Chapter 17
The sun had barely crested the hills when Rhys eased out of the bed.
Amara was still sleeping, one hand curled beneath her cheek, sheets tangled around her waist. Her hair was everywhere. It was wild and tangled from sleep, fanned across the pillow like it had a mind of its own.
He grinned at the thought of her grumbling about the knots later.
Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder as he whispered, “I’ll return soon, lass. Daenae move.”
She mumbled something soft, unintelligible, and turned over, pulling the blankets tighter around her. Her face nestled back into the pillow with a content sigh.
Rhys allowed himself one more look before slipping from the room.
The keep was quiet. Corridors still cool and blue with early light as he made his way down toward the South wing, where Finn’s chambers were located.
His boots barely echoed as he made his way slowly toward the rooms, his mind racing.
If Finn truly escaped, is there reason for attack?
Should attack just based on how he’s treated Amara… he’s been a feckin’ disgrace for a faither…
Need to ken where the vulnerabilities are at the Keep and how Finn escaped…
He found himself at the chamber door sooner than he anticipated, the abruptness had halted him in stride.
“Shite –”
A soft yellow light danced on the stone floor at his feet from under the door, and he knocked softly before pushing inside.
Mabel, the healer from town, was hunched over Finn, inspecting the dressing wrapped around his ribs with tender care. The keep healer, Mack, sat off to the side muttering to himself and grinding herbs in a mortar.
“Is he well?” Rhys asked quietly.
Mack and Mabel both straightened, wiping their hands on their smocks almost simultaneously.
“He’s been feisty, me laird,” Mabel said. “Complained about the broth bein’ too bland and told me me stitchin' looked like a blind man’s weavin'. He’s healin’ though, me laird.”
Rhys huffed a humorless laugh.
“Ribs will heal. He’s lucky. A few inches the wrong way and we’d be plannin’ a burial instead,” Mack said, his voice as serious as always.
“He’s past the worst of it,” Mabel said.
Rhys nodded, glancing at his cousin’s sleeping form. Pale but breathing steady.
Good.
He walked further into the room and clasped Mabel on the shoulder briefly in thanks, and then he moved toward Mack.
“I’m going downstairs. Can I send Cookie up after I’m through?”
“Aye, me laird. That’ll be much appreciated,” the greying man said, his shoulders rolling back stiffly with a seemingly renewed sense of purpose.
Rhys grinned before turning on his heel and walking out of the room. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until his chest heaved with each step he took back down the corridor.
Cook, still groggy, grunted as Rhys helped himself around the kitchens. He grabbed a pair of bannocks and warmed them on the stove he had turned on. Gathered preserves, set up tea on a tray for the warming kettle, and placed a couple of cloth napkins to the side for the buns.
Understanding what his laird was up to, Cook pushed him out of the way with what could only be attributed to as a gentle and respectful groan. Rhys obliged, knowing where little else lived in the kitchen, and watched as his man finished preparing a simple breakfast tray.
“Ta, Cookie,” Rhys said, gathering the tray with one hand. “Oh, Mack would like ye upstairs, for Finn.”
“Aye, I was ‘bout to head up there, me laird. Been up all night, they have?”
“Aye – both look peckish as well.”
Cook grunted again, as he turned and busied himself on another tray, grumbling something about “Why did they nae take shifts… guess I willnae show up empty handed then…”
Rhys smirked as he turned and carried the tray carefully back up the winding stairwell.
When he returned, Amara was still half-curled beneath the sheets. The fire was still burning, but it was low. He set the tray down and crossed to the bed.
“Lass?” he murmured, setting on the edge of the mattress with a less than graceful, but soft, thump and slid the tray in between them.
She blinked awake, groggy and blinking against the soft lift. Her lips parted into the barest smile. “Ye brought food?”
He held up the bannocks with a tilt of his chin. “I was raised with manners. Eat.”
She chuckled sleepily and sat up, dragging the blanket over her shoulders. Her eyes flicked to the tray and then to him, and the bannock in his hand. Rhys twisted his arm and present the bannock to her, which she took gently.
He felt a tugging sensation in his torso as he watched her bring the bun to her mouth and take a bite from it. She licked her lips, and every single thought completely left his brain.
They ate together in a remarkably normal silence. She finished the warm bread in her hand, dipping it in the preserves, as he poured them both tea. Life breathed into her, and the rose-colored flush in her cheeks made him feel a sense of relaxation and purpose.
Could do this every day… If she stays…
Amara’s lips curved in the softest smile as she set her teacup down and stretched her arms above her head, lazily and unguarded. Rhys watched as her hair spilled across her shoulders and their eyes connected again.
Should have her to break me fast… lay her down… for the love of God –
His mouth watered as his hand lingered on the bed for a moment longer before he wrapped it around the tray and cleared it away.
It was dangerous, how easily he could imagine waking up like this again with her.
But if she left after this week, he would be caught up in feelings that wouldn’t ever be reciprocated.
Rhys knew he needed to measure his emotions carefully where Amara was concerned.
At least until he could convince her to stay.
He turned to look at her once more before making his way toward the door.
“I’ll see ye later then?” she asked, and he could sense the sadness in her voice at his departure.
He nodded. “Aye. Come to me study this afternoon.”
“Somethin' grim, is it?”
“Somethin' important.”
She smirked. “That means grim.”
He left her with that smile still tugging at her mouth, and it chased him halfway down the corridor.
The walk to his council chambers helped cool his head, but not by much. Every step away from her felt heavier than it should have. A night like the one they had just shared muddied things. He wasn’t sure what they were now. He hadn’t claimed her in full, but he had taken her — tasted her.
By the time he reached the north wing, the day had started properly. The halls were busier, voices trailing through doorways, and the scent of iron and hearth smoke filled the air.
The war table waited for him.
So did the men who sat around it.
He squared his shoulders and pushed open the door.
The chamber was stuffy with the weight of early tension and too many bodies in close quarters. Rhys walked to the head of the long table and stood, hands braced against the wood, watching his men fall back into their seats after what had clearly been a short and restless sleep.
Leighton and Robert sat nearest him, their faces drawn, eyes sharp. Darrow, Gavin, Muir, and old Grant were all muttering among themselves, but their gazes kept drifting his way. Everyone was waiting for the same thing.
A verdict.
“So,” said Robert, folding his arms. “Now that ye have slept on it, and Master Finn is back and breathin’, do we strike while Murdoch’s walls are still low on defense, or nae?”
Rhys didn’t answer right away. He scanned their faces. Loyal men. Fierce. Dangerous when provoked.
It would be so easy to give them the order. Let them loose.
Too easy.
It was what he had wanted and fought against them for after all.
Gavin leaned forward. “Ye ken they’ll take his return as weakness. They might come for us next. If we leave the blow unreturned, it does set precedent.”
“I’ve heard this argument already,” Rhys said, voice low but firm.
“Aye, because it’s a sound one,” Robert shot back. “Ye asked us here, we gave our minds. Daenae tell us we’re meant to sit on our arses now after what they’ve done to one of our sons.”
Rhys looked them over. His fingers curled tighter on the table edge, and Amara’s face flashed across his vision. “There’s nay merit in bloodshed for the sake of pride.”
Old Grant snorted. “Since when?”
“Since I nearly lost me cousin,” Rhys growled. “We all ken why we prepared for that raid. To retrieve him. Nae for vengeance. Nae for war.”
“Ye daenae think they’ll see our restraint as cowardice?” Leighton offered, almost suggesting plainly that it wouldn’t as he asked still.
“I think they’ll see a clan unwilling to spill its own for nothin’.” Rhys stepped back, jaw tightening. “As ye have said to me previously, Leighton. Finn’s home. Alive. The goal’s been met.”
Robert was shaking his head. “We’ve got momentum, me laird. We’ve got a reason.”
“Nay,” Rhys snapped. “We had a reason and ye drug yer feet. I wanted to attack ages ago. Now we’ve got peace, and I’ve got a clan who just got their son back. I willnae turn this into a burial… or several.”
Silence stretched through the chamber.
No one looked quite satisfied. But no one challenged him again.
Rhys stood tall. “There’ll be nay assault. Nay blood. Nae now.”
He didn’t wait for agreement. “Dismissed,” he ordered.
The room hadn't emptied fast enough.
Rhys stood at the edge of the war table, arms crossed, watching Leighton and two of the older councilmen linger near the hearth. Their voices were hushed but not quiet enough. Not for his ears. Not in his own chamber.
He waited until the last of the scribes closed the door behind him, then gave them space to come forward if they meant to.
Leighton did.
The elder’s face was calm as ever, but his fingers fidgeted at the hem of his sleeve.
“Out with it,” Rhys said, low.
“We mean nay disrespect, Laird,” Leighton began.
Robert cleared his throat behind him. “But there’s a matter that cannae be left unsaid.”
Rhys didn’t move. “Aye?”
“It’s about the Murdoch girl.”
Of course it was.
Rhys looked between them slowly. “She has a name.”
Leighton offered a slow nod. “Lady Amara, then.”
There was a pause. Just long enough for tension to wedge itself into the space between words.
“It’s nay secret she’s been seen at yer side often,” Robert added. “Too often.”
Rhys’s jaw ticked.
“She’s spoken to yer men. Dined with yer kin. Rides with yer daughter.”
“She’s also the guest I chose to protect from the bastard who left her to die,” Rhys snapped. “Unless ye mean to question me honor?”
“Nay,” Leighton said quickly. “Nay, lad. But yer… attachment… it raises concerns.”
“Concerns?” Rhys stepped forward once, barely containing the heat rising in his chest.
Leighton didn’t flinch, but his voice dropped to something just shy of a whisper. “The men admire ye. They follow ye. But loyalty like that is fragile when they fear yer judgment might be clouded.”
“I’ve made nay vows. Made nay promises.”
“But ye’ve made time,” Robert said softly. “And that’s louder than any vow.”
Rhys stared at him.
“She’s a Murdoch. And though none here blame her for her kin, nae everyone can make the same separation. Nae the guards. Nor the farmers. And nae the men who’ll bleed for ye if it comes to that.”
Rhys looked to the fire, its embers cracking low and angry.
Leighton stepped forward one pace, tone gentler now. “We ask ye nae to end it. Just define it. If she’s to be here, let her be here rightly. Make her an O’Donnell. Or send her away.”
The room pulsed with silence.
Rhys exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Ye make it sound simple,” he said.
Leighton gave a half-shrug. “Simple’s what holds a clan together. Clear lines. Clear loyalties. If she’s nae your prisoner, nor your betrothed, nor your charge... then what is she?”
Rhys didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he knew.
Robert took one step back. “We’ve said our peace, Laird. We trust ye’ll do what’s right.”
“Right for whom?” Rhys asked, voice sharper than he intended.
Leighton bowed his head. “For everyone.”
And then, without waiting for dismissal, the councilmen turned and left, one by one, leaving Rhys standing in the flicker of the dying fire.
He turned on his heel and left the room.