Prologue #2
He was being forced to wed Marie Drummond, the daughter of the man who had betrayed his clan, the woman whose name alone felt like a blade against his pride. The elders had decided. His fate had been sealed in ink on a parchment he had no say in.
He snarled under his breath. "Damn them all. And damn Duncan for leaving me tae this madness."
Malcolm barely had time to react before Marcus struck with renewed force, his sword cutting through the air with vicious precision. The sound of metal meeting metal rang sharper, harder. Malcolm, caught off guard, stumbled back as Marcus drove forward with unrelenting fury.
"Easy now…" Malcolm grunted, blocking a heavy strike, his grin slipping. "Ye trying tae kill me, or just work oot that temper?"
Marcus didn't answer.
He threw his full weight into the next blow, knocking Malcolm's sword from his grip. With a final, brutal twist, he sent him sprawling onto the dirt.
Breathing hard, Marcus loomed over him, the tip of his sword at Malcolm's chest. His pulse roared in his ears, his fury a wildfire raging through his veins.
Malcolm blinked up at him, then let out a breathless chuckle. "Aye. I suppose I deserved that."
Marcus sheathed his sword with a sharp motion and turned away, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
"Duncan should be the one here, not me," he muttered. "This should have been his burden."
But Duncan was gone, and Marcus was left to carry the weight of a decision that was never his to make.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from his brooding. Liam, his cousin, strode into the training yard, his expression alight with amusement. "Och, Malcolm, ye look like ye've been tossed about by a storm."
Malcolm groaned, rubbing his shoulder as he pushed himself up. "Aye, and it's yer turn, lad. My hand will fall off if I have tae spar with this brute any longer."
Liam chuckled, drawing his own blade. "I'd love to teach our dear laird a lesson, but I think he has more pressing matters."
Marcus groaned. "If ye say my bride is on her way, I’ll run ye through where ye stand, cousin."
Liam only grinned wider. "Ah, but she is. And ye should get ready. Ye might have been able to knock Malcolm down, but ye’ll not escape this."
Marcus exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "Try me."
Malcolm laughed, shaking his head. "There’s no tryin’, Marcus. This union will strengthen yer position as the youngest son of this clan. And the Drummonds might be cowards, but they are rich."
Liam clapped him on the back. "Aye, and marriage is not a death sentence. Ye can still enjoy… other company. But ye will honor this betrothal. There is no other choice."
Marcus scowled, the weight of his fate pressing down on him anew. "Aye. No other choice."
With a final glance at the yard, he turned and strode toward the keep. He could sense Liam and Malcolm watching him go, but he didn’t look back.
Inside his chambers, he stripped off his sweat dampened tunic and washed up, scrubbing the remnants of the fight from his skin.
The cool water did little to settle the heat still coiling in his chest. He dressed in clean garments, dark and unadorned, a reflection of his mood.
If the elders wanted him to look like a willing groom, they would be sorely disappointed.
He made his way to the great hall, where the waiting felt heavier than any battle he had fought. He was not a man accustomed to stillness, and yet, all he could do was sit there, waiting for the carriage that carried his future… and his duty.
A familiar voice cut through his brooding.
"Ye look like a man preparing for execution."
Marcus turned as his sister, Stella, entered the hall. She was dressed in a fitted riding tunic and breeches, her long brown hair half pulled back in a loose braid. Her blue eyes—so much like his own—gleamed with barely contained amusement.
"Dinnae mock me," Marcus muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.
Stella smirked, crossing her arms as she leaned against the stone pillar. "Och, brother, I cannae help it. The mighty Marcus MacCraith, tied down to a Drummond bride? The elders must be giddy with delight."
He shot her a warning glare, but she only grinned wider.
"Ye ken this is fer the good of the clan," she said, more serious now. "Even ye cannae deny that."
Marcus let out a slow breath. "Aye, I ken it well enough."
"Then stop acting like a trapped beast," Stella chided. "A marriage is not a death sentence, and ye are still Laird. This Drummond lass will nae change that."
He snorted. "Ye sound like Malcolm."
Stella chuckled. "Malcolm is a wise man, then."
Marcus ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. "It doesnae sit right. Marrying a Drummond, knowing what they did."
"And yet, it must be done," Stella said, her voice softer now.
"Ye think I dinnae understand what it means tae be bound by duty?
The elders would wed me off in a heartbeat if they thought they could force my hand.
But ye? Ye are still the master of yer fate.
The choice may not be yers, but how ye live with it is. "
Marcus stared at her for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. "Ye always did have a way with words."
Stella smirked. "Aye, and I’ll remind ye of them when ye find yerself growing fond of yer bonnie Drummond bride."
He scowled, but before he could respond, the sound of hooves echoed through the keep. His stomach tightened.
The carriage had arrived. Stella straightened, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve. "Come now, brother. Let us see what fate has brought to our door."
Marcus squared his shoulders, his face a mask of cold resolve. He had survived wars, betrayals, and the weight of expectation.
He would survive this too.