Chapter Four #2
Rory watched as the MacLeod laird exchanged a silent look with his da, and then MacLeod gave a slight nod as he blew out a long breath.
“Why do nae we all sit,” he suggested, gesturing to the chairs arranged before the fire.
His movements were casual, but his voice was controlled.
Rory started to sit, though his da stood stiffly, one hand still on the hilt of his sword.
The MacLeod pressed his lips together in a hard line, then spoke, though the words looked to pain him.
“I offer my sincere apologies for my daughter’s…
behavior. Lillith has always been spirited. ”
“Spirited?” Rory’s da scoffed. “Is that what ye call attempting to kill the son of a neighboring clan?”
“Lillith would nae have deliberately shot yer son,” a man who had eyes the color of the MacLeod laird said. The man’s tone didn’t carry much conviction in Rory’s opinion. The stranger took a deep breath and added, “She’s headstrong and impulsive, aye, but nae murderous.”
“My brother Brus speaks the truth,” Royce said. “My daughter has been… difficult to manage since she was a wee lass, but she’s nae heartless.”
Lillith’s granda cleared his throat. “What my son is trying to say is that Lillith has struggled to find her place in this world since losing her mama at a tender age.”
Despite himself, Rory felt a pang of sympathy tug at his chest, but that did not change the fact that he had no wish to wed the hellion.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rory offered. “As to why we are all now in this room, I wish to say that, given I was commanded here by the king’s decree, with great threat to both of our clans if we fail to comply, I intend to honor the decree by wedding yer daughter Lenora.
” She definitely seemed the more biddable one.
He squared his shoulders, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wound.
“I’d like to get the matter over with as quickly as possible. ”
The casual dismissal in his tone was deliberate.
He needed these men to understand that this was a political alliance, nothing more.
He had no interest in pursuing a connection with the hellcat who’d shot him, nor did he harbor romantic notions about her gentler twin.
This marriage was a duty, and he would perform it with the same detached efficiency with which he managed his da’s lands.
Yet even as he spoke the words, his thoughts returned once more to Lillith—to the weight of her against him, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way her eyes had flashed when she’d proclaimed her desire to have killed him.
He did not want a quarrelsome wife like his mama, and a house of strife he’d grown up in, and so he pushed away the thoughts of the lass.
He stood by his decision. He would choose the gentle twin, the one whose quiet demeanor promised peace rather than constant conflict.
“It does nae work that way, Rory,” Iain MacLeod said, breaking the silence that had fallen after Rory’s declaration. The older man had been watching him with an intensity that made Rory distinctly uncomfortable.
“I’m unsure what ye mean,” Rory said. “The king stated that I may choose which twin to wed.”
“Aye,” Iain agreed, settling himself into a chair with the deliberate movements of a man whose joints no longer cooperated as swiftly as his mind.
“But I’ll nae agree to either of my granddaughters being wed to a man who has nae taken the time to know them properly.
They deserve that much respect, at least.”
“With all due respect, Lord MacLeod,” Rory said, struggling to keep the edge from his voice, “I already know which twin I wish to wed.”
“Do ye now?” Iain’s eyes twinkled with what appeared to be amusement. “Ye’ve kenned Lenora for all of a few moments, and yer only interaction with Lillith involved her shooting ye and wishing ye dead. That’s hardly a foundation for making a life-altering decision.”
“I do nae need more time,” Rory insisted. “The king has commanded—”
“The king has commanded a wedding by the Winter Solstice,” Iain interrupted.
“That gives ye time for a proper courtship. I propose ye use that time to become acquainted with both lasses. If, at the end of that time, ye still wish to wed Lenora, then so be it. But ye might find that first impressions can be deceiving.”
Rory opened his mouth to protest, but his da’s hand on his arm stayed him.
“Yer request seems reasonable,” Rory’s da said, shocking Rory with his acquiescence. “It will give both our clans time to… adjust to the idea of this alliance.”
The other MacLeod men nodded their agreement.
Rory felt as though the ground beneath his feet had suddenly shifted.
He had come expecting to make a simple declaration, to claim the docile twin and be done with it.
Now he faced two fortnights of forced interaction with both sisters—including the one who had already demonstrated her desire to see him dead.
“I already know which twin I want,” Rory repeated, his jaw tight with frustration. “The docile one.”
Iain MacLeod rose from his chair and approached him, clapping a weathered hand on Rory’s uninjured shoulder. “Aye, I’m sure ye do think ye ken what ye want,” the old man said with a wink that seemed strangely knowing. “Time is a gift, son. Take it and ensure ye’re making the right choice.”
Something in the former laird’s tone made Rory’s skin prickle with unease. It was almost as if Iain MacLeod had glimpsed something in him that Rory himself had yet to recognize—a possibility that was unsettling, to say the least.
Iain waited until the heavy oak door closed behind Laird Matheson and his son before allowing the smile he’d been suppressing to curve his lips.
He could feel the gazes of his sons and son-in-law upon him, and when he met each one, he understood the concern, bewilderment, and frustration he saw in their faces, but his gut told him he was right to do what he had, and he always trusted his gut.
Also, he wanted the feud with his wife to be over, and this would please her.
“Have ye lost yer wits entirely, Da?” Royce demanded, pacing before the hearth like a caged wolf. “We had the perfect solution—he wanted Lenora, who would nae object nearly as strenuously as Lillith. We could have had this settled by nightfall!”
Brus poured wine into goblets, passing them around with a knowing smirk that reminded Iain so much of Marion at her most mischievous that it warmed his heart despite the tension in the room. “Did ye suggest this time because ye think he should wed Lillith?” Brus asked.
“Mayhap,” Iain admitted.
“Is it because she needs the steadying influence of marriage?” Rolland asked.
Iain shook his head, amused. Young men often failed to see what was directly before their eyes. He supposed he’d been like that at their age.
“Are ye going to explain yerself, Da?” Royce finally demanded, turning to face him. “Why insist on this time of… what? Courtship? When the man has already made his choice clear?”
“Because,” Iain replied, settling deeper into his chair, “I see an attraction between Lillith and the Matheson heir.”
The silence that followed his pronouncement was profound. Then, as if on cue, the younger men burst into laughter.
“Ye’ve finally gone daft in yer old age,” Brus chortled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “She shot him!”
“And openly wished she’d killed him,” Rolland added, shoulders still shaking with amusement.
Royce shook his head, looking at Iain as if he’d truly lost his wits. “Da, with all due respect, there is nae attraction there—only mutual loathing.”
Iain sipped his wine, untroubled by their ridicule. “Tell me,” he said, looking at Royce, “what did ye think of Eve the first time ye met her?”
Royce’s laughter died abruptly, replaced by a guarded expression. “That does nae have anything to do with—”
“Just answer me,” Iain interrupted, his tone gentle but firm.
Royce sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. I thought she was the most aggravating, stubborn Englishwoman I’d ever met. She defied me at every turn, argued about everything, and made me want to bellow with frustration.”
“And now?”
A reluctant smile softened Royce’s stern features. “Now I kinnae imagine my life without her fire.”
Iain nodded, turning to Brus. “And ye, my son? What was yer first impression of Sebille?”
Brus snorted into his wine. “That she was too clever by half, with a tongue sharp enough to cut stone and a will to match.” His expression grew wistful. “I was right, and I am grateful for every day with her.”
“Rolland?” Iain prompted.
His son-in-law shifted uncomfortably. “Elena tested my will like it had nae ever been tested before, and I’m thankful each morning I wake up to have such a strong lass by my side. Life would be boring with another.”
Iain nodded. “I watched Rory Matheson’s face when Lillith crashed into him, when she defied him, when she admitted to shooting him with nae a hint of remorse. There was anger there, aye—but there was something else too. Something he himself may nae recognize yet.”
The room fell silent as the men considered his words.
“Ye truly think he was drawn to her?” Royce asked, incredulity still evident in his tone.
“I think,” Iain said carefully, “that passion often masks itself as other emotions when we’re nae ready to acknowledge it.
Anger, frustration, even dislike. Those emotions are all closer kin to desire than indifference could ever be.
” He thought of Marion, of the fire that still burned between them after all these years, even when they quarreled as they were doing now.
“The marriages that last, that truly thrive, are nae the ones where peace is constant. That’s dull.
Marriages that last have a flame that does nae ever die out. ”
Brus chuckled, raising his goblet in a toast. “To my da, taking up matchmaker in his dotage.”
“Mama will be verra pleased,” Royce said.
Iain winked. “I certainly hope so.”
Royce regarded him for a long moment, but he finally nodded. “Eve will be pleased too, and that will hopefully cool her ire that this is happening at all.”
“Da,” Royce said, “what if ye’re wrong? If after two fortnights, Lillith still wishes him dead, and he still prefers Lenora?”
“Then at least we gave them the chance to choose with open eyes,” Iain replied, thinking of Marion’s fervent belief in choice, especially for women. His wife would approve of his maneuvering, he was certain.
“The man may think he wants a docile wife, but did any of us ken what we really wanted?”
A chorus of ‘nays’ came his way, making him chuckle. Marion had transformed his life from one of duty and obligation to one rich with passion and joy, even amidst their arguments. He wanted such a marriage for his granddaughters, arranged or not, if possible.
“May the gods above help the poor Rory Matheson,” Brus said, raising his cup once more. “I’ve nae any idea what our women are away plotting to do to him, but did ye see their faces?”
“Aye,” Iain immediately responded. “And ye are correct. May the gods above help Rory. I’d wager he has nae idea yet just what a formidable opponent a woman can be.”