Chapter Twenty
T he great hall of McAfee Castle was filled with tension as Fiona walked toward the long, oak table at the room’s center. Beside her, Alisdair matched her pace, his broad shoulders squared in readiness for the confrontation ahead.
“Father,” Fiona began, her voice betraying none of the tempest that brewed within her, “we must parley with the Sinclairs.”
Laird Duncan stood firm, his gaze lingering on his eldest daughter, the very image of stoic leadership. Yet in his eyes flickered a flame of reluctance. “It is against my better judgment,” he conceded, but with a nod, he signaled his acquiescence to the will of those who would one day lead.
No sooner had the Sinclair party been ushered into the hall than Laird Arran, flanked by his sons Ian and Callum, wasted no time in voicing their intent. “An alliance, forged through marriage,” Arran proposed with diplomatic finery, his eyes landing upon Ailis, who stood beside her sister.
Fiona’s brow furrowed, worried her father would agree. She knew the offer for what it was—a bid for power, not partnership. “Our clans share a bond, but it shall not be strengthened by binding Ailis against her will,” she replied.
Undeterred, the Sinclairs shifted their proposition, this time suggesting a union between Callum and Moira. The suggestion hovered in the air.
“Moira, too, shall choose her own path,” Fiona declared, the refusal clear and irrevocable.
Alisdair watched the exchange, his eyes sharp as an eagle’s, taking the measure of the men before him.
The flickering torchlight cast a somber glow upon the stone walls of the great hall, where the heavy tapestries absorbed both warmth and sound.
“Let us speak plainly,” Laird Duncan began, his voice resonating through the hallowed space with the gravity only years of leadership could bestow. “An alliance forged in trust is as strong as the mightiest fortress, but what Malcolm has wrought upon my daughter’s peace has rent a fissure in that stronghold.”
Laird Arran met Duncan’s gaze, his own eyes betraying none of the turmoil that surely roiled beneath. “It was Malcolm who erred grievously, not the Sinclair clan. He acted alone, and for his transgressions, he has died.” He turned to Alisdair. “By your hand, I presume?”
Alisdair nodded. “Aye, by my hand and no other. A man raised with honor would never kidnap a woman who has done nothing wrong.”
Fiona watched as Alisdair stepped forward, his muscular frame poised with the confidence of a seasoned warrior addressing his equal.
“Where, then, did Malcolm find the men to aid him in such treachery?” Alisdair asked, but Arran had an answer for everything.
Laird Arran’s lips thinned into a line of practiced composure. “I know not,” he replied, his voice steady. “For none of our warriors are unaccounted for.”
The statement bore the stain of untruth—a shadow lurking just behind the eyes of the man who uttered it. Fiona’s intuition whispered to her of the deception nestled within those carefully chosen words.
In the silence that followed, the air became thick with unspoken suspicions, each breath drawn a testament to the delicate balance between duty and honor. The future of their clans was now a precarious thing that remained on the edge of extinction.
As the conversation turned to matters of restitution and reparations, Fiona’s thoughts lingered on her father, wondering if he saw the deception as clearly as she did. She understood that the preservation of their people came above all else, even if it meant dealing with alliances tainted by betrayal.
Duncan’s eyes moved over the brothers Sinclair—two branches of an ancient tree that now bore poisoned fruit.
“Brothers,” Duncan remarked, “your countenances speak volumes more than your tongues.” Ian and Callum shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, their guilt a cloak too heavy upon their shoulders.
Laird Arran, sensing the shift, cast his net once more into turbulent waters. “We seek to mend what has been torn asunder,” he began, seeking to soothe his old friend. “Let us join our houses, not through force, but through the gentle ties of matrimony.”
Duncan regarded Arran with the wariness of a seasoned commander. “Aye,” he conceded, wanting to heal the wounds of the past. “If one of yer sons wishes to court my Ailis, so be it. But know this—” He raised a hand, forestalling any premature triumph, “she is her own woman, free to choose her path. No alliance shall be forged with chains, only with the willing consent of her heart.”
Around the great table, the assembled leaders waited with bated breath for the response from the Sinclair brethren. Young Ian rose swiftly to his feet. His voice, scarcely tempered by the gravity of the moment, rang clear and eager.
“Then it shall be I,” he declared. “I will seek to earn fair Ailis’s favor.”
Duncan regarded Ian with an intensity that might have withered a lesser man.
*
Outside the fortress walls, Alisdair and Fiona found solace in nature and one another. Their steps fell in rhythm with the pulsing heart of the earth, their path winding through the whispering grasses. Here, they could lay bare their thoughts, unshackled from the confines of expectation.
“Every word they utter weaves a web of deceit,” Alisdair confided, his tone laced with the frost of conviction. “The Sinclairs are entangled in this dark plot more than they dare admit.”
Fiona walked beside him, her mind racing with concern over what her father had agreed to. “Aye,” she replied. “Malcolm’s treachery is but a piece of the evil they concoct.”
Alisdair halted, turning to Fiona. “I will have Lachlan guard Ailis closely,” he intoned solemnly. “If the Sinclair wolves circle our fold, they shall find the fangs of the McClain hounds ready.”
*
The grand hall of McAfee Castle was aglow with the soft light of a hundred candles as Fiona and Alisdair returned from their twilight sojourn. The Sinclairs awaited them with bread and salt at the ready—a peace offering for the meal to come. As they all seated themselves around the heavy oak table, the air was fraught with the scent of roasted meats and freshly baked loaves.
Ian Sinclair leaned close toward Ailis, his words spilling forth like fine ale—frothy and plentiful. Callum, with an easy charm, directed his attentions to Moira, whose laughter tinkled through the hall like the chime of bells.
Fiona observed their antics with a wary eye. Alisdair shared her sentiment. His jaw was set in a line that spoke of his distrust. When he finished his meal, he drew Lachlan and Brodie away from the merrymaking.
“Stay by Ailis’s side,” Alisdair instructed Lachlan in a tone that brooked no argument. “And Brodie, keep Moira within sight.” Both men nodded, understanding the gravity beneath their brother’s command.
As the evening wore on, the gathering shifted from jovial feasting to the somber matters that lingered between the clans. Duncan and Arran, once the closest of friends, stood apart from the crowd, their voices low but laced with the venom of old grievances.
“What stirs the embers of discord?” Fiona asked, her gaze shifting between the two elders.
Laird Arran’s laugh cut through the tension, though it held little mirth. “A tale as old as time.” A wistful note threaded his words. “I once sought the affections of Lady Eileen, your mother. But she chose Duncan over me.”
Duncan responded with a steely glare, but before he could continue, Arran waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, but history has shown us that the better man did not win her heart.”
Alisdair considered Arran’s words, his thoughts obscured behind a veil of duty. Fiona felt the undercurrent of rivalry and regret that colored the room, a reminder of the sacrifices made at love’s behest and the relentless march of obligation that cared not for the desires of the heart.
*
Laird Duncan summoned the McClain brothers to his side with a gesture that brooked no argument.
“Brothers McClain,” Duncan began, his voice a deep rumble, “the events of yestereve have left a shadow upon my trust for the Sinclair clan.”
Alisdair, Lachlan, and Brodie stood before the laird, their postures rigid with attention. It was Alisdair who spoke first, his tone laced with the authority of one accustomed to command. “We stand ready, Laird McAfee. What is it ye ask of us?”
Duncan’s gaze swept over the trio, lingering on each face before settling on Lachlan. “Lachlan, I charge ye with the protection of Ailis. Let not shadow nor doubt cross her path without your intercepting hand.”
Lachlan’s lips quirked upward in a knowing smile. “It would be my honor to serve as a shield to Lady Ailis,” he declared, his voice smooth and confident.
“And ye, Brodie—,” Duncan continued, turning to the youngest brother. “Ye shall guard Moira with the same vigilance that ye would guard yer own daughter.”
Brodie nodded, as if accepting a sacred trust.
A chuckle escaped Alisdair’s lips. “I find myself a step ahead, for I’ve already tasked them with these duties.” His glance at his brothers was filled with camaraderie and unspoken understanding.
Laughter, soft and warm, wound through the chamber, easing the tension. Duncan joined in, the sound rich and unexpected.
“Then we are of one mind. For in unity, we find strength.”
*
The sun rose on a new day, painting the skies with hues of promise and peril. As the clansmen went about their morning tasks, the peace was shattered by the clamor of conflict—a band of red-kilted warriors descended upon the McAfee lands, their intentions clear.
Alisdair’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, scanning the field. Beside him, the Sinclair men—Arran and his sons—stood, their own weapons drawn.
“Let us join you,” offered Ian Sinclair, gripping the pommel of his sword with a warrior’s eagerness.
Alisdair’s jaw set firm, his gaze unwavering. “Nay, Sinclair. We know not the measure of your strength nor the manner of your fight. Stand back.”
The refusal hung between them, a chasm of trust yet unbridged. And as the clang of metal rang out, the Sinclairs could only watch as the McAfees and their kin clashed with the invaders.
The battle was short-lived, lasting only an hour before the attackers ran away in defeat.
*
The Sinclair men, who had been forced to the role of idle spectators, stepped forward.
“Ye ken our men would not raise arms while we are on McAfee soil,” Arran Sinclair asserted, his voice carrying the weight of unwavering conviction. “This brazen attack—it could not have sprung from our men.”
Alisdair, standing tall amid the carnage, turned to the Sinclairs with a measured scrutiny. “Indeed, Laird Sinclair,” Alisdair responded, his tone deliberate, “no accusation has been cast upon yer kin.”
A shadow of doubt changed Alisdair’s stern features for a moment. His eyes narrowed slightly, the cogs of his mind turning with a strategist’s precision. He perceived the unsolicited defense as a crack in the Sinclair armor—an unwitting revelation most telling.
“Yet here you stand, offering denials unbidden,” Alisdair continued, his stance resolute. “One might wonder at the eagerness to disavow deeds unspoken.”
Arran Sinclair’s jaw clenched, and his sons shifted uneasily beside him as if the very earth beneath their feet had become uncertain. The air, thick with the coppery scent of spilled blood, constricted around them.
“I wonder what gives ye a guilty conscience and makes ye deny something ye were not accused of doing,” Alisdair remarked, glaring at Laird Sinclair.
Arran offered no retort. Alisdair’s gaze lingered on the Sinclairs for a moment longer before he turned and walked away.