Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
The summons came before dawn.
Dawson had barely finished dressing when young Tavish appeared at his chamber door, the boy’s expression unusually solemn. “The laird wants ye in the lists. Now.”
No explanation. No context. Just those words, delivered with the gravity of a death sentence.
Dawson found Connor alone in the training yard, stripped to his linen shirt despite the bitter cold, a practice sword already in his hand.
The sky was the color of iron, heavy with the threat of snow, and their breath misted in the frozen air.
No Brodie this morning. No Kate or Maddie watching from the walls.
Just the two of them and the echo of steel waiting to ring.
“You wanted to see me,” Dawson said, keeping his voice neutral.
Connor didn’t answer immediately. He rolled his shoulders, testing the weight of his blade, his movements deliberate and controlled. When he finally looked up, his eyes held none of the warmth Dawson had grown accustomed to seeing there.
“Pick up a sword.”
It wasn’t a request.
Dawson crossed to the weapons rack and selected a practice blade, his instincts already screaming that something had shifted. The easy camaraderie of their previous training sessions was gone, replaced by something harder. More dangerous.
They circled each other in the gray morning light, careful on the frost-slicked ground. Connor moved first—a testing strike that Dawson parried easily. Then another, faster. And another.
The rhythm built quickly, each exchange more intense than the last. Connor wasn’t holding back the way he had before, wasn’t pulling his strikes or offering corrections. He was fighting, and fighting hard.
Dawson blocked a vicious cut aimed at his ribs, felt the impact jar through his arms. “Is there something you want to say to me?”
“Aye.” Connor’s next strike came at his head, fast enough that Dawson barely got his blade up in time. “There is.”
Steel rang against steel, the sound sharp and brutal in the empty yard. Dawson found himself giving ground, struggling to match Connor’s intensity. The laird fought like a man possessed, every movement carrying the weight of barely leashed fury.
“I saw ye,” Connor said, driving forward with a combination that forced Dawson back another three steps. “In the stillroom. The night of the storm.”
Dawson’s stomach dropped. The almost-kiss. Connor had seen.
“I can explain—”
“Can ye now?” Connor’s blade whistled past his ear, close enough to feel the wind of it. “Explain what, exactly? How ye’ve been sniffing around my sister like a dog after a bitch in heat?”
The words hit like a physical blow. Dawson’s temper flared, and he met Connor’s next strike with enough force to make the laird step back for the first time.
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Why not?” Connor’s eyes were cold, assessing. “Isn’t that what ye think she is? Damaged goods? An easy conquest for a man with no ties and no consequences?”
“That’s not—”
“Malcolm MacKenzie has been spreading poison through every village between here and Inverness.” Connor pressed forward again, his attacks relentless.
“Ye ken what he says? That ye’re taking advantage of a ruined woman.
That ye see her as sport—something to warm yer bed until ye tire of playing at being a Highlander. ”
Dawson’s vision went red. He parried on instinct, muscle memory taking over as his mind reeled with fury. “Malcolm MacKenzie is a coward who—”
“Malcolm MacKenzie is a snake, aye. But even snakes speak the truth sometimes.” Connor’s blade caught Dawson’s and held, their faces inches apart. “So tell me, Dawson Carrington. What exactly are yer intentions toward my sister?”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Their breath mingled in the frozen air, and Dawson could see the genuine fear beneath Connor’s anger—the fear of a brother who had already watched his sister be destroyed by one man’s careless cruelty.
“I love her.”
The words came out raw, unplanned. Dawson hadn’t meant to say them—hadn’t fully admitted them even to himself until this moment. But standing here, with Connor’s blade at his throat and the accusation of being another Alasdair burning in his ears, the truth tore itself free.
“I love her,” he repeated, steadier now.
“Not because she’s easy or available or any of the poisonous things Malcolm MacKenzie whispers.
I love her because she’s the bravest person I’ve ever known.
Because she survived things that would have broken anyone else and came out the other side still capable of kindness.
Because when she looks at me, I feel like I’m finally seeing who I could be instead of who I’ve always been.
” He shook his head. “She’s beautiful, inside and out. ”
Connor’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. “Pretty words. Alasdair had pretty words too.”
“I’m not Alasdair.”
“Prove it.”
Connor disengaged and stepped back, lowering his blade. For a moment, Dawson thought the confrontation was over as sweat dripped down his face and back. Then Connor’s fist connected with his face.
The punch came without warning—a solid right hook that snapped Dawson’s head back and sent him staggering. He tasted copper, felt blood streaming from his nose, and for one disorienting moment, he couldn’t see anything but stars.
“A man who cannae take a punch,” Connor said calmly, “has no business courting my sister.”
Dawson straightened slowly, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His nose throbbed viciously, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t broken only by sheer luck. Every instinct he had screamed at him to strike back, to prove he wasn’t someone who could be pushed around.
Instead, he met Connor’s eyes and said, “Is that all you’ve got?”
Something that might have been respect flickered across Connor’s face. “Ye want to court her? Properly? Then ye’ll do it by our ways, not whatever passes for wooing in yer time.”
“Tell me what that means.”
“It means ye dinnae touch her without her invitation. It means ye prove yerself to the clan—not just with pretty words, but with work. With loyalty. With the kind of steadiness that shows ye’ll still be here when the excitement fades.
” Connor’s voice hardened. “It means ye come to me, as her laird and her brother, and ye ask for permission to pursue her hand.”
Dawson’s pulse was pounding in his ears, but not from the punch. This was it—the moment he’d been avoiding, the commitment he’d been circling around since the first time Elspeth had looked at him with those storm-gray eyes.
“Then I’m asking.” He held Connor’s gaze, letting the laird see everything he felt—the fear, the hope, the desperate certainty that had been building since the day he’d woken in the stillroom. “I’m asking for permission to court Elspeth. Properly. By whatever rules you set.”
“Ye understand what ye’re asking for? She’s been hurt before. Badly. If ye pursue this and then leave—if ye break what’s left of her heart—”
“I won’t.”
“Ye cannae know that.”
“I can.” Dawson took a step forward, ignoring the blood still dripping from his nose.
“I’ve spent my entire life running. From commitment, from connection, from anything that might make me feel something real.
And I’m tired. I’m so damned tired of being empty.
” His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed on.
“Elspeth makes me want to stay. Not because she needs saving—she doesn’t.
But because being near her makes me feel like maybe I’m worth something.
Like maybe there’s a version of me that doesn’t need to keep conquering mountains just to prove I exist.”
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind and their ragged breathing. Connor studied him with the same intensity he’d shown during their sparring—weighing, measuring, deciding as blood from Dawson’s nose dripped onto the dirt.
“She’ll fight ye,” he said finally. “Push ye away. Test ye in ways ye cannae imagine. Her walls are thick, and they’re there for good reason.”
“I know.”
“And ye’ll stay, anyway? Even when she makes it hard? Even when she tells ye to leave?”
“I’ll stay until she means it. And maybe even then.”
Connor was quiet for another long moment. Then, slowly, he extended his hand.
“Then ye have my permission to try. But hear me well, Dawson Carrington.” His grip was iron when Dawson clasped it. “If ye hurt her—if ye give her even one more reason to believe that men cannae be trusted—I’ll kill ye myself. And I’ll make it slow.”
“Understood.”
“Good.” Connor released his hand and stepped back, retrieving his practice sword from where it had fallen. “Now pick up yer blade. If ye’re going to court my sister, ye’ll need to be able to defend her honor. And right now, ye fight like a man who learned swordplay from a book.”
Despite the blood on his face and the ache in his jaw, calm flooded through him for the first time in years. This wasn’t acceptance—not yet. But it was a chance. A door cracked open just wide enough to slip through.
He picked up his sword.
They trained for another hour, and Connor didn’t pull his strikes. By the time the laird called a halt, Dawson’s arms were shaking with exhaustion, his knuckles were raw, and he’d collected an impressive array of bruises to match his swelling nose.
But he was still standing.
“Better,” Connor admitted grudgingly, offering him a hand up from where he’d fallen after a particularly brutal combination. “Ye learn fast when yer life depends on it.”
“I had good motivation.”
Connor’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Aye. I suppose ye did.”
They walked back toward the keep as the sun crept above the hills, painting the snow gold and rose, and smoke rose from the chimneys promising warmth and breakfast.
“Connor.” Dawson stopped at the entrance to the courtyard. “Thank you. For giving me a chance.”
“Dinnae thank me yet.” But there was less ice in Connor’s voice now. “Ye’ve got a long road ahead. Proving yerself to the clan is one thing—proving yerself to Elspeth is another matter entirely.”
“I know.”
“And ye should probably clean yerself up before she sees ye.” Connor glanced at Dawson’s bloodied face with something that might have been amusement. “Unless ye want to explain why her brother rearranged yer nose.”
“I think she’d probably approve.”
This time, Connor did smile—a brief flash of warmth that transformed his stern features. “Aye. She probably would at that.”
He clapped Dawson on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince, and headed toward the great hall. Dawson watched him go, then turned toward the well to wash the blood from his face.
He caught his reflection in the water—swollen nose, split lip, the beginnings of a spectacular black eye. He looked like a man who’d been in a fight.
He looked like a man who’d won something worth fighting for.
The cold water stung against his wounds, but Dawson found himself smiling despite the pain. He’d faced down the laird of Clan MacLeod, taken a punch without flinching, and declared his intentions openly.
Now came the hard part.
Now he had to convince Elspeth to let him love her.
He found her in the stillroom, grinding herbs with the same focused intensity she brought to everything. She looked up when he entered, and her eyes went wide at the sight of his battered face.
“What happened to ye?” She was on her feet instantly, crossing to him with her healer’s instincts overriding whatever distance she’d been maintaining.
Her fingers were cool against his jaw as she tilted his face toward the light.
“Did ye fall? Were ye attacked? I’ll need to check if yer nose is broken—”
“Your brother punched me.”
Her hands stilled. “Connor did this?”
“We had a discussion about my intentions toward you.” Dawson caught her wrist gently when she started to pull away, keeping her close. “He wanted to make sure I wasn’t just looking for an easy conquest.”
Color flooded Elspeth’s cheeks—whether from embarrassment or anger, he couldn’t tell. “He had no right—”
“He had every right. He’s your brother and your laird, and he’s watched one man already destroy you with pretty lies. It hurt him when you left.” Dawson’s thumb traced circles on her wrist, feeling her pulse flutter beneath the skin. “He needed to know I was different.”
“And what did ye tell him?”
“The truth.” He held her gaze, letting her see everything he felt. “That I love you. And I want to court you properly, by your customs, with your family’s blessing. I’m done running.”
Elspeth’s breath caught. For a long moment, she simply stared at him, her gray eyes searching his face as if looking for the lie, the trap, the inevitable betrayal.
She wouldn’t find one. He’d made sure of that.
“Ye told Connor ye love me,” she said slowly.
“I did.”
“And he punched ye in the face.”
“He did.”
“And ye’re still here.”
Dawson smiled, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his split lip. “I’m still here.”
Something shifted in her expression—a crack in the wall, a glimpse of the woman beneath the armor. She didn’t say anything, but her fingers rose to trace the edge of his bruised jaw with impossible gentleness.
“I should look at yer nose,” she murmured. “Make sure it sets properly.”
“Is that your way of saying you’ll let me court you?”
“It’s my way of saying ye need medical attention.” But there was a hint of warmth in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “We can discuss the rest after I’ve made sure my brother hasn’t permanently damaged that pretty face.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Sit down and stop talking.”
Dawson sat, still smiling despite the pain, and let the woman he loved tend his wounds with hands that trembled only slightly.
It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t trust, or acceptance, or any of the things he desperately wanted.
But it was a start.