and flax, tallow,” he went on, looking from one of his sons to the other, his agitation palpable. “All the cordage we need—everything. The MacLean arranged delivery and gave his lairdly word he would see more supplies sent if—”
    “To be sure he will,” Magnus said, feeling older than his black-frowning da. “Donall the Bold is renowned for his generosity. Nevertheless, we shall impinge on his goodwill no further. Make wise use of whate’er materials he has thus far provided and be glad for them for they will have to suffice. It will be difficult as is to make adequate restitution.”
    Dugan was about to object, Magnus could see the protests forming on his tongue. Forestalling any such opposition, he raised a silencing hand.
    “Do not press me, brother, or I would see all that he has