Chapter 7
McIntosh Castle rose from the hillside like a stubborn relic of former glory.
Frederick had always thought of it that way.
Grand at first glance, impressive in silhouette, its stone towers catching the light in a way that suggested strength and permanence.
But closer inspection revealed the truth.
Weather had worn the edges of its battlements.
Ivy crept too boldly along one outer wall.
The banners hanging from the central tower were rich in color but mended more than once.
Like the clan itself, it had survived. It had endured. But it had not escaped damage.
As the carriage rolled through the outer gates, the guards straightened at once, fists thudding against chests in salute.
“Me Laird.”
He inclined his head but did not slow.
His attention jockeyed back to the carriage window where Jamie’s face pressed eagerly against the glass.
“It is big,” Jamie breathed.
“Aye,” Frederick replied.
“It looks like it could fight back.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “It does.”
Behind Jamie, Iona sat rigid. Her gaze traveled over the walls, the towers, the courtyard bustling with stable hands and servants who had paused openly to stare.
Frederick saw it then. The tightening of her shoulders. The careful composure settling over her like armor.
She did not trust grandeur, nor did she trust safety offered too easily. Which is rather opposite from what he remembered of her from that night when she was just a drenched, tired, hungry stranger.
The carriage halted before the main steps.
Frederick dismounted first and offered a hand, not as command but as courtesy.
Jamie leapt down before it could be taken.
Frederick almost laughed.
The great doors opened before he reached them.
Lady Caitlin Milligan descended the steps as though she had been waiting precisely at that moment. She wore deep blue wool trimmed with modest embroidery, her greying hair swept neatly back. Graceful. Composed.
Until she saw the child.
Her composure fractured instantly.
“Frederick,” she breathed, eyes widening.
He had spoken well of her on the road. He had promised kindness, respect, steadiness.
Instead, what stood before him was a mother barely restraining herself from rushing forward.
Jamie looked up at her without hesitation.
“And who might ye be?” Caitlin asked softly, already bending slightly despite herself.
Jamie studied her boldly. “Jamie, ma’am.”
“Jamie,” she repeated, as if tasting the name. “That is a fine name.”
Her gaze flicked briefly toward Iona.
Frederick watched the exchange like a hawk.
His mother straightened and turned fully to Iona. “Ye must be the lass that me son has brought up to the keep then,” she said gently.
Not accusation. Not judgment.
Recognition.
Iona dipped her head slightly. “I am Iona Pearson, Me Lady.”
“Caitlin, please, dear,” his mother corrected at once. “There is no need for such formality when we are within these walls.”
Frederick noted the subtle shift in Iona’s stance. Surprise, carefully masked.
“And I know Erin, of course,” Caitlin continued, noticing the older woman emerging slowly from the carriage with an armful of bundled herbs.
Erin did not bow immediately, but did so slowly as she assessed.
“Aye,” Iona answered.
“Well, ye are both welcome here,” Caitlin said, as if the matter were entirely simple.
“It has been a while, Me Lady,” Erin said, still slowly rising.
“Aye, it has, and ye have much changed since then,” his mother said, seemingly in jest.
Erin chuckled, “Have ye lost the looking glass then, Me Lady?” relieving the tension that Frederick felt in his chest as both women laughed together.
So far, no blade hidden in silk.
Caitlin’s attention returned swiftly to Jamie. “Have ye eaten, me dear?” she asked.
Jamie blinked. “A little on the road,” he said, but his stomach roared, giving him away.
“That is nae the same as properly eating,” Caitlin replied with immediate authority. “We will remedy that.”
Lennox, who had been observing from a safe distance, leaned toward Frederick. “Told ye,” he muttered.
Frederick ignored him. Watching his mother start to give orders to anyone and every member of staff around her.
“Prepare a hot meal for this laddie to take in the dining hall.”
His mother’s eagle eyes watched as the staff rushed around them, ducking in and out of luggage, reacting hurriedly to her authority.
Suddenly, she reached out tentatively, as though unsure whether touch would be welcomed.
The touch was welcomed but rather odd, considering.
Frederick could not help but feel like Jamie did not retreat.
In fact, Jamie stepped closer, curious rather than wary.
Frederick felt an unfamiliar stirring in his chest.
Possessiveness?
Pride?
He did not recognize it.
Iona, however, stood slightly apart.
Her gaze remained fixed on Caitlin’s face with careful scrutiny, as though waiting for disapproval to reveal itself in some subtle twitch of lip or narrowing of eyes.
Frederick recognized that look.
He had seen it in council chambers. In men who expected betrayal and therefore scanned for it constantly.
Caitlin turned back toward him at last.
“Frederick,” she said in a voice that carried both affection and pointed inquiry. “Ye didnae mention… details.”
“I didnae have them,” he replied evenly.
Her brows lifted ever so slightly.
“Ye arenae married,” she observed.
The courtyard quieted subtly.
Frederick did not look away. “Nay.”
“And yet,” she continued gently, gesturing toward Jamie with one graceful hand.
“And yet,” he echoed.
Caitlin’s gaze moved between him and Iona.
“There are plans?” she asked carefully.
It was not condemnation.
It was expectation.
Frederick held her eyes steadily. “There are arrangements.”
A flicker of concern crossed her features.
“I see,” she said softly.
He knew what troubled her. Not scandal. Not gossip.
Stability.
Iona shifted beside him, jaw tightening slightly.
Caitlin stepped closer to her instead of him.
“Whatever has passed before,” his mother said quietly, voice low enough for only them to hear, “ye are under me roof now. That means ye are protected.”
Frederick saw the battle play out across her face. Suspicion. Hope. Fear of disappointment.
At last, she inclined her head slightly. “Thank ye.”
It was cautious. But it was genuine.
Caitlin smiled warmly, then turned back to Jamie with unabashed interest.
“Tell me,” she asked, already guiding the child toward the doors, “do ye prefer bannocks with honey or butter?”
Jamie considered this gravely. “Both.”
Caitlin laughed, delighted.
Frederick watched as they disappeared inside.
All the assurances he had given on the road.
All the confidence he had spoken with.
And here stood his mother, already hopelessly attached within seconds.
Not calculating.
Not strategic.
Just… eager.
Desperate, perhaps, for something joyful to fill these stone halls.
He glanced at Iona again.
She still looked as though she expected the other shoe to drop, but still, he could not read her.
Frederick had spent the better part of his life learning to read men. To spot hesitation in a warrior’s stance. To sense deceit in a merchant’s smile. To measure loyalty in the way someone held eye contact.
Iona, however, did not fit cleanly into any calculation.
She walked through the great hall beside him with measured steps, chin lifted, gaze moving over stone arches and tapestries as though assessing a battlefield rather than a home. She did not gape at the vaulted ceiling. She did not linger over the carved pillars. She noted exits. Windows. Guards.
Irrelevant, he told himself.
She would familiarize herself with this place. She would learn its rhythms. He had done what he said he would do. He had brought them within walls strong enough to withstand more than wandering blades in the forest.
“Stay close,” he instructed as they began the tour, though Jamie was already straying half a pace ahead.
The great hall opened into the inner courtyard where stable hands led horses away and servants hurried about their tasks. Jamie turned slowly in a full circle, taking in everything with open fascination.
“Is that a training yard?” Jamie asked, pointing toward the far side of the courtyard where wooden dummies stood battered and scarred.
“Aye,” Frederick replied.
“Do ye fight there every day?”
“Most days.”
Jamie nodded as though approving the answer.
Iona’s gaze flickered briefly to the yard as well. He caught the flicker of thought there. Calculation again.
He led them through the chapel, the storage rooms, the smaller receiving chamber where clan disputes were settled. He explained little unless asked. He preferred the place to speak for itself.
Erin trailed behind, occasionally muttering commentary about drafts and stone placement.
Lennox hovered near the rear, delight written openly across his face as though this entire unfolding pleased him immensely.
They ended in the dining hall.
Long wooden tables stretched beneath iron chandeliers. Sunlight streamed through high windows, catching dust motes in golden beams.
Lady Caitlin already waited there.
The table nearest the hearth had been set with food enough to feed twice their number. Fresh bannocks, honey, butter, roasted fowl, stewed vegetables, and a bowl of berries placed squarely before Jamie’s chair.
Jamie’s eyes widened and a glee-filled sigh of wonder escaped the child’s body.
Caitlin laughed softly and gestured for them to sit.
“I was unsure what ye preferred,” she said to Iona with gentle courtesy. “So I asked for variety.”
Iona hesitated only a fraction before sitting.
Frederick took his usual seat at the head of the table, though today it felt less formal, less commanding.
He watched.
Caitlin asked questions that appeared simple but were not careless.
“Have ye traveled far?”
“Do ye enjoy the Highlands?”
“Have ye always lived near these lands?”
Iona answered carefully. Truthful, but selective.
Jamie, however, answered with bright immediacy.
“The river near the village is smaller than the one here,” Jamie declared between bites. “And Frederick fights well.”
Caitlin’s brows lifted slightly. “Does he?”
“Aye. He killed two men.”
The hall quieted.
Frederick set his cup down slowly.
Caitlin did not gasp. She did not flinch. She simply inclined her head slightly. “Then we are fortunate he was present.”
Her composure steadied the room again.
Iona’s hand tightened briefly around her fork before she resumed eating.
After the meal, Frederick showed them upstairs.
The corridors were cooler, stone walls holding the memory of older winters. He stopped before two adjoining chambers.
“These will suffice,” he said.
One room for Iona and Jamie. One smaller room for Erin.
Iona stepped inside the larger chamber first.
It was modest by castle standards. A wide bed against the far wall, a small hearth, a trunk at its foot, a window overlooking the inner courtyard.
Jamie ran to the window at once.
“It is high,” Jamie observed.
“It is secure,” Frederick replied, and placed a key in her hand. “And ye can lock it from the inside – this is the only key.”
Iona turned slowly, taking in the space. There was no awe in her expression. Only consideration.
“This will do just fine,” she said.
That was the closest she had come to approval.
Later, when the household quieted and servants retreated to their duties, Frederick stood in his study opposite his mother.
The room smelled faintly of parchment and wax. Maps lay rolled on one side of his desk. A ledger remained open where he had left it days before.
Caitlin stood near the hearth, hands folded neatly.
“Well,” she began.
Frederick waited.
“Ye have brought them here,” she said gently. “Now what?”
“They will remain under our protection,” he answered.
“That wasnae me question.”
He met her gaze steadily.
Caitlin’s eyes softened, though her tone did not. “Frederick, the child is clearly yers.”
He did not deny it even if it has not been outright confirmed.
“And Iona?”
“She is the child’s mother.”
Caitlin’s brows lifted slightly. “I had gathered that, and ye assure me that ye arenae married?” she asked again.
“I am nae, mother.”
“And yet ye intend to keep them here?”
“Aye.”
“For how long?”
“As long as necessary.”
Caitlin studied him carefully. “Necessary for what?”
“For safety.”
She sighed softly.
“Me son,” she said, stepping closer, “safety isnae a long-term plan. Stability is.”
He felt the weight of that truth settle in his chest.
“When will ye marry her?” she asked quietly.
The question did not carry accusation.
It carried inevitability.
Frederick looked away briefly, toward the narrow window where late afternoon light filtered in.
Marriage had always been his duty.
An alliance. A reinforcement of clan strength. A union meant to secure lineage and land.
Now there was a child already bearing his mark. Already walking his halls.
The urgency sharpened.
“If she agrees,” he said at last.
Caitlin nodded once. “Ye have to ask her first.”
He did not answer.
Because the truth was simpler and colder than his mother likely understood.
This was no longer merely about alliance or expectation.
It was about legitimacy.
And if marriage were the structure required to secure all three, then it would be done.
Duty had always dictated his path.
Now it pointed directly at Iona Pearson.