Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Adark and venomous snake coiled at the pit of Kenneth’s belly at the sight of the red wax seal and the embossed crown pressed deep into its surface.
The English king did not trouble himself with pleasantries or good tidings – especially where the Scots were concerned.
Only bad news travelled with such ceremony.
Without a word, Kenneth took the package and turned sharply away, striding down the corridor.
He would go to his study, where he could face whatever message awaited him in solitude.
Dread settled heavily in his chest as he entered the room.
He stoked the fire, adding another log until the flames leapt higher, chasing the chill that had seeped into his bones. Only then did he take his seat.
He rested the package on the table, his fingers tracing the raised crown, chafing at the reminder of how tightly the English king sought to bind him – and the MacDonald lands – to his will.
Pouring himself several fingers of whisky, he sat back once more, gazing into the fire as thoughts of royal interference and encroaching authority pressed in.
He drew in a deep, slow breath and exhaled just as slowly, his blood already heating.
It was no time for his rage to take over.
Taking another sip and drawing in a deep breath he finally broke the seal.
Inside lay a lengthy missive.
The king began with practiced courtesy, acknowledging the long history of Clan MacDonald, even reaching back to the founder, Dòmhnall, and the Lords of the Isles, when the seas themselves had fallen under MacDonald charge. The words were measured, imperious, yet almost respectful.
Then the tone shifted, and Kenneth’s banked rage grew hotter.
The king claimed to have been informed of a brewing clan war between the MacDonalds and the MacLeays. He commanded that the lairds of both clans meet at once to discuss their differences and come to an agreement – or at the very least, a truce – to prevent further bloodshed.
Should they fail to do so, the king would consider their actions rebellion against the Crown. In that event, the lands of both clans would be forfeit.
Kenneth laid the parchment flat upon the table, his heart pounding, his hands turning to fists. This was exactly what he had feared – a calculated maneuver to seize control of their territories.
He snorted in disgust. The king’s spies would know well enough that reconciliation between Laird Aidan MacLeay and Laird Kenneth MacDonald was impossible.
What had passed between them had forged a blood feud and Kenneth well knew that Aidan would never relinquish his hunger for vengeance over Eilidh’s death.
This was a trap. An all too obvious ploy by King George to confiscate the lands of two clans.
Kenneth kept his breathing steady in an attempt to dampen his fury.
Tomorrow, he would lay this letter and the king’s demands before the Council. The situation offered no easy solution, yet one truth remained immutable – the MacDonald lands would never be surrendered to the Crown.
Gritting his teeth, Kenneth returned to stand by the hearth, the crackle of the fire punctuating his thoughts as memory and pride stirred within him. The MacDonald name was not merely ink on parchment or a courtesy acknowledged by an English king. It was blood and salt and iron.
His ancestors had ruled those islands long before English crowns turned covetous eyes northward. They had answered to nay king but their own, holding the western seas with strength and cunning before they were even aware of England and long before England had learned to fear the Highland clans.
Kenneth’s jaw tightened as he stared down at the letter.
The MacDonald lands were more than territory to be bartered or seized.
Every glen and shoreline bore the memory of those who had lived and died to keep them free.
He loved the harsh beauty of that land just as he loved his people, their steadfastness, their hard work, their defiance and their refusal to bow down.
He would not betray his legacy. Not for threats thinly veiled as diplomacy, and not for the convenience of an English crown.
Somehow, he must find a way to thwart the king’s command without plunging his people into ruin. Aidan MacLeay’s hatred burned too hot for peace, yet Kenneth could not afford open defiance – not now, when the king watched so closely, waiting for the slightest excuse to strike.
He turned from the fire and made his way back toward his bedchamber, carrying with him the weight of history, duty, and an unshakable determination to see his clan endure.
As he strode the passageways leading him to his chamber, another, more personal unease – one he had, so far, refused to acknowledge – forced its cruel way to the surface.
Selene.
She was soon to be his bride, yet she was also the daughter of an English aristocrat, raised beneath the banners of a crown that demanded her obedience.
From childhood, loyalty to the English king would have been impressed upon her as a virtue, with absolute obedience framed as duty.
Courtly manners, measured speech, and allegiance to royal authority would have shaped her world long before she ever set foot upon MacDonald land.
If he defied the king openly, where would that leave her?
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He could not – would not – bend his knee to the English king for her sake, nor could he ask her to betray everything she had been raised to believe without consequence.
Kenneth knew this much with grim certainty – if Selene were to stand beside him as the Lady of Clan MacDonald, she would have to understand what that meant.
Not silks and courtesy alone, but defiance when defiance was required.
Loyalty to land and people, not distant crowns.
If King George pressed his claim, Kenneth would resist him, no matter the cost.
He only hoped that when that moment came, Selene would choose to stand with him – not as an English noblewoman bound by upbringing, but as his wife, bound by shared purpose, hard-won truth, and the love they had for each other.
He firmed his resolve. Whatever trials lay ahead – the Council, the king’s threats, the danger of divided loyalties he could not continue without first speaking with Selene.
He entered his dimly lit bedchamber and went straight to the adjoining door between their chambers and rapped softly.
After a long pause, he was about to knock again when Selene’s sleepy voice asked, “Kenneth?”
“Aye, lass. Can we speak? ‘Tis a matter of some importance.”
After a further long pause she cautiously opened the door. “I thought we’d agreed to keep to our own chambers until we are wed.”
“May I enter? I have a need tae discuss a letter I have received from the king.”
She gasped, flinging the door wide. “Of course.”
He strode in and took his place at the small table in the center of the room, placing his lantern on the mantel. The room was cold, the fire burning low to embers and he pulled his cloak close.
Selene, who was already wrapped in her fur-lined robe, took the seat opposite. “Is it bad news, Kenneth? Ye seem worried.”
He reached into his pocket for the letter and passed it to Selene to read for herself. He watched her face as she unfolded it, frowning as her eyes darted across the page.
Then she re-read it.
Holding his breath, he waited for her reaction.
“Why this is ridiculous,” she exclaimed.
“King George has no idea that what he asks is impossible.” She huffed indignantly and subsided into her seat still holding Kenneth’s hand.
“Why, I can write to him myself and explain the situation.” She glanced across at Kenneth.
“He would surely take notice of me as the daughter of Viscount Montgomery. My father was on good terms with the king.”
Kenneth’s heart jumped as he shook his head.
“If ye wish tae write tae King George, I’ll nae deny ye.
Yet I fear this is nae more than a ploy on the king’s part, lass.
His spies would have set him tae rights about the feud between Aidan MacLeay and meself and that nay truce could ever put an end tae the madness infecting MacLeay. ”
Selene gulped in a noisy breath. “But… but… the king will consider it rebellion against the Crown if ye dinnae make peace.”
Kenneth shook his head, his mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Whether I strive fer peace with Aidan or nae, the king has had his eye on our lands since The Rising, Lady Selene.”
She tightened her grip on his hand. “It is unfair.”
He turned and locked his gaze with hers. “And there seems tae be nae solution. Would ye wed a Scottish outlaw? One who goes against the king?”
Studying her face, Kenneth held his breath. Everything was riding on her answer.
She did not hesitate.
Returning his gaze she nodded. “I will be yer wife, Kenneth, and my loyalty and love will be to my husband. I will be a MacDonald, and if the Clan and its laird are against the king then, as your lady, I too will turn my back on the Crown.”
A tear glistened in her eye and Kenneth realized this was not an easy decision for her. Yet she had not hesitated to pledge her loyalty to him and to the MacDonalds. His heart stuttered joyfully as the heaviness that had weighed on him so painfully was lifted.
Overjoyed, he seized her in his arms and pulled her onto his.
“Lass, ye’ve given me strength.”
She lifted her head, her blue eyes meeting his, their cold breath mingling, as she kissed his lips.
He groaned, deepening the kiss, holding her close, her warmth pressed against him, her hands tangling in his hair, their tongues aligned.
It was not only desire that coursed through him at the touch of her lips, but a deep sense of what was right and true. Of being with a lass whose heart belonged solely to him.
And, come what may, Selene was his, no matter what King George might decide.
Their love would endure. It would be strong enough to withstand the pull of two worlds and it would not fracture under the weight.
As they caught their breath Selene whispered. “It was my idea for us tae stay apart for the sake of our two wee sisters, yet I wish for nothing more than to spend the night in your arms, my love.”
He cupped her chin, took her mouth and kissed her again without another word. She made a sound deep in her throat that further ignited the rising passion in his blood.