Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“This is madness, me laird!”
The words struck the air before Baird had even crossed the threshold of the council chamber. Five men stood waiting around the long oak table, their faces drawn tight with outrage and disbelief.
“Aye,” another said, pounding a fist against the arm of his chair. “Marrying a lass who’s nae even highborn enough tae hold a seat at this table? The Kincaids will be a jest in every hall from here tae the Isles!”
Baird closed the door behind him with deliberate calm. The sound of it latching was sharp enough to still the room. He strode to the head of the table, resting both hands flat upon the worn surface.
“Ye’ve all had yer say,” he said quietly. “Now ye’ll listen tae reason.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
“What would ye have preferred?” Baird asked, eyeing each man in turn.
“That I leave the lass widowed before she’d even wed?
That I shame her kin in front of half of the Highlands, dishonor an agreement me braither swore tae uphold?
That our own clan come out of this, looking fearful and on the brink of destruction? Nay.”
One of the elders shifted uncomfortably. “With respect, me laird, she’s nae a laird’s daughter. A Fletcher’s niece at best, and hardly fit tae rule beside ye.”
Baird’s voice sharpened. “Fit enough tae save ye from hunger.”
That silenced them for a sharp breath. He straightened, and as he continued, his tone hardened to steel.
“Ye ken well our coffers are near empty. The Sinclairs cut off the western routes two months past, and there’s nay trader fool enough tae risk their blades.
Our stores of wheat will barely see us through the next month, never mind winter. ”
He let the words hang there, blunt as a hammer.
“This marriage,” he went on, “was never about bloodlines or finery. It was about survival. Malcolm’s agreement with the Fletchers guaranteed trade.
It guaranteed grain, livestock and most importantly, coin.
If I’d sent Davina Fletcher away after his death, her faither would have shut his gates tae us and cut the deal clean through.
Nae tae mention that we would have appeared weak in the eyes of both our enemies and our allies, fer nae keeping our word. ”
Even if that same word meant him marrying the woman who was supposed to belong to his now dead brother. The thought kept weaving itself into Baird’s conscious mind, like venom spreading throughout his body.
One of the younger men opened his mouth to protest, but Baird’s stare silenced him.
“Think on it,” he continued. “The Fletchers control the eastern routes and the river ports. They’ve grain in abundance, and ships tae carry it. Without them, our people starve. With them, we survive. It’s as simple as that.”
He began to pace slowly behind his chair. “A union with Lady Davina keeps that route open. Refusing her would have been an insult, one we could ill afford. So, unless any of ye have a better way tae fill the granaries before the snows come, ye’ll keep yer tongues still.”
No one answered. The anger in the room had cooled into grudging understanding. A few exchanged uneasy glances, realizing at last that his decision had not been impulsive but necessary.
Baird met their eyes one by one. “This marriage wasnae born of sentiment,” he said. “It was strategy. The clan’s needs come before me own. Before me sorrow. They always have and always will.”
He let the silence linger a bit longer before speaking again. “Now that ye understand why the marriage stands,” he pointed out, “we have a greater matter tae settle.”
The councilmen straightened, sensing the shift in his voice.
“Me braither’s death was nay accident,” Baird continued. “A man daesnae clutch his chest and drop dead at the altar without cause. If it was poison, then someone meant him harm and that someone may yet be among us.”
A murmur rippled around the table.
“Has the healer found something?” Baird asked.
“Nay, me laird,” said Duncan, the steward. “He’s still examing the body. The castle healer’s working with two of the city’s physicians. They’ll send word as soon as they ken the truth.”
Baird’s jaw tightened. “See that they dae. I want every vial, every cup, every scrap of food Malcolm touched brought tae the infirmary fer testing. Leave naething unchecked. If this was murder, I’ll have the name of the man responsible and his head before the week’s end.”
The men exchanged uneasy looks, and the earlier indignation was now replaced with apprehension.
He pushed back his chair and stood, casting his shadow long across the firelit floor. “Until we ken more, nay a word of this leaves this room. The last thing we need is panic spreading through the keep.”
One of the younger councilors nodded quickly. “Aye, me laird.”
Baird’s gaze swept the room, hard as cut stone. “And the same goes fer what was said here about Lady Kincaid. The marriage stands. Ye’ll treat her with the respect due her title, or ye’ll answer tae me.”
A few throats cleared, but no one argued.
Satisfied, Baird drew a long breath. “Good. Now, enough talk. We’ve a hall full of guests waiting tae see that the Kincaids are still strong. The feast begins soon, and I’ll nae have anyone thinking this clan’s broken.”
He started for the door, then paused on the threshold. “Keep yer eyes open,” he added. “Whoever took Malcolm’s life may still be watching us.”
The men bowed their heads in acknowledgment.
Baird left the chamber without another word. His mind churned with too many thoughts of duty, vengeance and survival. However, as he neared the stairs, another image broke through the haze: Davina, pale and shaken, standing alone amidst the chaos.
For reasons he didn’t care to name, the thought of her steadied him. It was time to face the hall. It was time to show his people that their laird and his new bride would not crumble under pressure.
The great hall of Kincaid Castle glowed with torchlight and the shimmer of poured wine. Some laughter echoed off the high stone walls, though much of it rang hollow, for it was born more of nerves than joy.
The wedding feast had begun.
Davina descended the stairwell slowly, with her hand resting on her father’s arm. Ramsay Fletcher kept his spine straight and his jaw set, projecting the calm of a man who had weathered worse storms than this. Still, she felt his grip tighten when every head turned their way.
It was strange, she thought, how quickly the world could turn from horror to spectacle. Not a handful of hours ago, they had carried Malcolm’s body from the hall, and now the same people who had wept were raising cups to toast the Kincaid name.
“Keep yer chin high,” her father murmured quietly. “They’ll take strength from ye if ye look unshaken.”
She nodded, though her heart thudded painfully beneath her ribs. Baird was already seated at the head table, surrounded by his Council and kinsmen. He rose when she approached.
“Me lady,” he said, offering a curt nod before gesturing to the seat beside him.
The feast began with a cheer that lacked conviction, with Baird clearing his throat.
“Me friends,” he began, “taenight we honor a union meant tae strengthen both our families. But also gather under the shadow of a loss none of us could have foreseen.”
A ripple of solemnity moved through the crowd. Kenny bowed his head. Even the rowdiest guests fell still.
Baird lifted his cup higher. “Me braither, Malcolm Kincaid, should be sitting among us.” Tears appeared in his eyes, which he immediately blinked away.
“He was taken from us cruelly and too soon. But I’ll nae let his memory be swallowed by fear, nor by whispers, nor by the weight of what we’ve had tae dae today. ”
His gaze swept the hall, then returned to his cup. “So, raise a dram fer him. Tae Malcom, me braither, yer friend, a man who deserved more years than fate gave him.” His voice broke. “And give him a moment’s silence.”
He bowed his head. The hall followed. Chairs creaked as men stood up. Somewhere, a serving lass sniffled. Even the children, sensing something sacred, fell quiet. After the minute had passed, Baird raised his glass one more time.
“Tae Malcolm!” Baird announced one last time, tears stinging his eyes.
“Tae Malcom!” the clan echoed.
Then, life returned to the hall. Servants continued to pour ale and set steaming platters of venison, bread, and roasted roots across the table. Conversation rose in fragments.
Kenny, the laird’s right-hand man, sat to Davina’s other side. He had the look of a seasoned soldier, all quiet confidence and quick eyes.
“Well, me lady,” he said after a moment, flashing a faint smile, “I didnae think I’d ever see a wedding quite like this one.”
Davina managed a small laugh. “Nor I. I must admit I had hoped fer a less dramatic entrance.”
“Ye handled yerself well, all the same,” he told her. “Nae every lass would stand steady in the face of death, of her betrothed and her own, with a blade at her throat.”
The compliment surprised her. “I wasnae steady,” she confessed. “I was frozen with fear.”
“Aye,” Kenny said, tilting his head. “But ye didnae scream or plead. There’s courage in that.”
Before she could answer, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Across the table, Baird was watching them. She couldn’t read a single thing in his expression, but his gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long before shifting away.
Davina looked quickly down at her plate, pretending she hadn’t noticed. He had every right to observe her and her behavior. She was his wife, after all, even if by circumstance. Still, the weight of his attention made her pulse quicken.
She turned back to Kenny, who was describing the harvest near the border, and forced herself to listen. But her awareness kept slipping toward Baird, drawn by a force she couldn’t quite name.
Then she heard a light laugh from Baird’s other side. A young woman had leaned close to him. She was a bright, graceful thing with auburn curls and knowing eyes. Davina recognized her from earlier introductions. It was Maisey, one of the household gentlewomen.
Maisey was speaking animatedly, her hand resting on the table near Baird’s arm. Whatever she said forced his smile, although his eyes remained sad. The sight of her tightened something strange and unwelcome in Davina’s chest.
What daes it matter? He’s nae truly me husband, nae in any way that counts.
And yet she couldn’t look away. Maisey gesticulated again, and Davina’s jaw clenched before she caught herself. She forced her gaze toward Kenny, trying to focus on his story about the guard rotation, but the words blurred.
“Are ye all right, me lady?” Kenny asked, noticing her distraction.
“Aye,” she said too quickly. “Of course.” She reached for her cup, nearly sloshing ale onto the table. “I’m only tired.”
Across from her, Baird’s eyes met hers for the briefest moment. If he noticed her discomfort, he gave no sign
The music began then, a soft strain of harp and fiddle.
Guests rose to dance, and the mood lifted at last from grim to merely uncertain.
Davina sat back, watching as the hall turned in a slow, uneven rhythm.
Maisey tried to draw his attention once more.
But when Davina dared a glance his way, she found him watching her again.
Her own hands itched with nerves. She could not quite tell whether the ache in her chest was loneliness or anger, or something in between. Whatever the lass told him drew the faintest quirk of amusement to his lips. Davina’s stomach tightened at the sight.
It was ridiculous. She had no claim on him beyond duty. He had married her to honor a bargain and protect his clan, nothing more. Yet the sight of Maisey’s fingers brushing his sleeve sent a sharp, unreasonable heat through her.
Her father was deep in conversation further down the table, paying her no mind. The music changed to a spirited reel, and a few of the soldiers stomped their boots in rhythm, calling for the laird to join.
Davina forced a smile, raising her voice before she could stop herself. “Well, it seems me husband is nae inclined tae fulfil his role taenight,” she said, her tone threaded with jest that sounded far too brittle to her own ears. “Nay dance fer his bride at their wedding feast?”
The words landed like a pebble in a still pond.
Baird’s head turned slowly toward her. His expression didn’t change, but his storm-grey eyes found hers and held them.
Then, he rose from his chair. The hall quieted without him needing to say a word.
He crossed the short distance to her seat with deliberate calm.
When he reached her side, he leaned down just enough that only she could hear him.
“Ye need nae fear, me lady,” he murmured, his voice low enough to raise the hairs at her neck. “I’m perfectly willing tae fulfil me role as husband.”
The warmth of his breath brushed her ear. Davina’s pulse leapt wildly, and there was a betraying flutter beneath her skin. She turned her face slightly, catching the faintest scent of leather and smoke clinging to him, and felt the flush rise hot to her cheeks.
When she found her voice again, it came as barely a whisper. “I… didnae mean—”
“I ken well with what ye meant,” he said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. Then, straighter now, in a voice meant for the hall, he said clearly. “Lady Kincaid, will ye honor me with a dance?”
The hall erupted in cheers. Before she could think to refuse or even to breathe, his hand was at her waist, guiding her up from her seat. Her palm found his, calloused and warm, and the laughter and chatter blurred around them as he led her toward the open floor.
For a moment, she could do nothing but look at him. The man she had thought carved from stone was looking at her as though she were the only one in the room. The fiddles struck up the next tune, and Baird drew her close.
If the clan wanted a show of unity, they would have it. But as he turned her in time to the music, Davina realized there was something in the way he held her, something not born of duty at all.
And that was what frightened her most.