Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Chaos erupted in the hall as Murdoch had predicted it would as soon as he was finished speaking. His instincts urged him to look around and take in as many of the others present as he could, but instead, he kept his eyes trained on Alistair Campbell, knowing that it was his only chance now.
It was warm, even hot, in this smoky room, but he clung tight to the coldness of the outside in his heart to keep his mask intact.
He felt surrounded on all sides, as if the crowd of people were closing in on him, pushing in closer to the flames.
Some of those muttering were clearly speculating with fascination.
He heard the names Fenella and Murdoch and even Isla whispered around the room over and over again.
But then the shouting began. "Kincaid spy!" someone howled. "How can ye let yerself be fooled!"
"Kill him now!" another roared. "Fenella was a rat, and her bairns drowned with her!"
"Imposter! Manipulator!"
Murdoch took their words like blows, standing stock-still and as tall as he could, refusing to react until he got a signal from the Laird.
But as the hubbub mounted enough that part of him feared it would erupt into violence, a sharp slam cut across the room, echoing off the stone walls with the force of an exploding fireball.
Silence fell so abruptly it almost seemed like a flame smothered by a blanket, and even Alistair paused for a moment.
"Enough!" a deep voice lashed out like a whip.
The new voice did not shout, but the weight of it was palpable, like a physical burden upon the already-thick atmosphere. Murdoch turned toward it, and his heart stuttered as shock surged through his system.
For half a second, Murdoch thought he was looking in a mirror. But the man in front of him was not his twin. Though their coloring was identical, Ian Campbell's features were thinner than Murdoch's, and his frame was broader. His eyes were narrower, and their heights different.
It was unmistakable, though, that this man was Murdoch's blood, the brother who had been left behind. Any fleeting doubt that remained toward the claim of Murdoch's true heritage vanished forever as he laid eyes on his older brother for the first time since before he could clearly remember.
In the resulting silence, Alistair moved around Murdoch, prowling in a circle like a wolf circling a sheep. Murdoch stood still and expressionless, accepting the scrutiny with no response, refusing to give anything away.
Once Alistair had completed his circle, he faced Murdoch once more and said, "Speak. Tell me what ye have tae say. It had best be worth me time."
A long time ago, Lachlan Kincaid had taught a boy named Christopher the importance of patience in control to help manage his emotions.
Murdoch drew on those memories now, carefully separating them from the emotional link to the Kincaids as he spoke at a measured pace, every word a deliberate choice.
"I only vaguely remember me mother, but I recall the day she took us.
She woke me from me bed, the wee one already in her arms, and wouldnae tell me where we were goin'.
I remember she was sobbin', and when I asked where me brother was, she told me she'd tried.
She said we'd come back for him, and I was only a lad. I believed her."
Murdoch's voice faltered for the first time.
He'd intended to make up a story when he arrived here, but the memories had slowly unfolded over the days since the truth had come out.
He didn't remember the night in such detail, but his aching heart knew that a version of the words he was speaking was the truth.
"I was too young, though, tae refuse as he had. I was too wee tae ken wrong from right. She stole me from me family, turned me against me father, then eventually left me and me wee sister tae starve on the streets alone."
"The streets?" Alistair demanded. "Ye wear the Kincaid colors. Did the witch nae hide ye with them?"
Murdoch shook his head. "She abandoned us before she died.
" That was a lie, and it burned his tongue as he said it, but he knew that it was a necessary untruth.
"She saddled us with new names and left me tae raise the bairn alone on the streets, nae hope tae return tae me home.
But now I've come. Will ye accept me, Father? "
There were no mutterings this time, though Murdoch could practically taste the intrigue straining at the seams.
"That Kincaid brat spoke of ye. The whore who tempted Rolland Murray—she crowed of her brother and the spirit of their family," someone called out furiously.
Murdoch glanced around and saw an older man almost purple with anger with a lovely woman sitting by his side, frozen as a sculpture. He averted his eyes quickly, not wanting to think about what such a girl might be doing here. The angry man continued.
"He cannae be trusted, me Laird. He's in league with Elsie Kincaid."
"Never mention that treacherous lassie in me presence, Caindach!" Alistair howled.
He grabbed a dagger from his belt and threw it, and there was a loud crack surrounded by gasps as it landed in the wood of Caindach's chair, only inches from his head.
"The Kincaids are nae kin of mine!" Murdoch announced as loudly as he could, intervening before the conflict could be drawn further away from him. "Father, forget the lass. She's refused even her own name; there's nae savin' her now."
He allowed the bitterness in his heart to seep into his voice and felt venom forming on his tongue as he voiced the next words.
"I ken better now. I was raised amongst weak-willed men and headstrong, delusional women allowed tae rise above their stations.
They care not for the power of blood, only the strength of their foolish ideals. "
Ian smiled for the first time. It was an awful thing, like the grimace of an executioner. "Is that so? The way I always heard it, Lachlan Kincaid made a point of claimin' his clan name."
"The name, aye, but with nae regard for the lineage that makes a name strong," Murdoch retorted with disgust. "His wife and her so-called sisters are three common women who came from nothin'.
His heir is only his godson, with no blood ties, and they stole Isla and me from the streets to make us intae their playthings as well.
Only the wee one carries their blood, but as a lassie, she's less than useless in carryin' on the legacy.
" He shook his head. "I served them, aye, but only because I kent nae other options.
When I learned of me true lineage—when I understood what me blood has been tryin' tae tell me for so long—I left at once tae find ye and return tae where I truly belong. "
Heavy quiet followed his speech, the tension so thick that it was almost audible. Then a woman's voice unexpectedly sliced through it, aimed directly at Murdoch as cleanly as an arrow.
"As me father so rightly pointed out, Elsie Kincaid told a very different tale," the young woman at Caindach's side said evenly.
Murdoch finally looked at her properly, and when he did, he couldn't help but stare.
Her hair was the deep black of ink, long and braided down her back, and her green eyes shone brightly against her pale skin.
Her red dress matched the color of her perfectly shaped lips, and a sharp intelligence glowed beneath the cold exterior she presented.
Despite the circumstances, Murdoch could not help but notice that this was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He collected himself in an instant, folding his arms and adopting a scornful, incredulous expression. "And who are you, lass, who kens so much?"
She was unmoved. With cold pride, she said, "I am Morag Caindach, and I was turned from Murray Castle by the so-called virtue of yer sister, Elsie.
She spoke of a family filled with love and hope; the kind of family where everyone thrives.
I dinnae ken which brother ye are, but she said ye were both very happy, and yer whole family were loyal tae one another nae matter what. What say ye tae that?"
Murdoch frowned slightly, then shook his head and snorted. "Me sister is weak. Delicate. She is sentimental and easily manipulated by perceived affection. Just as me mother was, and just as, possibly, ye are yerself, me lady."
Morag's cheeks colored slightly. "Excuse me?" she demanded.
"I mean nae offense." Murdoch shrugged. "Most women are foolish creatures. It cannae be helped."
The insult hit its true target, and as Morag pursed her lips, Alistair Campbell cackled in what was clear malicious disapproval.
"Never has a truer word been spoken in these halls, lad," he declared.
"Yer brother, Ian, kens it. He's a wise lad tae remain unwed when there are brothels tae keep his bed warm without the naggin' idiocy of a bride.
There's nae doubt that ye're me son, and so it shall be that I accept yer loyalty. "
Murdoch turned his back on the beautiful woman and her anger and faced Alistair once more. He inclined his head. "Thank ye, Father."
"Ye may call me me Laird for now, Murdoch," Alistair corrected, and the jolt of hearing the name from someone else almost made Murdoch break his stoic calm. "But I hope one day tae grant ye permission tae call me Father. Hopefully soon, ye will have earned it."
"I'll prove meself, me Laird," Murdoch agreed.
Alistair called to the four guards who had escorted Murdoch inside and ordered that he should be given food, a bath, and fresh clothing, and ordered that the best empty room be set up for his comfort.
As the guards were leading him away, one of them paused and said, "Me Laird, we will destroy the Kincaid clothes, but what do ye want us tae do with the horse? It's nae strong Kincaid stallion, just a mare. Shall we dispose of it and fetch him a better one?"
For the first time, panic broke through Murdoch's carefully practiced calm. His heart raced and sweat pooled in his neckline, his mind screaming as he tried to think of a way to object.