13. Night of Many Changes #3
“When I looked at him, Finn… I swear his eyes were like the Earl of Hell himself. I kent from the first moment he walked up to her in town that he was trouble.”
“If you thought all that, why hold yer tongue?”
Callan shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Because I thought I had time. Time to stop this before it went too far. Thought to take care of it without her bein’ involved. I didnae want to be the one to pile another unknown burden on her.”
That stops me cold. “What unknown burdens do you mean?”
Callan’s lips press into a thin line, his shoulders tense. He doesn’t answer, his gaze darting toward the door as if willing someone—or something—to interrupt. The silence stretches, thick and charged, until it’s broken by the soft creak of the study door.
James and Ellen step inside, their faces tight with urgency. Ellen clutches her shawl as if it’s the only thing anchoring her. James’s expression is harder, his usual calm replaced by a fierce intensity.
“Da—” Callan starts, irritation clear in his tone, but James cuts him off with an incisive look.
“Enough,” James says, his voice like a crack of thunder. “We’ve a lot to discuss, and little time to do so,” he asserts. “So for now, we need ye both to keep yer eyes open and yer mouths shut. No more bloody feckin’ fights. No room for mistakes. We’ll explain more... but no’ tonight.”
“What are ye on about, Da?” Callan asks.
James doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns an unusually icy glare at Callan. When he finally speaks, his words come in a long forgotten language: “Tagann aimsir ar cách, toilteanach nó ainneonach.”
Callan’s shoulders slump, and his defiance drains away. For a moment, he looks more like a lad caught misbehaving than the strong, stubborn man I know him to be. His hands fall to his sides, limp and defeated.
I make a note to question the meaning of those words later.
James steps forward, his towering frame casting long shadows in the dim light of the study. “Someone tried to poison the whiskey Callan brought to Edinburgh on this last trip. They added the feints back into the barrels. ”
I stiffen, my gut twisting as pieces fall into place. “How d’ye know it was tampered with?” My voice is calm, but the tension ripples beneath it.
Callan glances at me, his jaw set. “I tested it. I always have the right mind to test before I sell. The feints were added back—someone knew exactly what they were doin’.
I tested it for impurities myself,” he says again, more assured this time, as if repeating it might drive the truth in deeper.
“It wasna sloppy work on my part; it was deliberate.”
“How come you didnae tell me sooner?” I ask, my voice steady but probing.
James fixes me with a look that brooks no argument. “Because we needed time to be sure of what we’re dealin’ with. We’re tellin’ ye now because yer crony here has a temper that could blow everything if he loses his head.”
Callan exhales sharply, bristling but holding his tongue.
Ellen steps forward, her voice trembling but firm. “Ye’ve got to understand, Finn. There’s more to this than ye know—than any of us fully ken. But for now, ye must promise us something.”
“What?” I ask, though I can already sense the answer.
“Be cautious,” James says, his voice like iron. “Watch yerself, watch the property, and by all the gods, keep a watchful eye on my ladies. Don’t go stirrin’ trouble, no matter what ye see or hear. We’ll tell ye the full truth soon enough, but for now…” His gaze hardens. “Jus do as we ask.”
A chill runs down my spine, though I don’t let it show. Instead, I nod, my voice calm and deliberate. “Aye. Ye’ve got my word.”
The room falls into a heavy silence. Callan stands rigid, the tension rolling off him in waves, but he doesn’t speak. James’s jaw tightens, and Ellen’s hands twist the edge of her shawl until her knuckles whiten.
“We’ve made enemies,” I breathe, my voice steady as I meet James’s gaze. “That’s what this is? Someone who wants to hurt us. Or worse.”
James doesn’t confirm it outright, but the flicker in his eyes is enough. “Aye,” he says after a long pause. “But we’ll deal with it. Together. As a family. No rash actions, no mistakes. Understood?”
Callan mutters something under his breath, but he nods. I nod as well, the unease in my chest hardening into resolve. I’ll be damned if I let my guard down.
For now, I’ll play the part. I’ll wait. But my mind is already working, piecing together what little I’ve been told. And Triona …
She needs protection, so I’ll be the one to give it.
“What did James say in there?” My voice cuts through the stillness.
The door to the courtyard groans in protest as we step beyond the threshold. The night air offers no respite from the tempest churning within. Callan follows in my wake, his presence a tangible force, his boots grinding against the earth as he halts beside me.
He exhales, the sound deliberate, measured.
“He said, ‘ Time comes for everyone, willing or not. ’” His voice bears no inflection, but his gaze betrays him—a flicker of unease flashing through his eyes, his fingers twitching ever so slightly at his side before curling into a loose fist. His throat bobs as he swallows, as though forcing something back, but he remains otherwise still, an unreadable mask barely concealing what lingers beneath.
I huff, shaking my head. “How appropriately forebodin’.”
Callan merely shrugs, his arms folding across his broad chest. “It’s something I’ve heard since I was a lad, when my gran was still alive.
She never wavered in the belief that, regardless of our readiness or resistance, change is inevitable.
The only way forward is to prepare and brace yerself.
She bore no fear for the end, whether from wisdom hard-earned, faith unshaken, or sheer defiance in the face of the inevitable. ”
His voice turns distant, as though recalling a time long buried beneath the weight of years.
“I didnae think much of it then—just old words, old wisdom, wisdom that seemed more akin to folly than foresight. Toward the end of her life, I thought my gran a bit batty, murmurin’ of winds that carried whispers, of unseen forces at play.
But now...” He trails off, exhaling sharply.
“Now they toll like bells in the dark—no mere sayin’, but a true warnin’. ”
I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself before speaking. “You know you have to apologise, right?” My words are firm but not unkind, an anchor to pull him from the thoughts threatening to drag him under .
Callan’s near cracking a tooth as frustration courses through him.
He hates apologising. Almost as much as he hates being wrong.
I can see it written all over him, the stubborn set of his shoulders, the way his lips press into a thin line.
For a moment, he looks as if he wants to argue, to push back against the truth.
Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose.
“Aye, I ken,” he grumbles, voice tight with reluctance. “And I hate that ye’re right.”
Without another word, he pivots on his heel, striding away, tension coiled within him like a beast held at bay. The air remains thick with all that remains unsaid, lingering even as his footfalls fade.
I hardly have time to collect my thoughts when I hear footsteps approaching. The sound of purposeful strides disrupts my quiet, and Bran emerges, his usual roguish grin playing at his lips.
“Just the man I was looking for—and, might I add, the most devastatingly handsome man to grace this fine gathering.” Bran smirks, waggling his brows. “By the gods, Finn, you could make a nobleman look akin to a stable hand, and I hate you for it.”
I let out a long, slow breath, dragging a hand down my face. “It’s a true wonder how I’ve put up wi’ you for as long as I have.”
His laughter rings out, entirely unbothered, as he extends a hand, offering a flask. “That’s the last time I try to sweeten you up. I’ll just have to pour all of this honeyed talk into Triona’s ear instead. Can’t let it go to waste, after all.”
“We both know that ye’ve made a muck of yerself more than once in her presence. Ye’re sayin’ this to get a rise out of me, and it isnae gonna happen.”
His smirk widens, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Aye, but one of these days, you’re going to trip over your own stubborn pride and say what you mean. And I’ll be there when it happens—probably with a drink in hand to celebrate the occasion.”
Bran watches me for a beat longer, his smirk lingering but his gaze sharper, more perceptive than ever.
He exhales, shaking his head before shifting topics.
“Word is there was a bit of a stir earlier.” His tone wavers between mirth and concern, though amusement lingers at the edges of his lips. “Are you well?”
I snort, shaking my head. “Remember that fair-haired, soft-handed perfumed fop I laid flat the other day?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement as he shakes his head knowingly.
“Aye, I remember the—what did Callan call him? A lily-livered dandy ?” He chuckles, the words rolling off his tongue with exaggerated mockery before he tilts his head at me, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Why? What happened?”
“Callan planted a fist into his face earlier.”
Bran lets out a low chuckle, the sound echoing into the quiet night. I attempt a smile, but it falters, never reaching my eyes. The levity is fleeting. Bran notes this, his laughter dimming as he studies me more closely, unearthing what I strive to conceal.
“Are you going to tell me if you’re all right?” Bran challenges.
I stand unmoving, the burden of the evening pressing against me. I exhale, long and measured. For a moment, I consider my usual deflection—a jest, a dismissive shrug. But tonight, it rings hollow. My jaw tightens, and I release another breath through my nose.
“No,” I admit, the confession rough-edged, unvarnished. “But I must be, aye?”