Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Connor sat behind his desk the next morning, quill in hand and a stack of correspondence before him. He had returned late from the ceilidh, soothing over the hurt pride of Lairds who wanted their daughters considered to be his wife.
Now the study smelled of ink, parchment, and the faint smoke of the hearth as he tried to ignore the chaos of the previous night.
The door opened without a knock, and Margaret swept into the study.
She moved with surprising vigor for her seventy years, tartan skirts swishing and silver hair pinned in an uncompromising knot.
Her chin was lifted, her eyes sharp enough to cut through stone.
Connor closed his eyes briefly, bracing himself.
“What happened last night with that young village lass?” Margaret demanded, planting her hands on her hips.
Connor did not bother looking up as he dipped his quill. “Ye wanted a granddaughter-in-law,” he said coolly. “And ye’ll be pleased to ken ye now will have one.” His voice was dry as old parchment.
Margaret gasped, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “Ye married her outright, did ye?”
Connor lifted his gaze slowly, meeting hers with an unimpressed stare. “Nay,” he said. “But the matter is settled well enough.” He set the quill down before she could snatch it from his hand as she sometimes did when she wanted his undivided attention.
“Who is she, then?” Margaret pressed. “Who are her relations? I ken every respectable family from here to the far glens, and I’ve never once seen that lass.”
“She’s Eva Whyte,” Connor answered, leaning back in his chair. “A villager from just below the castle. Ye’ll learn more in time.” He kept his tone final, but Margaret was not a woman easily deterred.
Margaret narrowed her eyes sharply. “In time? What does that mean?”
Connor inhaled through his nose, already losing patience. “I sent a carriage to fetch her and her family. They’ll arrive soon enough. Her mother and wee brother are sick with fever, and our healer will see to them.” His expression softened just slightly at the memory of the cottage.
Margaret blinked, stunned. “Sick? Fever?”
“Aye,” Connor said. “They’ll be tended properly.” His tone left no room for argument, yet Margaret carried arguments the way other women carried knitting.
Margaret stepped closer, lowering her voice to a scolding whisper. “Connor, ye cannae drag a fevered family into a castle full of guests. What if it spreads? What if…”
“It willnae,” Connor snapped. “Nina will isolate them.” His fingers curled around the edge of his desk, his patience fraying thread by thread.
Margaret sniffed loudly. “At least tell me how she came to catch yer eye. She looked nice enough, bonnie in a simple way, but nothin’ compared to the lasses in the hall. Why pick her?”
Connor’s gaze hardened. “Because she wasnae simperin’ at me feet like the others.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “And because it suited me purpose.”
Margaret’s brows flew high. “Suited yer purpose? What purpose is that?”
Connor didn’t answer immediately. A muscle ticked in his cheek as he sorted through words he had no intention of explaining to anyone, not even her. “I daenae owe ye every detail of me decisions,” he finally said.
Margaret huffed, the sound unmistakably offended. “Ye owe me the peace of mind of knowin’ what sort of lass is about to step into the family. Is she gentle? Is she wild? Does she ken how to speak in company? Does she ken how to work? For heaven’s sake, Connor, does she even ken how to curtsey?”
“She kens enough,” he muttered. “And the rest she can learn.”
Margaret let out an exasperated breath, her indignation filling the room like steam. “Learn? Ye say that as if ye picked up a stray animal instead of a woman ye mean to wed. Is she willin’, at least? Did she say aye?”
Connor stiffened. “She will accept what’s set before her.” His tone was a warning, though Margaret never heeded warnings.
Margaret’s mouth fell open. “Connor, ye dinnae force the lass, did ye? Tell me ye dinnae back her into a corner like yer faither would’ve done.” Her voice softened with rare worry.
Connor’s glare snapped to her, as sharp as a blade. “I am nae me faither,” he growled.
Margaret studied him, weighing the truth in his face. “A choice backed by threat is nay choice,” she murmured gently. “But ye’ve a good heart beneath all that stone, lad. I pray ye daenae forget that.”
Connor turned away, refusing to engage further. “I have work to do.” He reached for his quill again.
Margaret did not budge. “Connor, please look at me.”
“I said…”
“This is important and I only think of yer heart, grandson.”
He exhaled sharply and finally lifted his head.
Margaret softened her stance, crossing the room until she rested a hand on his shoulder. “Yer grandfaither made rash decisions when backed into corners,” she said quietly. “But ye… ye must be smarter. Kinder. And if this lass is to be yer bride, ye must treat her as more than convenience.”
Connor felt something tighten in his throat at the word bride, though he shoved it down before it could surface. “It’s none of yer concern.”
“Oh, it is entirely me concern,” Margaret countered. “Ye are the last of the McLaren line. If ye choose wrong, or treat her wrong, it affects every soul beneath this roof.”
Connor pressed his fingertips to his brow. “I daenae have time for this. Eva and her family will be here shortly, and that’s the end of it.”
Margaret straightened, her lips pursed so tightly they nearly disappeared. “Fine. But ken this, I’ll be meetin’ the lass meself. And if she’s to be me granddaughter-in-law, I will judge her with me own eyes.”
Connor gave a humorless laugh. “Aye, I expected as much. Now leave me be.”
Margaret hesitated only a heartbeat before turning toward the door. “I only want ye happy, Connor,” she said softly. “I daenae want ye to live angry as yer faither did.”
He froze at the mention of the man he despised.
Margaret slipped out before he could respond, closing the door gently behind her.
Connor stared at the wood grain of the door long after she left, jaw tight, breath slow. He did not want marriage. He did not want distraction. He did not want anything that pulled him from his resolve for vengeance.
But whether he liked it or not, the lass was coming.
And everything in his life was about to change.
Moments later, another knock at the door sounded through the wood.
“Enter,” he said.
David walked in with the same swagger he carried since boyhood, though his grin held sharper edges these days.
David leaned one shoulder against the paneling, arms crossed as though he had wandered in for idle gossip rather than business.
His eyes gleamed with mischief beneath the dark sweep of his hair, and he clicked his tongue in mock sympathy.
He seemed entirely too pleased with himself, which only meant trouble.
Connor kept his silence, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of asking first.
“So,” David said, voice lilting with amusement, “I heard about the upcomin’ nuptials. Ye move fast, Connor. Faster than any storm on the moors.”
“Aye, and I heard ye dinnae finish yer mission last night,” Connor replied flatly. “Did ye do what I asked, or were ye too busy waggin’ yer tongue?”
David lifted both brows, wounded for show.
He pushed off the wall and paced to the desk, placing his palms on the polished surface as though preparing to deliver a grand tale.
Connor’s jaw ticked, but he kept his stance casual, refusing to be baited by David’s theatrics.
Outside the window, the courtyard clattered with training steel, filling the silence while he waited.
David finally shrugged. “I did what ye asked. I went from table to table, listenin’ and drinkin’ with the loudest fools in the room, hopin’ they kent somethin’. And most of them kent nothin’ worth the spit it took to say it.”
Connor’s shoulders tightened with growing irritation, though he kept his breathing even. His parents and his brother had been slain, with no justice yet in sight after all these years. Every delay felt like a rope tightening around his ribs. He stepped around the desk, eyes narrowed.
“So ye wasted the night,” Connor said. “Is that what I’m hearin’, David?”
David shook his head, lifting one hand in quick protest. His expression sobered, which meant he had finally reached the part Connor needed. He brushed a hand over his jaw and straightened with a seriousness rarely seen in him.
“Nae wasted,” David said. “One of them men had a scrap of truth. He said a merchant passed through the glen near the time yer family was ambushed. And he said that merchant may have seen somethin’, or someone, on that road.”
Connor absorbed this with a slow nod, though his pulse kicked hard against his throat.
The thought of someone having information, any information, burned through his chest. He clenched his fists behind his back so David wouldn’t see the tension in his hands.
Calm was the armor of a laird, and he wore it well.
“And where is this merchant now?” Connor asked. “If he saw the ambushers, he’ll talk. Or I’ll make him talk.”
David exhaled, raking a hand through his hair.
“He’s nae here. Travelin’ north, accordin’ to what I learned. I’ve already set men to track him, but I’ll go meself if ye want it done right.”
Connor nodded once, sharp and decisive. His brother’s face flashed in his mind. He swallowed the pressure knotting in his chest and forced his voice steady. A laird could grieve, but he could not break.
“Continue lookin’ into it,” Connor said. “I’ll nae rest till I ken who swung the blades that killed them. And when I do, I’ll kill every last one of them.”
David gave a grim, loyal nod, the kind that promised blood would spill before the matter ended.
He stepped aside as Connor walked toward the study door, falling into stride beside him with practiced ease.
Their boots clicked in unison on the stone floor, steady and unhurried.
Outside the room, the castle’s daily rhythm thrummed around them, alive and constant.
Connor paused at the head of the corridor, scanning the stone walls as he always did when he left his study.
Every crack, every shift in mortar, every place where damp fought to creep in caught his eye.
His father had taught him that a laird’s first duty was to the strength of his walls, for strong walls meant safe people.
Connor traced the cold surface with the back of his knuckles before moving on.
David chuckled softly behind him. “Ye act like the stones themselves are plannin’ a rebellion, Connor.”
“Aye,” Connor replied without turning. “A wall neglected is a battle lost before it begins. I willnae have weakness in me keep.”
They continued down the hallway, passing servants who bowed their heads respectfully.
Connor nodded back, though his mind remained on the cracks he had seen, the tasks that needed doing, and the endless list of duties that came with the title he had inherited too young.
A laird never had the luxury of a still mind.
His responsibilities pressed on him as heavily as the stones themselves.
David shoved his hands into his belt and grinned. “Ye ken, ye should smile once in a while. Folk might faint from the shock, but at least they’d say their Laird had charm.”
“Charm doesnae keep men alive,” Connor muttered. “Steel, strategy, and sense do.”
They walked out into the courtyard where the sound of blades rang in the air.
Warriors trained in pairs, their shouts echoing against the walls.
Connor watched them a moment, measuring their footwork, gauging their discipline.
His clan’s strength depended on their readiness, and he would accept nothing less than excellence.
David folded his arms. “They’re better than last month,” he said. “Yer drills are workin’. The young ones are faster, and the seasoned ones are sharper for it.”
“Aye,” Connor said quietly. “But there’s always more to do. Always.”
They circled the yard, Connor pausing now and again to correct a stance or adjust a shield angle.
David added his own comments, often teasing but helpful nonetheless, and the warriors straightened each time the Laird’s shadow passed over them.
The men respected him deeply, even in their fear of disappointing him.
Connor carried that weight with the same stern pride his father had before him.
David nudged him with an elbow. “Ye ken, between plannin’ vengeance, choosin’ a bride, and keepin’ a castle from fallin’ down, ye might be the busiest man in the Highlands.”
Connor shot him a withering look. “Aye, and yet here I am listenin’ to ye chatter.”
David laughed, unabashed. “Someone must keep yer head from gettin’ too heavy with all that responsibility. I’m doin’ ye a service.”
Connor huffed, though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.
For a brief moment, the weight on his shoulders eased, held up by the presence of a friend who had stood beside him since they were boys.
Then the moment passed, and duty settled over him again like a cloak.
He turned toward the keep’s inner gate, already thinking of the next tasks awaiting him.
Together they walked on, their steps steady, their purpose shared, and the future, bloody though it might be, drawing ever closer.
But one vision kept entering his mind, no matter how busy the day was, that of the feisty village girl, Eva.
Why do I want to see her again, so soon?