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“Were all the cattle stolen?” he managed to ask through gritted teeth.
“Aye. I have failed you.” The head herdsmen hung his head.
“Nae.” Archibald squeezed the man’s shoulder, offering solace. He couldn’t allow the man to accept fault for his inability as clan chief to protect his people and livestock. Rage choked him, and he swallowed hard. “Fires still burn. They cannot have gotten far.”
He grabbed his reins, anxious to give chase. The horse shied, rearing, sensing his agitation, yet the damn brunaidh remained steady where he stood on the beast's rump. Although a mere three feet tall, the MacLachlan clan brownie possessed oversized hands and feet. Feet that allowed for good balance.
Arms crossed over chest, muscles aquiver, Munn clenched a permanently wrinkled forehead even tighter and eyed the devastation from his superior position. The unusual blue-green of his eyes smoldered. Evidence of the wee man's ire caused Archibald's fury to flame hotter. This was the third raid in a fortnight. If they couldn't capture the thieves and recover the stolen cattle, the clan would be hard-pressed to survive winter.
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