Chapter 10
The midpoint of Callum’s shoulders itched, as if somebody was staring at him so intently it made him flinch. He longed to turn around, to look back at her, but forced himself to stay straight-backed and rigid. The door slammed shut behind him. He imagined the tapestry flapping back into place.
Melody did not come after him, which doubtless meant that she’d chosen the wiser path of obeying him.
He was glad about that, or so he told himself.
Having her here was… it was a distraction.
She spoke without thinking, asked too many questions, and her presence seemed to complicate things, even without her uttering a word.
Yes, it was better that she wasn’t here. He didn’t want her to be here.
Neatly sidestepping a pair of nervy-looking ambassadors for two separate clans, Callum strode straight to the drinks table.
“Whisky, double,” he ordered sharply. The servant in charge of the table mutely poured the drink, then watched in sharp horror as Callum drank it down in one long gulp.
“Another,” he demanded, setting down the glass with a clack.
“Steady on, man,” murmured a familiar voice. Callum gave a quick glance at the man standing beside him and gestured for the servant to pour the drink.
“Leave me be, Angus. Ye ken how much I hate these political gatherings. I daenae much appreciate havin’ to leverage my own betrothal as an opportunity to please various ambassadors and council members.”
“That’s a fair thought,” Angus agreed. “But ye are nae an ordinary man celebratin’ yer betrothal. Ye are Laird MacDean, and things are different for ye. Ye ken this already, I think.”
Callum turned away from the drinks table, clutching a greasy glass of whisky. He sipped this drink a little more slowly. Already, the alcohol he’d drunk was congealing inside him, sitting on an empty stomach and making him sick. His wits were not shaky yet, but nausea had begun to set in.
“Thomas Johnson has left,” Angus added in an undertone. “He took himself off, but I would have asked him to go in any case. I can track him down and have him imprisoned till the weddin’ is over.”
Callum flinched hard. “Nay, I daenae want my former father-in-law thrown into the dungeons. The man is grievin’.”
Angus shrugged. “If he frightens her away…”
“He’s grievin’. He lost his child. He still blames me for it.”
“He mustn’t,” Angus responded sharply. “Yer marriage is the clan’s future.”
“I heard that the council does nae approve.”
“They daenae. She’s English and would nae have been their pick. But that does nae matter. What matters is that ye are settlin’ down at long last.”
Callum eyed his friend thoughtfully for a long moment.
It was not exactly a secret that Angus had hoped that his niece would become Lady MacDean.
He’d never said as much, but then Angus was very good at saying what he wanted to say without using his words.
Most of the councilors had a relative or friend they’d like to see Callum marry.
And while many lairds did marry into other clans to cement their alliances—or in some cases, they married rich women to get themselves out of trouble—it was equally common to hear of lairds marrying local women, women who were guaranteed to be accepted by their clans.
It was not a terrible idea. And perhaps if Callum had not long since decided never to wed again, he would have chosen from his own Keep. Not Kat, though. Kat was too much like her. Like Elsie.
Callum swallowed down a knot of misery and anger, pointedly turning away.
“I suppose ye are right, then,” he said aloud, hoping against hope that Angus would take the hint and move away, leaving Callum to his thoughts.
“Is Lady Melody returnin’ to the party?”
“I think nae. She’s tired. A great deal has happened to her over the past few days, and she is exhausted.”
Angus grunted. “That is fair. So long as she’s been seen, that’s all that matters. I’ll leave ye to mingle, me Laird.”
Callum inclined his head, not turning around. He heard Angus walk away and allowed himself a long exhale of relief.
Another half an hour, then he could slip away. The party would keep itself going without his input. Already, Callum’s skin itched. The room was too hot, too noisy, too much.
Lucas was nowhere to be seen; he’d sent Melody away, and now the place was just full of strangers with their wide, assessing eyes, watching him scornfully. He wondered, not for the first time, what words rolled through their heads when they saw him.
Kinslayer.
His fingers tightened reflexively around his glass, and he forced himself to drink down the whisky in one long gulp before he could risk cracking the glass.
“There ye are, me Laird.”
He sighed at the familiar voice. “I thought I had nae seen ye yet tonight, Grandmother. I’d hoped that ye would do the sensible thing and spend a quiet evenin’ in yer room.”
She snorted. “Does that sound like me?”
It did not. Callum turned, meeting his grandmother’s thoughtful eye. She was wearing one layer fewer of her blankets and shawls, but she was still wrapped up too tightly for the room’s heat.
“Are ye nae dyin’ of warmth, Grandmother?”
She chuckled. “Me, lad? Nay, I am old. My paper-thin skin and cracked old bones daenae keep me warm as they used to. Now, enough chat about me health. Where is Melody?”
“Gone to bed.”
“Gone to bed? What for?”
“She was tired. She was!” he added defensively, when Sophie narrowed her eyes at him. “Besides, she was talkin’ without thought and would have embarrassed me in front of others. Lucas asked her to dance, and she accepted far too eagerly. She is meant to be me betrothed.”
He hated how that sounded. He hated how murderous the thought of another man touching her had made him, even if that man was his good friend trying to get exactly this reaction from him.
Surely, it wasn’t because he wanted to be the only man who ever touched her.
He certainly did not want to claim his fake betrothed, possess her every breath, her every thought. Every curve.
That would be very wrong. Thankfully, he only cared for his reputation. He couldn’t care less what Melody did, who she let touch her or whom she touched.
Sophie stared at him for a long moment. As always, Callum found himself unable to read his grandmother’s expression. In her own words, she’d lived too long to be easily deciphered.
“Why, Callum, I do believe that ye are jealous,” Sophie said at last, incredulously. “Ye are angry that Lucas asked her to dance, and ye are angry that she accepted with delight.”
“What nonsense!”
“It is nae nonsense. Oh, me boy, ye are in deep trouble.”
“Enough, Grandmother!”
Sophie shook her head, ignoring him. “I ken that ye are nae in love with Melody. What purpose this sudden, strange betrothal serves ye is beyond me, but I willnae question it. It’s clear to me, however, that ye are growin’ fond of the lass.”
“I am nae fond of her. This is a purely strategic move, and I’ll thank ye nae to question me motives in public.”
Sophie gave a gurgle of laughter. “Ye never were a good liar, lad. Ye are fond of her. Jealousy doesnae show itself over people we are indifferent to. Well, this is a nice turn-up, is it nae? Ye might fall in love with yer wee bride-to-be after all.”
Callum set down his glass with a click and rounded on his grandmother.
“This has gone far enough,” he growled, meeting her gaze squarely and holding it.
“I have enough to manage with me rebellious council, with me old father-in-law visitin’ with the express intent of stirrin’ up trouble for me, and now with a betrothed who seems keen to embarrass me at every turn.
I cannae manage with ye turnin’ against me, Grandmother. ”
Sophie was quiet for a long moment, staring up at him through narrowed eyes.
“Turnin’ against ye? Come, lad, ye cannae believe that,” she murmured quietly.
“Well, ye are nae with me, then.”
“And why should ye believe that? I am in yer corner and always have been. I’ll nae mince my words, because a laird ought to hear honesty from those around him, especially his family. If ye are growin’ fond of the lass, is this nae a good sign? In a marriage…”
“Enough,” Callum snapped. He could hear the strain in his own voice. “Grandmother, enough. I daenae wish to discuss this matter with ye.”
“But…”
“Nay buts. I’ve had enough of this party, so I’ll take my leave.”
“Ye cannae leave.”
“I am the Laird, Grandmother. I can do as I wish. Ye, Lucas, and Angus can manage the party in me absence. This thing is political, and nobody will care very much that I am nae there. Now, goodnight, and I daenae wish to be disturbed any more.”
He did not stop to hear what his grandmother made of his statement.
There was never any sense in arguing with his grandmother.
She was as sharp as a dagger’s point and entirely too good at using her words as weapons.
Callum strode away, elbowing his way through the crowd until he reached a narrow doorway which opened into a corridor behind the gallery.
It was easier to breathe out there, away from all of those endless people.
It was not a good idea to allow himself to stop and breathe—some busybody might see the Laird slip away and decide to follow him and lock him into a conversation—so he set off at a brisk walk.
The back corridors led him effortlessly toward his destination—the tower.
Once inside his familiar, round study room, Callum allowed himself to breathe.
A fire had not been made up in the grate, so the room was dark and cold.
That was all right. It gave him something to do, lighting the candles and building up a fire until the flames jumped high up the chimney, casting a flickering light over him and sending out a prickling heat.
Callum stayed where he was for a moment, kneeling before the hearth and staring into the flames.