Chapter Fifteen Munro
I stormed into the solar, rage burning through my veins like fire.
The door slammed against the stone wall with a crack that echoed my fractured trust. My boots pounded against the floor as I strode forward, each step fueled by the betrayal still fresh in my mind.
Murieall’s confession sang in my ears, drowning out all else.
I needed something, anything, to focus my fury upon before it consumed me entirely.
Uncle Gordon hunched over a large oak table in the center of the room; his fingers splayed across parchments covered with training schedules and maps of our lands. His head jerked up at my entrance, thick brows rising in surprise.
“Nephew,” he said, straightening his spine. “Ye look like ye’ve wrestled with the devil himself and lost.”
I ignored his comment, striding to the table and snatching up one of the parchments.
The tight, precise handwriting detailed new training regimens for my warriors.
I stared at the proposed drills that would exhaust even the strongest men, and then I glanced over the list of punishments for failures that seemed unnecessarily harsh.
My jaw clenched as I scanned the document.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded, slapping the parchment back onto the table. “These training schedules would break our men. Sword work followed archery, then wrestling until dusk? And for what purpose?”
“These are just some thoughts I had for strengthening our forces,” he said. “The MacDougalls have been growing bolder at our western border, and—”
“I’m well aware of our neighbors,” I cut in. “My men already train harder than most in the Highlands. This—” I jabbed a finger at the parchment, “—this is nae training. It’s punishment.”
“Perhaps they need some hardening,” he replied. “In times like these, warriors grow soft without proper challenge. I was merely planning to suggest these changes to ye later today.”
“Suggest?” I arched a brow, my gaze falling to several other documents beneath the training schedule.
There were orders for new weapons and reassignments of men from their regular posts.
All were signed with my uncle’s name, where mine should have been.
“Ye seem to have moved well beyond suggesting, Uncle.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Just preparations, Munro. Nae anything I would implement without yer approval, of course.”
The casual way he dismissed my authority pricked at a wound already raw from Murieall’s betrayal.
“I’ve always been proud that our men are nae bloodthirsty,” I said, defending my warriors’ moral character.
“They fight when needed, protect what’s ours, but they do nae seek violence for its own sake.
These methods—” I tapped the parchment again, “—would change that. Make them harder, aye, but at what cost to who they are?”
Uncle Gordon folded his hands on the table before him. “Sometimes a laird must make difficult decisions for the greater good,” he said carefully. “Decisions that might seem harsh in the moment but serve a higher purpose.”
“And ye believe ye ken what’s best for my clan better than I do?” I challenged, the words emerging more heated than I’d intended.
Annoyance flashed in his gaze, but then he blew out a long breath and said, “Of course, nae nephew. I merely offer my experience to supplement yer own.”
“I ken yer trying to help,” I said, softening. “God above kens I’ve nae been the best laird in quite some time, but I’m going to change that.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said, but there was a stiffness in his tone that belied his words.
Perhaps he simply didn’t believe me, and I couldn’t fault him for that.
I drew in a long breath and thought carefully what to say to show him I valued him, but that I did intend to take control back fully.
“I’ll consider yer counsel, Uncle, as I always do.
But the final decision on how my men train and fight remains mine alone. ”
“Of course,” he conceded, though his tight tone told me I’d wounded his pride. “Was there something specific ye sought me out for?” he asked. “Ye seemed troubled when ye entered.”
The question yanked me back to the reason I’d come here in the first place, my anger about the training schedules momentarily forgotten. The fury that had propelled me through the castle after leaving Murieall returned in a rush, bringing with it the bitter taste of betrayal.
“It’s Murieall,” I blurted, unable to even say her name without feeling the sting of her deception. “She’s admitted everything to me.”
His brow furrowed. “Admitted what, exactly?”
I paced now, my boots wearing a path across the stone floor as I struggled to articulate the madness of it all. “She claims a witch sent her here,” I said, the words sounding even more absurd spoken aloud. “A witch named Morgana, who cursed her to hear the voices of the dead.”
“The dead?” His voice held a note of skepticism that matched my own feelings on the matter.
“Aye, the dead. And this witch supposedly promised to lift the curse if Murieall came here and—” I faltered, the humiliation of it burning in my gut. “If she made me feel again.”
“Feel again,” he repeated slowly. “And ye believe this tale?”
I shook my head. “Nay, but she seemed so genuine, so—” I broke off, unwilling to reveal how deeply I’d been taken in by her. How completely I’d lowered my guard. I turned to face my uncle.
“The lass has taken ye in,” he said, his surprise apparent in his voice.
“I told ye I do nae believe her tale. Nae really. Though she was so earnest when she spoke of her curse.” I growled. “Bah! I’ve been made a fool. She claimed to hear Isabella.”
Uncle Gordon’s eyes turned to slits of anger. “Perhaps the lass truly is mad,” he said, “but more likely, she’s scheming for some purpose we simply do nae see yet.”
I snorted, a harsh sound devoid of humor. “What purpose could there be to tell me she’s heard Isabella speak to her from the grave?”
“Let me think,” he said, rising. He crossed to a side table where a decanter of wine sat, dark and gleaming in the morning light streaming through the narrow window.
“We’ve a lass who apparently lied and manipulated her way into yer castle, yer bed, and I daresay yer trust,” he said, his back to me as he poured the ruby liquid into two goblets with deliberate slowness.
I watched his hands, noting how steady they remained despite the tension that had filled the solar. “What we must do is figure out why.”
He turned, extending one goblet toward me. “Drink,” he encouraged, lifting his own goblet in a small toast. “Ye look like ye need it.”
I hesitated, keenly aware that I’d only just started to emerge from the fog I’d lived in for two years, and the wine had been part of my problem. I took the goblet from him, but set it down, instead of imbibing.
Uncle Gordon said nothing, though his gaze fell to the goblet before returning to my face.
“Curious timing, her arrival,” he remarked, swirling the wine in his goblet as he leaned against the table’s edge.
“Just as ye were beginning to find yer way back from grief, this lass appears with her tales of curses and witches.”
“I do nae think I can say I was on the brink of finding my way back,” I replied. Murieall’s presence had been the thing to reach me finally.
Uncle Gordon clapped me on the shoulder. “Ye do nae give yerself enough credit. I saw signs that ye were returning to us.”
“Did ye?” I asked, frowning. “Such as what?”
“Ye were nae any longer drinking all day every day.”
“Oh, aye. I took a break to swim in the loch from time to time,” I grumbled.
“Let us examine another angle,” he said, avoiding the truth of how I’d been.
“What angle?”
“Mayhap James brought her here?” he replied.
“What nonsense is this?” I demanded, aware of the constant discord between my uncle and James. Both wanted what was best for me, but each had their own idea of what that meant.
“Hear me out,” Uncle Gordon said, to which I nodded. “I saw James and the lass whispering together in the garden. They had their heads bent close as if conspiring.”
I frowned, recalling how James had advocated for Murieall from the beginning, how he’d seemed to know more about her than he should have.
Small moments I’d dismissed returned to me now—James smiling at her across the great hall, escorting her to the solar where my daughters played, arranging those ‘accidental’ encounters between us.
“Ye do nae think James is bedding the lass?” Uncle Gordon asked, the question landing like a blow to my gut.
“Nay,” I said, rejecting the suggestion immediately. James was my oldest friend, my most trusted advisor. He wouldn’t betray me like that.
Yet doubt crept in, cold and insidious. I remembered James leading Murieall in the dance last night, her face alight with laughter as they moved together, as if their conversation had seemed intimate, private.
“Ye’d notice such a thing, of course,” Uncle Gordon said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “Ye’ve always been observant when ye’re nae in yer cups.” He paused, watching me over the rim of his goblet. “Though perhaps that’s the verra reason for all this.”
“What are ye suggesting?” I asked, though a creeping dread told me I already knew.
“Mayhap they’re conspiring now to make ye seem mad,” he said, his tone now low and urgent.
“Ye’ve come to me, after all,” he added.
“Talking of ghosts and curses. Mayhap they are trying to prod ye to talk to others as well. Yer men when ye train. The servants. Whispers would start. People would think ye unfit to be laird.”
The suggestion was so outlandish that I nearly laughed. “James has been loyal to me since we were lads,” I protested, though my voice lacked the conviction I would have had last night. “He would nae seek to undermine me.”
“Would he nae?” Uncle Gordon countered, setting his goblet down with a soft clink.
“Ye’ve been distant these past years, Munro.
Consumed by grief, by wine. The clan needs strong leadership, and James has been providing much of it in yer absence.
” He sighed heavily, as if reluctant to continue.
“It would nae be the first time a right-hand man grew tired of serving a laird he deemed unworthy, and the men respect James, are loyal to him, and the women think him honorable. He’s strong.
He’s clearheaded. Much younger than me, who would be the only person even remotely capable of challenging him once he got ye out of the way. ”
Images flashed through my mind of James taking command during the MacTavish raid when I’d been too drunk to lead, James settling disputes among clansmen while I brooded alone in my chamber, James bringing my daughters home, who were missed and beloved by my clan, when I couldn’t bear to look at them.
The mere notion of such a betrayal made me feel sick.
With a shaking hand, I grasped my wine goblet and downed the contents.
“I do nae want to believe it either, Munro,” Uncle Gordon said, the words heavy with sorrow. “But do ye remember how Laird MacPherson lost everything to his most trusted advisor? The man convinced everyone the laird was moon-touched, hearing voices and seeing spirits.”
A cold weight settled in my chest. I wanted to dismiss my uncle’s words as paranoia, as manipulation, but they burrowed into the wound Murieall’s betrayal had left, finding fertile ground in my battered trust. Was it possible?
Could James and Murieall be working together to undermine me?
To make the clan believe I was unfit to lead?
“I could be wrong,” Uncle Gordon said, his voice gentle now, apologetic. “I hope I am. But as someone who wants only what’s best for ye and for the clan, I would be remiss if I did nae warn ye to be careful.”
My mind churned with suspicion and doubt, replaying every interaction with James and Murieall in this new light.
The solid ground I’d thought beneath my feet seemed suddenly treacherous, shifting.
“I should go,” I said abruptly, setting the empty goblet down with more force than necessary. “I need to think.”
My uncle nodded. “Of course, nephew. But remember to trust yer instincts. Ye’ve always had good ones, when ye’re clear-headed enough to heed them.”
I left the solar with my uncle’s words echoing in my mind, each step heavier than the last. The betrayal of Murieall had been painful enough, but the possibility that James, my oldest friend, my brother in all but blood, might be part of it was almost more than I could bear.
And yet, a voice whispered in the back of my mind, what if my uncle was right?
What if I had been blind to a conspiracy forming right under my nose?