Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“That was a sorry venture, David,” Connor remarked as he rode through the castle gates with the weight of failure pressed hard upon his shoulders.
The courtyard bustled, yet every man who glimpsed the Laird’s storm-set eyes moved out of his way without a word.
David rode at his side. “Nay, me laird, was a good mission.”
Connor dismounted with the rigid tension of a man refusing to surrender to despair. He tossed his reins to a stable lad who nearly stumbled as he caught them, then looked at David with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel.
“I’ll nae pretend it was anythin’ but a failure,” Connor went on.
Twelve years had passed since that fateful day in the forest. An ambush had taken the lives of his parents and his little brother.
Yet the wound felt fresh as the day it had opened.
He had sworn then that he would never stop searching, never let the truth slip through his grasp.
Time, however, had been a stubborn enemy.
“Answers daenae always stay where ye left them, me laird,” David said, sighing as he stepped aside to let a pair of maids hurry past. “Sometimes they’re lost to time, buried deeper than any of us can reach, but each scoutin’ mission lets us ken that the answers daenae lie where we searched.”
Connor stopped so abruptly that the stable boy behind him nearly ran into him. His black eyes burned like coals as he turned toward his friend, voice dropping to a low growl.
“I refuse to believe that.”
David lifted both brows. He took Connor’s satchel bag from the saddle, tossing it toward him without warning. Connor caught it easily, though his expression did not soften.
“Well, I suppose stubbornness is a McLaren trait,” David muttered with a half-smile. “Some folk call it determination, but I call it ye bein’ impossible.”
“Watch yer tongue, lad. I only allow it to be looser than others because ye are me trusted man-at-arms, but that doesnae mean I willnae punish it,” Connor groaned.
He threw his satchel over his shoulder and strode toward the castle doors. His long strides forced David to walk faster, though the younger man made no complaint. The stable boys ducked their heads in respect as the pair passed, and the towering wooden doors groaned open before them.
“I’ll search that cursed glen every month till the truth shows itself,” Connor said, his voice steady but edged with steel. “If Michael’s ghost whispered the name of his killer, I’d hear it before I abandoned hope.”
David shook his head as he followed him inside. His footsteps echoed through the stone entry hall, the air warm from the torches lining the walls.
“Ghosts daenae whisper to the livin’, Connor. They barely leave behind enough for memory.”
Connor halted again, staring at a tapestry depicting a battle won long before his birth. Connor inhaled once, sharply, then moved on.
“If ye feel the need to lecture me, David, at least wait till I’ve had a meal,” he snapped, though his tone lacked true sting. “A man thinks clearer when his belly isnae empty.”
David grinned. “Aye, and ye’re easier to deal with when ye’ve meat in yer hands instead of that temper.”
Connor shot him a warning look, yet it faded almost as quickly as it came. They reached the interior corridors, where a pair of guards saluted and opened the next set of doors.
“Still,” David continued, lowering his voice, “ye ken I’ll follow ye anywhere. Even back to that cursed place again, if ye ask it.”
Connor glanced sideways at him, the edge of gratitude softening the severity of his expression. The loyalty between them had been forged in blood and loss, unshakable, undeniable.
“I ken that,” he said quietly. “And I’ll ask again soon enough.”
David groaned dramatically. “Of course, ye will. I should’ve taken up the life of a carefree wanderer. Instead, I’m followin’ the most haunted man in Scotland.”
Connor ignored the remark, though David’s exaggerated misery almost cracked a reluctant smile from him. They crossed beneath the arch leading to the main wing of the castle, the sound of murmuring servants fading as they moved deeper inside.
“Next time,” David added, elbowing him lightly, “ye might consider takin’ a wee rest between broodin’ sessions. Give yerself a chance to breathe.”
“I breathe well enough,” Connor muttered. “It’s answers I lack.”
“Of course, ye do,” David replied.
Connor strode toward the wide staircase leading to his private chambers, his strides powerful, confident, purposeful.
He moved like a man accustomed to command, like someone who would rip the world apart before allowing it to defeat him.
David trailed behind, hands on his hips, expression half-frustrated and half-amused.
“One day,” David said as they reached the first steps, “ye’ll ken peace, Connor. But today’s clearly nae that day.”
Connor placed one boot on the first step, pausing for just a heartbeat. The firelight caught the black in his eyes, turning them into burning embers of fierce resolve. “Peace comes after justice,” he said.
“Then we’d best pray justice decides to show itself soon. Else ye’ll hunt it till the end of days.”
Connor ascended the steps, shoulders squared and jaw firm, the weight of the lairdship and his vengeance resting equally on him. He did not look back as he spoke his final words. “Justice will show itself,” he vowed. “I’ll see to it.”
Connor pushed open the door to his study, the familiar scent of parchment and peat smoke washing over him as he stepped inside. The room was dim save for the glow of the hearth.
David followed behind him, still dusted with the dirt of travel and looking ready to collapse into the nearest chair. Connor barely had time to set his satchel down before the door burst open again.
“Grandson tis about time ye've returned,” Margaret said.
She swept into the room like a storm, dressed in wool and stubbornness. At seventy years old, she stood small in stature but fierce in presence, her silver hair pinned in an elaborate twist that proclaimed authority more loudly than any crown.
“What is it now, Grandmaither?” Connor groaned.
“I wish to speak to ye on a very important matter,” Margaret declared, not even pausing for courtesy.
Her sharp blue eyes took in everything at once, missing nothing, judging everything, and softening only when she looked at her grandson, though even then, mischief lurked beneath the wrinkles.
She had a way of wielding guilt like a weapon and affection like bait, all in the name of seeing her bloodline thrive before she took her last breath.
Connor rubbed a hand across his face. “About what, Grandmaither? I can only imagine whatever trouble ye’ve stirred.”
Margaret huffed and lifted her chin. “We’re havin’ a ceilidh tonight.”
Connor stared at her as if she’d announced the sky had turned purple. His shoulders stiffened, frustration carving itself into every line of his body.
“A ceilidh? I dinnae approve anything like that.”
Margaret waved a dismissive hand. “Aye, I ken ye dinnae. That’s why I planned it in secret while ye were away.”
David’s eyebrows shot up, and he took an immediate step backward toward the door.
“Well then,” he murmured, bowing slightly, “I think I’ll leave ye both to it.”
Connor shot him a glare, but David was already slipping out, closing the door with the swiftness of a man who refused to get caught in family warfare.
“Grandmaither,” Connor snapped, turning back to her with narrowed eyes. “What possessed ye to organize a ceilidh without me permission?”
Margaret clasped her hands before her, tilting her head in that infuriatingly innocent way she had perfected over her long life.
“Och, Connor, ye ken well what possessed me. It’s time for ye to get a bride.”
“I daenae have time for a wife,” Connor growled. “And ye should cancel this event at once.”
Margaret’s lips began to tremble before Connor even finished the sentence. Tears welled instantly, fast, theatrical, and devastatingly effective.
“Cancel it?” she wailed, lifting a handkerchief to her nose. “After all the work, all the cookin’, all the preparations? Och, me heart cannae bear such cruelty.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “Grandmaither.”
Margaret pressed a fragile hand to her chest, shaking her head as if he’d struck her.
“I’m an old woman, Connor. Seventy years I’ve walked this earth. I may nae live long enough to see ye wed if ye keep refusin’ at every turn.”
“Grandmaither,” he repeated sharply, irritation simmering under every syllable.
She sniffed dramatically, continuing as though she hadn’t heard a word. “The feast has already been made. The musicians are on their way. Invitations have been sent out across the nearby clans.”
Connor pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling very slowly. “When did ye send the invitations?”
Margaret fluttered her handkerchief. “Ten days ago.”
“And how many clans will be expectin’ hospitality tonight?” His voice deepened in that dangerous way that made grown warriors tremble.
“Only a half a dozen,” she said quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Give or take.”
“Give or take?” Connor echoed, incredulous.
Margaret’s tears spilled freely now. “Och, lad, daenae be angry. I only want to see ye settled before I meet me maker. I want to hold yer bairns in me arms. Is that so terrible?”
Connor looked toward the ceiling as if begging some unseen force for patience. “Ye’re relentless.”
“I learned it from yer grandfaither,” she sniffed, straightening a bit. “And he had to be relentless, marryin’ me.”
Connor’s expression darkened with exasperated fondness, though he tried not to let it show. “The invitations have gone out. The clans’ll arrive by sunset?”
Margaret nodded eagerly, dabbing her eyes. “Aye, that they will.”
“It would dishonor them to send them away,” Connor said, shoulders sagging in resignation. “So, the ceilidh will happen.”
Margaret gasped with relief, dropping the handkerchief to clasp her hands together. “Bless ye, lad. Ye’ve made yer grandmaither very happy.”
“But,” Connor added sternly, pointing a finger at her, “ye are nae to count on me choosin’ a bride tonight. Or any time soon.”
Margaret sniffed again, but this time with far less sorrow and far more triumph. “Aye, aye, we’ll see about that.”
Connor glared. “Grandmaither.”
She offered him a cunning little smile that only confirmed his worst suspicions. “I’m only sayin’, Connor, miracles happen at ceilidhs.”
He turned away, muttering under his breath as he strode to his desk. “I should’ve stayed in the damned forest.”
Margaret patted his arm on her way out, her steps light, her spirits lifted. “Dress well, lad. There’ll be many bonnie lasses waitin’.”
Connor dropped heavily into his chair the moment she closed the door. He stared at the flickering fire in his hearth, feeling it mock him with its warmth and cheer.
“I’ll nae be choosin’ a bride,” he muttered again, though deep down he suspected the night would bring trouble all the same.