Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
"There it is," David said.
Connor and David rode beneath plain cloaks, their tartans hidden and banners left far behind, until the low stone inn came into view upon McKay lands.
The place squatted beside the road, its thatched roof dark with peat smoke and its windows glowing amber against the coming dusk.
Laughter and the smell of ale drifted out through the open door, mingling with the tang of wet earth and horse sweat.
Connor reined in, his pulse thudding as he told himself this was only an inn like any other.
“Whereabouts did ye see the lad, then?” Connor murmured, leaning closer to David.
“Inside the tavern,” David said.
Connor motioned to the guards. “Take the horses to the stables and wait for us there.”
Inside the tavern, the room was warm and loud, with rough-hewn tables, a wide hearth, and men hunched over cups as dice clattered and voices rose.
Connor and David took a table along the wall, keeping their hoods low as an innkeeper glanced their way and then lost interest. The air smelled of barley bread, spilled ale, and damp wool cloaks steaming dry.
“We'll keep to ourselves,” Connor whispered.
David kept his gaze forward, “Over there, me laird, in the corner by the hearth, that table is where I saw him.”
He nodded once toward an empty table scarred by old knife marks and candle burns. “He sat there with two guards, ate little, and spoke less,” David added.
Connor followed the nod and said under his breath, “Then we’ll bide and see if he comes again.”
Time dragged like thick mud as mugs were refilled and chairs scraped across the floor.
Connor forced himself to sip his ale and slowly eat, though it tasted of nothing, his eyes lifting at every creak of the door.
He told himself to breathe, to remember this could be naught but coincidence and foolish hope.
Still, his hand trembled slightly where it rested upon his knee.
At last, the door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a hush that lasted only a heartbeat. A young lad stepped inside, tall for his age, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he scanned the room.
David’s shoulder stiffened as he leaned closer and whispered, “That’s the one we saw.”
Connor turned, and the world seemed to tilt beneath his feet.
The lad’s face struck him like a blow, so familiar it stole the breath from his chest.
Connor swallowed hard and murmured, “Saints preserve us,” as his vision blurred. “He looks just like me maither,” he said hoarsely, “but those eyes… those are Faither’s eyes.”
The lad turned his head, and Connor glimpsed the mark upon the left side of his neck, pale against his skin, undeniable.
Connor’s fingers dug into the bench as memory and grief surged together like a storm tide. He saw his mother’s gentle smile, his brother’s laughter, and the blood-soaked road he had never escaped in his dreams.
“The birthmark,” Connor whispered, barely sound at all, “it’s there.”
David glanced at him sharply and asked, “What would ye have us do now, me laird?”
Connor did not answer at once, his gaze locked upon the boy as he took a seat at the very same corner table. Connor’s heart hammered as questions burned through him, each one sharper than the last.
At length, he said lowly, “We wait, and we watch.”
“Aye, but if that is truly Michael, he’s been under McKay’s eye these many years.”
Connor nodded once, never looking away, and said, “Which means rash moves would summon Laird McKay.” His jaw tightened as he added, “I’ll nae risk him again, nae now.”
David settled back, accepting the order, though unease lingered in his eyes.
The lad laughed softly at something one patron said, the sound twisting in Connor’s chest like a blade.
He noted the way the boy held himself, wary yet polite, strength coiled beneath youth.
Connor thought of all the years stolen, of a brother raised among strangers, and felt anger simmer beneath his shock.
Still, he kept still, reminding himself that patience was his only weapon here.
Minutes passed, heavy and tense, as Connor studied every movement, every gesture.
The lad reached for bread, pushed it away, and stared into the fire as if lost in thought.
Connor wondered what name he answered to, what stories he’d been fed, and whether he remembered anything at all.
The questions clawed at him, but he stayed silent.
At last, Connor leaned toward David and spoke with quiet resolve. “Slow and careful, then.” Connor’s gaze never left the boy as he finished, “Aye, for if that is me brother, I’ll nae lose him a second time. When he leaves, we will wait but a moment, then follow him.”
Connor watched. The lad spoke little to anyone, nodding once to the innkeeper before finishing his bread and rising at last. Connor followed every movement, noting the easy strength in the boy’s limbs and the way he carried himself like kin.
When the door closed behind the lad, Connor stood at once.
He leaned toward David and spoke low. “That’s our chance, we follow him now.”
David nodded, already rising. “Aye, me laird, steady and quiet.”
They slipped out into the cold air biting, as they trailed the boy across the yard toward the stables.
The stable yard lay hushed save for horses shifting in their stalls and the creak of leather. The lad moved with purpose, loosening his mount’s reins as if readying to leave. Connor stepped forward, his heart pounding so hard he feared it might give him away.
“Michael?” he called, his voice rough.
The boy turned sharply, hand half-lifted in caution. “Aye,” he said after a breath, eyes narrowing, “I’m Michael.”
Connor stared at him, the world narrowing to the line of his jaw, the familiar tilt of his brow. This was him, his long-lost brother, flesh and blood, alive before him after twelve barren years. Connor swallowed, steadying himself against the flood of relief and grief.
Michael frowned slightly and asked, “What can I do for ye, lads?”
“There’s much to tell ye,” Connor said, forcing calm he did not feel, “but I cannae do it here.”
He stepped closer and added, “It’s best ye come with us.”
Michael’s brow furrowed deeper as he asked, “Go where?”
Connor opened his mouth, then closed it again, words failing him entirely. His thoughts were a snarl of memory and urgency, of fear that any delay would cost him everything. Instead of explaining, he turned and gestured sharply.
“Just follow me,” he said, voice stern.
Michael took a step back, eyes darting as boots sounded behind him. Two guards emerged from the shadows, and David moved to stand at Michael’s shoulder.
David spoke evenly, “Best do as the Laird says, lad, we mean ye nay harm.”
Michael’s jaw clenched, his gaze flicking between them all.
Connor moved swiftly, tying the reins of Michael’s horse to his own with practiced hands.
“Get on,” he said, softer now but no less firm.
Michael hesitated, fingers tightening around the saddle horn.
“Why should I trust ye?” he asked, suspicion thick in his tone.
Connor straightened, meeting his eyes squarely. “Because if ye want the truth of who ye are, truly are, ye’ll come with us this day.”
The words struck home. Connor watched as Michael’s breath caught as doubt flickered across his face.
For a long moment, Michael stood frozen. At last, he swung up into the saddle, shoulders stiff with tension. Connor mounted as well, giving a short nod to David. Without another word, they rode from the yard, hooves muffled against the dirt road as the village lights fell away behind them.
The path stretched wide and uncertain as they left McKay lands, the road unspooling beneath them like fate itself.
Connor rode with his gaze fixed ahead, senses sharp for any pursuit. Beside him, Michael kept silent, his presence both a miracle and a burden.
Connor’s chest ached as he thought.
I daenae feel right forcin’ him so, but what choice have I, if I mean to keep him alive this time?
Hours later, the gates of McLaren Castle rose before them, stone walls pale beneath the moon, banners stirring high above in the night wind.
Connor saw Michael slow his horse, staring upward as the thistle-marked standards snapped and curled.
“Are those McLaren banners flyin’?” he asked, voice tight with unease.
Connor nodded once and said, “Aye, they are, lad, ye’re at Castle McLaren, and I am Connor Davies, Laird McLaren, and there’s somethin’ I must show ye inside the castle.”
They dismounted in the courtyard, the echo of hooves fading as servants hurried forward and guards bowed low.
Connor knew that Michael was tense as he glanced around, wary, his hand never far from his side as if expecting chains instead of welcome.
“If this is some jest, I daenae see the humor in it,” he muttered.
Connor met his gaze steadily and replied, “There’s nae jest here, Michael, only truth I should’ve kent years ago. I promise ye on me maither's grave that ye are in nay danger. I am a friend.”
Connor led him through the heavy doors and down long corridors warmed by torchlight and tapestries. Michael’s boots slowed as the castle swallowed them whole, every step sounding final.
“Ye’ve nae told me why I’m here, nae as much as a suggestion of it,” Michael said, suspicion sharpening his tone.
Connor answered quietly, “I ken, and I will, but first ye must see this with yer own eyes.”
They entered the gallery hall, its vaulted ceiling arching over rows of portraits with faces staring down from centuries past. Candlelight glimmered over gilded frames and solemn eyes, warriors and ladies alike frozen in time.
Michael looked from one portrait to the next, unease deepening.
Connor walked with purpose until he stopped before a single painting near the center wall.
He lifted his hand and said, “Michael, this is yer maither.”
The portrait showed a dark-haired woman with gentle eyes and a familiar curve to her mouth.
Connor swallowed hard and added, “Lady McLaren, and I am yer brother, Connor.”
He watched Michael go stiff as if struck, breath catching sharp in his chest.
Michael stepped forward slowly, his gaze locked on the painting as if it might speak.
“She… she looks like me,” he whispered, fingers trembling as they hovered near the frame. He shook his head once and said, “This cannae be real, ye’re mistaken, surely.”
Connor replied softly, “I wish I were, but I’ve known this truth in me bones since the moment I saw ye.”
He then walked to another painting, this one a family portrait. Connor with his mother and father, and little Michael at three years of age, with the birthmark on his neck.
“This is ye, lad. Same mark on yer neck,” Connor said.
Michael looked at the painting, and his knees went weak. Connor was at his side, helping him.
Connor drew a breath and continued, “When ye were three, our parents were murdered in an ambush on the road.” His voice darkened as memory pressed close.
“By the time I arrived, we thought ye’d died with them, lost and taken by those that took their lives.
We only found yer bloody wee tunic and nothin’ more.
” He looked at Michael and said, “But now here ye stand, alive, and I thank God for it.”
Michael turned on him sharply and said, “That’s nae possible.” His voice rose as confusion edged toward anger. “I’ve nay memories before I was five or six, none at all, and Jack Welsh raised me as his own.”
Connor answered firmly, “Jack? So he is the one who took ye and hid ye away and lied all these years. I daenae ken why.”
“Jack is me faither, I ken that in me heart.” Michael paced once, running a hand through his hair. “Ye expect me to believe a story spun from paintings and words?”
Connor stepped closer and said, “I expect ye to feel it, lad, same as I did when I saw yer face.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with doubt and old grief.
Michael finally stopped pacing and looked at Connor with wary eyes. “I daenae believe ye.”
“Stay two days.” Connor let out a breath and added, “That is all I ask. Give me leave to show ye that ye are of Clan McLaren. Ye are Michael Davies, me lost brother.”
“Do I really have a choice in the matter?” Michael asked.
Connor inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying it.
He gestured toward the door and said only, “I’ll show ye to a room.”
As they left the gallery, Connor felt the weight of hope and fear settle heavy in his chest, knowing the next two days would change them both forever.