Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next day, Connor sat heavily in the chair of his study.
His mind replayed the previous night with Eva, the heat of her skin beneath his hands, the soft warmth of her hair brushing his fingers.
A groan escaped him at the memory, both of pleasure and frustration at his own restraint.
He shook his head, attempting to focus on the duties of the day, yet every thought was shadowed by her presence.
A sharp knock sounded, followed by the slow creak of the door. Fergus, bent with age but sharp of eye, stepped inside without waiting for an answer.
“Me Laird,” Fergus said, bowing his head, “I come with matters that daenae bring cheer.”
Connor exhaled through his nose and gestured to the chair. “Sit then, Fergus, and speak plain, for I’ve little patience this day.”
Fergus settled heavily and unfolded a bundle of letters. “They’ve begun to arrive in numbers, from neighborin’ Lairds whose daughters ye dinnae choose.”
Connor’s eyes narrowed as Fergus continued, his voice dry and measured. “They speak of insult and slight, of alliances spurned and pride wounded.”
Connor scoffed softly. “Let them nurse their pride elsewhere, for I asked none of them to offer me their daughters like coin.” Fergus raised a brow. “Some hint at strained relations if their grievances go unanswered.”
Connor stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “I dinnae choose a bride simply to soothe the egos of other men,” he said, his voice low but fierce. “She is kind, loyal, and of this land, and I’ll nae apologize for wantin’ a wife with a backbone instead of a silk tongue.”
Fergus watched him closely. “The council only worries for the peace, me laird.”
Connor turned, eyes blazing. “Peace bought by sacrificin’ me own authority to choose who I please is nay peace at all.”
He crossed the room and took the letters from Fergus, tossing them onto the fire one by one. “Let them see that Clan McLaren doesnae bend to petty resentment.”
Fergus sighed, though there was a hint of approval in his gaze. “Then it shall be known that ye stand firm.”
Connor nodded once, his shoulders squaring. “Aye, and they’ll ken this as well, Eva is me future Lady, and I daenae give a damn what any other Laird thinks of it.”
Fergus bowed his head and left the study. Connor poured himself a measure of whiskey. His temper boiled at the audacity of the other lairds to attempt to control him.
A few moments later, the door slammed open with such force that the room echoed, and Connor leapt to his feet.
“What in the saints' names do ye think yer doin’ bargin’ in like this?” he barked, glaring at the panting figure in the doorway.
David, his loyal man-at-arms, heaved in deep breaths, trying to compose himself. “Apologies, me laird,” he gasped. “I couldnae wait.”
Connor narrowed his eyes. “Out with it, David. What has ye in such haste?” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to suppress the irritation prickling at his nerves.
David wiped sweat from his brow and stepped closer. “We found the merchant, me laird. Spoke to him at once, and he led us to believe that Laird McKay, Jack Welsh, may have been seen on the road that day.”
Connor froze mid-step, his eyes narrowing. “Laird McKay?” he repeated, voice tight with disbelief.
A shadow of doubt crossed David’s features. “Aye, Laird, but the merchant only saw McKay further down the road from the accident, nae at the scene itself. He cannae say for certain if McKay was involved or simply passing that day.”
Connor ran a hand over his face, pacing in the study. “Me faither… he always spoke ill of Laird McKay. Despised the man,” Connor muttered, voice low, almost to himself. “But that’s all I ken of him. Nothin’ else. Never met the man in all me life.”
David shifted uncomfortably, hands folded. “Laird McKay keeps to himself. Attends nay clan gatherings. Few ken the man truly, and even fewer would speak if asked.”
“Then why… why would he have anything to do with me family’s death?
He’s a stranger to me, a man I’ve never set eyes on.
We must find out. And I ken a way. Go to McKay lands, but nae under the McLaren banners.
Disguise yerselves as merchants or passin’ travelers, and keep yer ears open for word amongst the villagers.
Go straightaway, David. Observe all comings and goings.
Listen for talk. And mark me, our inquiries are to be discreet. None must suspect McLaren interest.”
David inclined his head, voice firm. “Aye, me laird. I will leave immediately.”
Connor exhaled slowly, the anger in him simmering beneath the surface.
“Michael had a birthmark on the left side of his neck,” he said quietly, almost as if confessing a secret to the empty room. “I daenae think he is alive, but if ye speak to guards or retainers of McKay… if such a bairn was ever targeted, perhaps they will remember that mark from twelve years ago.”
David’s expression hardened with resolve. “I ken, me laird. I will keep it in mind, every word, every sign.”
Connor nodded, eyes dark with a mixture of grief and determination.
“See that ye do, David. Our clan deserves nay less.”
David turned and departed, the heavy wooden door closing behind him with a firm thud.
Connor sank back into his chair, hands clasped together, staring down at the floor.
The weight of the investigation pressed upon him, mingled with thoughts of Eva and the fire she ignited within him.
He couldn’t let distraction interfere, yet even now, her memory lingered, soft, intoxicating, and maddeningly irresistible.
Plans must be made, contingencies thought through. He needed scouts in the surrounding countryside, villagers discreetly questioned, and the routes to McKay Castle noted. Every detail mattered, every whisper of knowledge could be the key to unraveling the truth.
Thoughts of Michael’s birthmark haunted him, mingling with the anger at the injustice of his family’s loss.
If David’s mission failed, if McKay remained an enigma, the fire inside Connor would only burn hotter.
But he would not act rashly. He would bide his time, gather every fragment of information, and strike with the precision of a true McLaren Laird.
Rising once more, Connor strode to the window and stared out over the castle grounds, the morning wind brushing the banners atop the battlements.
His mind replayed every possibility, every detail from the merchant’s tale.
Laird McKay… the name rang in his ears like a bell tolling for vengeance.
He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening; he would uncover the truth, and no shadow from the past would remain unchallenged.
He saw his grandmother strolling the gardens below the window. He turned on his heel and made his way out of the study.
“If anyone kens, it may be she,” he said.
Connor strolled through the castle gardens. His mind was a storm of thoughts, tangled with confusion and suspicion.
Jack Welsh… why would the man have anythin’ to do with me family’s tragedy?
Every thought Connor formed seemed more improbable than the last, and yet he could not shake the feeling that some truth lay hidden beneath the surface.
He spotted his grandmother, Margaret, tending a patch of lavender near the stone fountain. Quickening his pace, he jogged to catch up with her, the gravel crunching beneath his boots.
“Grandmaither,” he called softly, drawing her attention, “I wonder if ye can tell me somethin’ of a man… Jack Welsh.”
Margaret straightened, brushing her hands on her apron. “Jack Welsh? Hm, I have nae heard that name in years,” she murmured.
“What do ye ken of him?” he asked.
“Yer faither, he used to visit the McKay lands every summer, then stopped suddenly.”
Connor furrowed his brow. “Every summer? I dinnae ken that,” he said.
“Aye, yer faither dinnae speak of it much,” she said.
“Did ye ever ken why he stopped goin’?” he asked.
Margaret shook her head, eyes thoughtful. “Yer faither was nae one to speak of details, or of anything that bothered him. He kept everythin’ locked away. None ken why he ceased his visits, nae even me.”
She squinted at him, studying his expression. “Why are ye askin’ about Jack Welsh, Connor?”
Connor hesitated, feeling the weight of knowledge he couldn’t yet share. He didn’t want to worry his grandmother with suspicions and half-truths. Instead, he decided on a safer course.
“I was thinkin’ on the clans invited to the weddin’,” he said lightly. “I realized we daenae have much connection with the McKay clan, that’s all. It’s odd with the McKay lands nae so far from here.”
Margaret nodded slowly, her hands folding over each other. “Aye, I ken. I can only assume it is because yer faither had a fallin’ out with Jack some time ago, and our Clan McLaren lost contact with Clan McKay.”
Connor gave her a small nod, grateful for her understanding. “Thank ye, Grandmaither, for indulgin’ me curiosity.”
She smiled warmly, eyes twinkling. “Aye, I ken. Now, how are the weddin’ preparations comin’ along, since I am barred from helpin’?”
Connor allowed himself a small grin. “Eva has received her weddin’ clothes. She seems… pleased.”
Margaret’s eyes brightened, the lines of worry softening on her face. “That is lovely to hear, indeed. Ye’ve chosen well, Connor. She seems a fine lass, one to bring honor to our house.”
Connor felt a flush creep into his cheeks, a mixture of pride and unease.
“Aye, Grandmaither, she is… remarkable. More than I could have imagined, truly.”
Margaret stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Mind this, lad, a laird is measured by the strength of his clan and the heart of his bride. Ye’ve found someone who can stand beside ye, and I ken ye’ll nae fail her.”
Connor allowed himself a rare moment of softness, nodding as he looked over the garden paths, the fountains, and the castle walls. “I will make sure she is cared for, Grandmaither, and that our family honors her as she deserves.”
Margaret’s smile deepened, and she straightened, brushing her hands lightly over the lavender. “Aye, I ken ye will, lad. Ye have a good heart, though ye are oft stubborn as a bull.”
Connor chuckled despite himself. “Aye, that I am.”
Margaret’s expression shifted into one of approval. “And ye mustnae be too harsh on her when she makes small mistakes; she is new to these things, aye?”
Connor’s brow furrowed with thought, then he smiled faintly. “Aye, I will remember that. She’s learnin’, and I must learn to be patient… as she does.”
“Connor, ye must also take time to enjoy her company, nae just the plannin’ and the duties. A weddin’ is as much about the joy as it is the ceremony.”
Connor looked down at her, a rare warmth blooming in his chest. “Aye, Grandmaither… I will try.”
Margaret gave him a satisfied nod. “Good, lad. Now, let us return to the hall. Ye’ve been pacing these gardens long enough, and it is near midday. Best we take some refreshment before ye take council.”
Connor followed her slowly, his mind still divided between his duties and the persistent thoughts of Eva.
As they approached the stone steps of the castle, Margaret leaned in slightly. “Remember this, Connor: strength and honor daenae only come from battles and ledger books. They come from protectin’ those ye love and standing by them when it matters most.”
Connor walked beside her up the steps, heart heavy with duties yet lightened by her counsel. Though the shadow of Jack Welsh lingered at the edge of his thoughts, he felt renewed resolve.
After taking tea with Margaret, Connor strode purposefully through the corridors of Castle McLaren, his mind still tangled with the thoughts of Jack Welsh and the McKay lands.
He found Fergus, the senior councilman, in the small chamber where ledgers and maps were kept, hunched over accounts of clan expenditures.
“Fergus,” Connor began, his voice clipped with urgency, “I need to ken what ye recall of Jack Welsh and any ties he may have had to our clan. Me faither… he visited the McKay lands often, then stopped suddenly, and I need to understand why.”
Fergus straightened, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Aye, Laird, I remember yer faither’s journeys well enough. He would go to the McKay lands each summer, as ye say, and then… he stopped abruptly. Beyond that, I daenae ken much, for he kept his reasons to himself.”
“So, nothin' more? Nay disputes, nay incidents? Nothin’ that might explain why the McKay and McLaren clans fell out of contact?”
Fergus shook his head. “Nay, Laird. Yer faither was a private man, and I never pressed. If ye wish to delve deeper, I’d advise ye to check the old records in the library. Perhaps ye’ll find somethin’ written there, though I make nay promises.”
Connor gave a curt nod and left Fergus to his ledgers, the weight of anticipation settling heavy upon his shoulders.
The library was dim when he arrived, the setting sun filtering through narrow windows and casting long shadows over shelves stacked with dusty volumes and scrolls.
He moved from shelf to shelf, unrolling scrolls, scanning entries, and checking annals for any mention of Jack Welsh or McKay lands, but each page seemed as silent as the grave.
Hours passed as he meticulously examined the records.
Names and dates blurred together under the flickering candlelight, the scent of aged parchment filling the quiet room.
He found references to trade, levies, and land grants, but nothing that hinted at treachery or betrayal, nothing that connected Jack Welsh to the tragedy that had claimed his family.
Connor leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, frustration coiling tight in his chest. The silence of the library pressed upon him, thick and suffocating, as if the walls themselves were hiding the secrets he sought.
“Damn ye, Jack Welsh… what have ye done, and why?”
Rising finally, he collected the scattered records, stacking them with precise care despite the frustration coiling in his chest.