Chapter Three Munro #2
James’s gaze was steady on me, beseeching me to speak. I knew he saw something still worth saving by his actions and words to me. He was a fool.
Hector’s gaze settled on me once more, taking in the wine stains on my tunic, the unkempt beard, the cup clutched in my hand like a lifeline. “And would ye say our laird is fit, James?” Hector demanded, “Would ye stake the future of Clan Ross on the claim that Munro is fit to rule?”
James’s jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin. He had defended me beyond reason, beyond loyalty, and we both knew it.
“Munro is still our laird,” James said firmly. “He’s led us through war and peace. He has—”
“He has spent the last two years drowning himself in wine and women,” Alan interrupted, his voice unexpectedly sharp.
Ah, the discontent had reached new levels.
Alan avoided looking directly at me. He had never possessed the spine needed to be ruthless, but now that Hector had thrown the first dagger toward me, Alan would play in the game.
“The clan coffers dwindle. Our defenses weaken. Our standing among the other clans diminishes with each passing day. And yet,” Alan added, his deep voice rumbling through the hall, “Munro sits before us now and does nae speak.”
“He is still our laird,” Simon joined in, smiling encouragingly at me. Simon was the youngest on the council, and I knew he had once looked up to me. I suppose it was hard to let go of the man he remembered me to be.
I traced the rim of my cup again, feeling the weight of James, Simon, and my uncle’s expectations. They wanted me to defend myself, to rise in righteous anger and prove Hector wrong, prove the disgruntled clan wrong.
“Perhaps,” Uncle Gordon said softly, looking to me, “we might consider a temporary arrangement. A regency of sorts, until ye find yerself again.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. It was a short, bitter sound that silenced them all.
“Find myself?” I echoed, meeting my uncle’s gaze.
“And where do ye suggest I look? At the bottom of the cliffs where Isabella’s body was found, broken?
In my bed where she once slept? At the grave where our son’s body is buried?
” Emotions rose swiftly, trying to grasp me with greedy fingers.
Rage. Anguish. Desperation. I downed another goblet of wine in four quick swallows.
The silence that followed was heavy with discomfort. Good. Now they got to feel a fraction of what I had to deal with daily.
“We are nae speaking of abandonment, Munro,” Hector said eventually. “But of necessity. Of duty.”
“Duty,” I repeated, the word tasting of ash.
“Aye, I ken all about duty. It was a duty that Uncle Gordon demanded I see to, which took me away from Isabella while she gave birth.” I don’t know why I brought that up now.
I’d never even hinted to my uncle that I blamed him for my not being at Isabella’s side when she needed me most, but there was a small part of me that did blame him.
If he had not insisted that the battle could not be won without me, my son might still have lived, and Isabella would never have grown sad and withdrawn.
Then she wouldn’t have gone to the cliff where she died.
“Do nae speak to me nae of duty, old man.”
Uncle Gordon cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should adjourn for now,” he suggested, his voice carefully modulated to sound reasonable. “We can revisit this matter when heads are cooler and minds clearer.”
One by one, they rose from the table, each casting me a final look before departing. My uncle squeezed my shoulder as he passed. I felt a pinch of guilt then for how I’d likely made him feel.
Soon, only James and I remained in the hall, the silence stretching between us like a thread pulled too taut. I refilled my cup, avoiding his gaze. The last thing I wanted was to see that damnable mix of loyalty and disappointment that he wore so openly these days.
“If ye continue on this way, Simon will soon agree with Alan and Hector, and they will vote ye out as laird and yer uncle in.”
I was about to say Uncle Gordon would never take the position, but I stilled, thinking upon his words of making someone else laird temporarily. That had surprised me, but I supposed even my uncle’s loyalty was stretched to the limit.
“It does nae matter,” I replied, defiant.
James shook his head, a muscle working in his jaw. I knew this gesture well. He was biting back words too harsh to voice, even now. “Yer da thought it mattered,” James said. “He ensured ye would be laird and nae yer uncle, as had always been tradition. Have ye ever asked yerself why?”
I had, but it had been long ago, and no definitive answer had ever presented itself. The only member of my da’s council who was still alive and who might have known was Hector, and he’d long ago told me my da had not given a reason, only the order.
“These are yer people,” James bit out. I suppose he thought I’d been ignoring him. “They need ye.”
I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “Need me? Look at me, James. What good am I to anyone now?”
“Ye could be good again if ye’d put down the damned goblet and remember who ye are.”
His words struck somewhere tender, a bruise I’d thought had long since hardened to callus. I drained my wine instead of answering and reached for the flagon to pour more. “I do nae want to remember who I was,” I said.
James grabbed my hand as I was tipping up my goblet. “I’ll nae sit and watch ye drink yerself to death as yer uncle and aunt do, smiling as they pour ye more, encouraging ye to have another.”
I jerked my hand away, spilling wine on the table as I did. “Ye do nae ken what ye speak of. Just a bit ago, Uncle Gordon encouraged me to stop drinking. He has stood by me since the day Isabella died.”
James leaned forward, close enough that I could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the lines of worry etched around them. “Has he?” he asked softly. “Or has he been waiting for the perfect moment? Think, Munro. Who benefits most from yer continued decline?”
I wanted to dismiss his words, to wash them away with more wine, but something in his tone anchored me, forcing me to listen as he continued.
“People will starve if the food banks are nae addressed,” he said, his voice gaining urgency.
“They’ll freeze because their homes need repairs.
Word will get out that ye’re weak, and we will be attacked.
People will die.” He paused, and I knew what came next before he spoke it.
“Maybe even Guinn and Bess. Do nae ye care?”
This mention of my daughters hit like a physical blow.
My hand tightened around the goblet, knuckles whitening.
My shoulders stiffened as if bracing against a sudden chill.
Unbidden, an image rose—Guinn and Bess huddled in a cold room, their small faces pinched with hunger, with fear.
With the knowledge that their da failed them again.
“Ye swore to protect them,” James said, softer now. “Ye swore it to Isabella.”
The knot in my throat swelled, choking me.
I’d spent two years building walls around her memory, around the guilt that festered beneath my grief.
Two years drowning myself to keep from facing what I’d done, what I’d become.
And now James stood before me, tearing down those walls stone by stone with nothing more than truth.
I set my goblet down with more force than I intended, wine splashing over my hand. The words I needed were there, somewhere beneath the fog of drink and despair. What were they? Did I care? Did I want to find my way back to the man I had been, the da my daughters deserved?
The great hall doors swung open with a creak that echoed across the stone floor. A servant hurried in, bowing hastily before speaking. “Forgive the interruption, laird, but a woman is requesting to speak with ye who showed up at the castle gate.”
The intrusion shattered the moment. Whatever clarity James had dragged near the surface slipped away, retreating behind the familiar comfort of indifference. “A woman?” I asked, lifting my cup again.
“Aye, laird,” the servant confirmed. “Says she’s traveled far to see ye on a matter of some urgency.”
“Is she comely?” The question came automatically, a reflex born of two years spent seeking brief comfort in willing bodies. The moments of pleasure could not fill the hollowness inside me, though. Still, I’d take what I could.
The servant’s gaze flickered to James before returning to me. “Aye. She’s quite fair, despite the weariness of travel.”
“Then by all means,” I answered with a mocking flourish of my hand, “send her in. I could always use another distraction.”
James made a sound of disgust low in his throat. “This is why they will take everything from ye, Munro,” he said, voice tight with disappointment. “Because ye do nae care for anything.”
I meet his gaze steadily, forcing my lips into a smile. “Nae true,” I replied. “I care for wine. And comely lasses. The rest can burn for all it matters to me.”
The words felt wrong, like a lie. Clearly, I needed more wine.
I drained yet another goblet as the servant bowed again and turned to fetch the visitor.
James remained beside me, silent now, his disappointment a weight I refused to acknowledge.
I focused instead on the wine, on the prospect of a new face, a new body to lose myself in.
Several more swigs of wine later, the servant led a woman through the great hall door.
Her cloak clung to her, damp from travel, the hood pushed back to reveal hair the color of autumn fire.
Even in the dim light of the hall, it caught flame, drawing my gaze.
I found myself straightening in my chair, some long-dormant instinct stirring beneath the wine’s haze.
The lass moved with purpose toward the table; each step measured and deliberate despite the weariness that showed in the slight drop of her shoulders.
Wariness and determination warred in her bearing.
As she drew nearer, torchlight spilled across her features, illuminating a face that stirred something in me I thought long dead.
Her eyes were dark as peat, deep enough to drown in, set in a face both delicate and strong.
There was a tension around her mouth, as if she held words behind her lips that fought to be free.
The dampness of the journey had left the tendrils of her hair clinging to her cheek, and my fingers twitched with the unbidden urge to brush them away.
“Laird Ross,” she said, looking at James. Her voice was steady despite the slight tremor in her hands as she clasped them before her. “I thank ye for receiving me at this late hour.”
“I am Laird Ross,” I said, finding myself amused that she thought it was James. I motioned to James. “This is my right-hand man, James.”
James rose and gave a proper show of respect. “A pleasure, my lady,” he said before sitting once more.
Her surprised gaze fell to me. “I beg yer pardon,” she murmured.
“Nay need to beg—yet,” I added, wickedness rising in me as it so often did these days.
A faint flush rose to her cheeks, but she didn’t drop her gaze or retreat.
Instead, she lifted her chin higher, a gesture of defiance that stirred my blood in a way mere beauty never could.
“I am Murieall Buchannan,” she said. “I’m in need of protection.
I lost my brother on a journey, and I find myself utterly alone. ”
Protection. The word hit me like a fist to the chest. I flinched, my jaw tightening as memories flooded back unbidden.
Isabella’s face, pale and drawn after losing George.
The fear in her eyes that I mistook for grief.
The cliff where they found her body, broken on the rocks below.
I had sworn to protect her, to keep her safe from all harm.
And I had failed in every way a man could fail.
Rage and guilt twisted together in my gut, unwanted companions I fought every day to ignore. I looked at this woman—this Murieall Buchannan with her autumn hair and steady gaze—and saw only another promise I would break, another life I would fail to shield.
“Protection,” I said, having to unclench my teeth to speak. “What, precisely, do ye need protection from, lass?”
She hesitated, something flickering across her face too quickly to name. “From those who would do me harm,” she answered finally, her words measured as if chosen with great care.
“Ye’ll need to be more specific than that,” I said. “The world is full of those who would do harm, and I do nae have either the time or the inclination to battle phantoms.”
She took a step closer, and I caught the scent of her. She smelled of earth and rain and something sweeter beneath, like heather in bloom. “I can explain everything,” she said, “but nae here. Nae like this.”
Her gaze darted to James, as if she didn’t want to speak in front of him, as if she was unsure she could trust him, and then back to me.
There was an earnestness in her voice that gave me pause.
I had a sudden urge to let her speak her piece without the wall of mockery I’d erected between us.
The thought terrified me. I didn’t lower barriers between myself and others. This woman could be no different.
“The price of my protection,” I declared coldly, “is one month in my bed.”
Beside me, James inhaled sharply. I kept my gaze fixed on Murieall Buchannan’s face, waiting for the shock, the outrage, the hasty retreat that would follow.
Her expression shifted, and I braced myself for her disgust. But what crossed her face was not revulsion or even surprise. Instead, she tilted her head as if weighing the cost against some need I couldn’t fathom. My heart pounded against my ribs. I wanted her to refuse. I needed her to refuse.
And yet, as she stood before me, unflinching despite my cruelty, I felt something shift within me—some small piece of ice breaking free in the frozen river of my grief.
It was unwelcome, unwanted. I reached for my goblet again, desperate to drown whatever her presence was trying to drag to the surface.
“Well?” I demanded, intentionally harsh. “Do ye need protection so badly that ye are willing to trade yer honor?”
The answer had to be no. Because if it were yes, my instincts told me the bargain I’d offered would demand more than I wanted to give.