Chapter 2 Secrets and Lies
CRAEG LIFTED A horn of mead to his lips and drank deeply. However, he nearly choked when Ailean appeared at his elbow, clapping him on the shoulder. “Well, that was unexpected.”
Around them, the hall rumbled with conversation.
A fine supper of roast boar, fresh oaten bread, and pottage had been served.
Servants had hauled heavy wheels of aged cheese to the long trestle tables, too, and now circled, ewers of wine, mead, and ale in hand.
Warriors leaned toward each other, voices rising as they debated the wisdom of the proposed match.
Craeg caught snatches of their words— “good alliance,” “handsome dowry”, “biddable lass”.
Craeg coughed, eyes smarting. “Was it?” His voice came out harsher than he’d intended.
Ailean had the grace to look abashed. “I suppose not. Ye are chieftain now. They’ll all be lining up to offer ye their daughters.”
Greig joined them, his expression thoughtful. “Hamish Macquarie is a powerful chieftain. An alliance with him would extend Moy’s influence in western Mull.”
“Aye,” Craeg replied flatly. It would also benefit Loch and, ultimately, Greig. His friend wouldn’t be clan-chief for years, yet he was already scheming. He’d deny it, but he was more like his father than he cared to admit.
An awkward silence fell between them. Around the hall, the revelry continued—warriors drinking and laughing. A piper had set himself up in the corner and was blasting out a rousing tune that echoed through the crowded hall. Everyone was happy. It was a day to remember.
And Craeg should be celebrating too.
He’d saved a king. Fought for Scotland. Earned the right to lead the Macleans of Moy. And yet, standing here surrounded by friends, relatives, and clansmen, all he could feel was the weight of the chains settling around his wrists.
Free as young bucks, Ailean had said once, speaking of all three of them. But Craeg was chieftain now. And chieftains were never truly free.
The fire in Craeg’s solar had burned low by the time he finally escaped the hall.
He pushed open the heavy oak door and was immediately greeted by a familiar weight slamming into his legs. Craeg staggered, caught himself, and looked down into the amber eyes of his wolfhound.
“Easy, Faolan,” he murmured, running his hand over the dog’s grey head. His coat was wiry. “I’ve only been gone a wee while.”
Faolan whined, his tail beating against Craeg’s thighs. The hound had been his companion for three years now. He’d picked him out of a litter—the affectionate pup that had snuggled against his chest. They’d been fast friends ever since.
Craeg crossed to the fire and added a chunk of fresh peat, coaxing the flames back to life. Another door led off the solar, this one to his bedchamber. That room had never been his mother and Alec’s room though. His father had once slept there—a fact Craeg tried not to dwell on.
It was the chieftain’s bedchamber. Until now, his quarters were upstairs, but now he’d have to get used to sleeping in Leod Maclean’s bed. His gut tightened at the thought.
He poured himself a cup of wine from the jug on the side table and sank into one of the chairs. Faolan immediately settled at his feet, head resting on Craeg’s boot.
The wine was good—Iberian, probably part of his mother’s carefully hoarded stores.
His grandmother was Iberian, and despite that she was elderly these days, she still kept links with merchants who made the long journey up from sunnier climes.
Craeg took a long swallow, welcoming the warmth that spread through his chest. Below, he could still hear the muted sounds of celebration.
The hall would be full of drunken warriors for a while yet.
Fortunately, this solar was silent; a refuge, albeit a lonely one.
He should be down there. Should be accepting their congratulations, basking in the glory of his new position. When he’d gone upstairs, Ailean had been flirting outrageously with one of the serving lasses, while Greig was immersed in a game of dice with his two younger brothers, Alistair and Davy.
Instead, Craeg had slipped away. Now, he sat here nursing his wine, with only his dog for company.
A knock at the door pulled him from his brooding. “Enter.”
The door swung open to reveal Alec Rankin.
His stepfather had removed his formal attire and now wore a loose lèine and braies.
As often, his blond hair—shot through with silver these days—was slightly disheveled.
Those sea-blue eyes rested on Craeg, taking in his hunched posture with a single glance. “Mind if I join ye?”
Craeg gave a soft snort. “Of course not.” And he didn’t. Alec was easy company.
His stepfather crossed to the second chair and lowered himself into it with the loose-limbed grace of a man comfortable in his own skin.
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and Faolan’s contented sighs. Alec had been more of a father to Craeg than his own ever had. He’d taught him how to fight, how to lead, how to be a man worth following.
“Ye left the hall early,” Alec said finally.
“I was tired.”
“Ye were running away.”
Craeg’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. There was no point. Alec could read him better than anyone save his mother.
“The Macquarie offer has ye rattled,” Alec observed.
“I don’t know the lass.”
Alec’s brow furrowed. “So, ye will refuse this alliance?”
Craeg stiffened. “What will happen if I do?”
“Ye might put some noses out of joint.”
Craeg pulled a face. “I don’t like having my life decided for me. Loch knew that Macquarie was going to offer me his daughter.” Aye, that had vexed him. The clan-chief and the Macquarie chieftain had planned this evening’s proposal; they’d moved him into position like a piece on an Ard-ri board.
Alec leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I can see why ye are twitchy … but ye have bought yerself some time to think about it.”
Craeg met his eye. “Would ye accept … if ye were in my place?”
Alec harrumphed. “Now that’s an interesting question to ask a former pirate.”
“That’s why I want yer opinion.”
His stepfather reached up, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “I was once wild, careless. Selfish. Trading The Blood Reiver and open seas for castle walls wasn’t easy.” His lips curved then. “I told myself I wouldn’t give my freedom up for anything … but then, I met yer mother.”
Craeg’s lips tugged into a rueful half-smile.
Most folk upon Mull knew the tale of how Leod Maclean had tried to rid himself of his wife by leaving her tied up on a rock out in the Sound.
Fortunately, pirates had found her before death had.
She’d then hired Alec to kill her husband.
Alec had become her protector, then her lover, and finally her husband.
Initially, Alec had worried that his stepson would hate him for killing his father.
But Craeg hadn’t—especially once he learned what Leod had done.
“How did ye know that Ma was worth walking away from yer old life for?”
Alec’s lips quirked. “I didn’t. Not at first. But when I looked at her, I saw fire.
Strength.” His stepfather’s blue eyes got that soft look he only reserved for Liza.
“Someone who matched me instead of diminishing me.” He paused then, his focus on Craeg once more.
“When ye look at Isla Macquarie, what do ye see?”
Craeg thought of the lass in the hall. Her downcast eyes. Her nervous hands. “Duty.”
Alec nodded slowly. “Sometimes a first impression can be wrong, ye know? For better or worse, Isla might surprise ye.”
Craeg didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure about that.
Silence settled between them before Alec finally shattered it. “Don’t tie yerself in knots about it, lad. If ye truly don’t want this marriage, then tell Hamish Macquarie to take his offer elsewhere.”
“And the alliance?”
“Macquarie will grumble, and Loch won’t be happy …
but let them both worry about that.” Alec stood, placing a hand on Craeg’s shoulder.
The weight of it was solid. Reassuring. “Duty is important. Honor matters. But so does happiness. So does finding someone who makes ye want to give up yer freedom rather than feeling like it’s being taken from ye. ”
The last shovelful of earth fell with a hollow thud.
Hazel stood over the grave, her hands raw and blistered, dirt caked beneath her fingernails.
The mound of dark soil looked so small. So insignificant.
How could a life be reduced to this? A patch of disturbed earth beneath the gnarled oak where her mother—where Siùsan—had loved to sit on summer evenings.
Siùsan. The name hit her like a mallet to the chest.
A reminder of her mother’s betrayal.
No. Not her mother. Her aunt.
“How could ye keep such a secret from me, Ma?” Hazel whispered.
Her throat burned now, but no tears came.
She’d wept herself dry over the past two days—great, shuddering sobs that had left her hollow.
All that remained was bone-deep exhaustion and a bitter taste in her mouth.
But despite that sorrow over losing Siùsan leached all color from the world, anger pulsed like a stoked coal under her ribs.
The woman in that grave had raised her, loved her. She’d taught her everything. How to identify feverfew from chamomile, to ease a fever, and to deliver a babe. Her mother had been her whole world. But she was also a liar.
The name of Hazel’s real mother was Rhona. Siùsan’s younger sister. A spirited lass who’d fought the bastard who raped her. That hadn’t stopped him though; it hadn’t prevented his seed from quickening in her womb. And it hadn’t saved her on the day Hazel emerged into the world.
Something deep inside Hazel’s chest twisted. I killed her.
She clenched her sore and dirt-encrusted hands at her sides. “No,” she said aloud, her voice catching. “I will not shoulder the blame for any of this. He killed her.”