Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Connor walked slowly through the gardens with his grandmother at his side, the late summer air carrying the scent of herbs and damp stone.
Margaret’s arm was looped through his, light but steady, her pace unhurried as if she knew he needed the calm.
He cleared his throat, jaw tight, and finally spoke of the letters Fergus had shown him, the ones thick with sour pride and wounded vanity from the other Lairds.
“They’re affronted I dinnae pick one of their daughters,” he said flatly, gaze fixed on the gravel path beneath his boots.
Margaret huffed softly, a knowing sound, and patted his arm.
“Aye, well, that’s nay surprise, Connor,” she said, her voice warm but firm.
“It’s been the way of clans for generations, marryin’ power to power and name to name.
” She glanced up at him, eyes sharp despite her age.
“They expected ye to follow the same path yer faither did.”
Connor scoffed, stopping short and turning to face her fully.
“To hell with tradition,” he said, heat rising in his chest. “I willnae choose a wife like she’s a bargainin’ chip or a bit of land to be traded.
” His voice lowered, fierce and certain.
“Choosin’ a woman from me own village tells me people I see them as equals, nae subjects. ”
Margaret studied him for a long moment, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“Ye’ve always been as stubborn as granite,” she said at last, though there was pride beneath the teasing.
She squeezed his arm again and urged him to walk on.
“But daenae mistake tradition for cruelty, lad; it once served a purpose, even if ye’ve chosen a different road. ”
They resumed their slow walk, passing rose bushes heavy with bloom and a pair of gardeners bowing as they went by.
Connor exhaled, temper cooling but conviction unshaken. “Eva kens the land, the people, the hard seasons,” he said, more quietly now. “She’ll care for this clan because she’s lived among them all her life.”
Margaret nodded, her steps measured. “That’s a rare strength,” she agreed. “Many a highborn bride never learns the names of the folk she rules, much less their troubles.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “But ye’ll face pushback, Connor, and ye ken it.”
He let out a short laugh, humorless. “I’ve faced worse than sharp words on parchment,” he replied.
“If they think a few letters will sway me, they ken little of me.” His shoulders squared as they neared the archway leading back into the castle.
“I’ll nae be bullied into choosin’ a bride for appearances. ”
The light dimmed as they entered the corridor, stone walls cool and echoing around them.
Margaret’s voice softened, though it carried easily in the narrow space.
“Yer faither would’ve argued the same, though he’d have wrapped it in cruel words.
” She smiled faintly. “He, too, believed respect must be earned from the ground up.”
“Then maybe I learned somethin’ right from him after all,” he said. He glanced down at his grandmother, gratitude plain in his eyes. “I just wish Michael were here to see me wed and have a life by me side.”
Margaret stopped and turned to him, lifting a hand to his cheek. “He is, in his way,” she said gently. “And he’d be proud ye chose with yer heart and yer conscience, nae fear.” Her lips curved into a small smile. “The clan will follow ye, Connor, even if the other Lairds grumble.”
Connor nodded, resolve settling like iron in his bones as they continued down the corridor.
“Let the other Lairds write their angry letters and complain I dinnae choose their daughters to wed,” he said quietly.
“I’ll build a future that belongs to us, nae one borrowed from old expectations.
” His stride grew firmer with each step.
Later that day, Connor walked toward the training grounds, the morning sun casting long shadows across the courtyard.
Suddenly, the sharp call of the guards at the gate rang out.
“Riders approach!” Connor’s brow furrowed as he hurried toward the gate, his pulse quickening.
As he drew closer, he saw David, his man-at-arms, flanked by scouts, returning from their mission.
Connor strode up to him, his voice sharp. “David! What news? Speak quickly, what did ye find?”
David took a deep, steadying breath, his chest rising and falling with effort. “I… I think we saw Michael, Laird… he’s alive.”
Connor felt his knees give way beneath him, a sudden weakness stealing his balance. He stumbled, grasping the edge of the gate for support, and had to drop onto a nearby bench.
David’s eyes widened in concern. “Laird, ye all right? Sit yerself, take a moment, ye look near to faintin’.”
Connor gritted his teeth and steadied himself, refusing to let panic rule him.
“Aye… I… I’m here. Tell me, David, tell me exactly what ye mean. Daenae spare me a single detail.”
David nodded solemnly. “We were on the road to McKay lands, stopped at an inn at the crossroads. There, a young man, aye, fifteen years of age by me reckonin’, bore the birthmark ye described, on the left side of his neck. He was surrounded by McKay guards, and we heard them call him Michael.”
Connor’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with shock.
“Ye… ye say his name was Michael?” His voice trembled, disbelief and hope tangled together.
David nodded, his tone firm. “Aye, Laird. It’s him, or by all signs it must be. I watched him, studied him, the mark… It’s the very same. He obeyed the guards, but they called him Michael plain as day.”
Connor’s mind spun, thoughts crashing over him like a storm. “This… this cannae be… after all these years, after all we’ve mourned… Michael… alive?”
David moved closer, lowering his voice, steadying Connor with his presence. “I ken, Laird, it’s a shock, but I swear by the saints, what we saw is true. I wouldnae bring such news lightly, nae after all these years. I cannae be for certain it is him, however.”
Connor clenched his fists, pacing in a small circle, fury and disbelief warring with hope. “If he lives… then why is he with McKay guards? And why has nay one spoken of him before? Somethin’ is foul in all this.”
His eyes darted down the road as if the answer might suddenly appear on the horizon. “David… I thought I buried him in me heart, thought I mourned him fully.”
David stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I ken, Laird. I wouldnae risk misleadin’ ye over this, nae for all the lands of Scotland.”
Connor ran a hand through his hair, his mind a whirlwind. “Tell me, did ye hear them speak of why he’s there, or what his dealings with McKay might be?”
David shook his head. “Nay, Laird. They only mentioned him as Michael, and he obeyed the guards without question. We overheard nothin’ of his history or why he’s with them. I feared ye might react thusly, Laird, but I had to bring ye the truth at once.”
Connor clenched his fists, feeling both hope and rage twist in his chest.
“Hope… Hope is a cruel thing, David. It lifts ye and then drops ye into despair. If it truly is Michael, then the world must explain itself. How did he survive? Who dared touch him? And why has McKay taken him under their guard?” His voice trembled, half with fury, half with the raw ache of long-buried love.
David placed a hand lightly on Connor’s shoulder. “We cannae ken all the answers yet, Laird, but we can follow him. We can watch, see what he does, and perhaps find a way to bring him home.” His eyes were steady, offering the strength Connor felt he might need.
Connor closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, then opened them with renewed determination. “Aye, we will watch, and we will learn. If McKay has him, they will rue the day they laid hands on me brother. I will find him, and I will keep him safe, even if I must tear the world apart to do it.”
David nodded gravely. “As ye say, Laird. I will prepare the scouts. We will ride discreetly, nay banners, nay attention. Plain cloaks, quiet tongues, and eyes everywhere we go.”
Connor straightened, a steel in his spine returning.
“Good. I will gather what I need, and we will not waste another moment. Michael’s life was stolen from me once, David, I will nae lose him a second time.
” He paused, running his hand down his face, feeling the mix of anger, relief, and fear swirl inside him.
“Gods above, David… if he is truly alive… I must see him with me own eyes.”
David watched him closely, knowing this revelation would change everything. “Ye will, Laird. And when ye do, we will make sure nay harm comes to him again. I swear it.”
Connor nodded, eyes burning with a fierce resolve. “Then ready the horses, David. We move tonight, and we keep our eyes on McKay lands. Michael … if ye are alive, ye shall nay longer hide from yer brother.”
David inclined his head, already thinking of the strategy, while Connor remained frozen for a moment, staring down the road, imagining the face of his lost brother, the years stolen from them both, and the justice he would claim.
Connor followed David, his mind consumed with the revelation of Michael’s survival.
He hardly noticed the scent of hay or the low whinnying of the horses, his thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief, hope, and anger at the McKay guards.
Every movement felt raw, his hand resting on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes distant as he prepared for the ride.
He barely registered the soft footfalls behind him until a familiar voice called out.
“Connor. Wait. Where are ye goin’?” Eva’s voice trembled, carrying a mix of concern and fear.
Connor froze mid-step and spun toward her, his jaw tight, eyes burning.
“It’s none of yer concern, Eva. Daenae fash yerself with what I do.”
Eva’s brow furrowed, hurt flashing across her face. “Ye need nae be so cruel, Connor. Must ye always lash out at me?”
Connor shook his head, his frustration simmering over. “I am nae cruel, lass. I am… busy. Do ye nae see? I have things that require me attention.”
Eva stepped closer, her voice rising. “Busy? Or just usin’ that as an excuse to push me away? I cannae handle these moods of yers anymore. One moment ye are kind, and the next… it’s as if I mean nothin’.”
Connor’s hands clenched at his sides. “Ye think ye understand, but ye daenae. This is somethin’ I cannae explain.”
Eva’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Then maybe I shouldnae try. Maybe I should stop carin’ at all if ye will nae speak to me.”
Connor’s throat tightened. He wanted to tell her, to spill the truth of Michael, to let her share the burden and the hope, but he could not.
“Eva… ye ken nothin’ of it. Leave it be.”
Eva’s hands clenched at her sides. “Leave it be? I daenae think I can… I… I cannae handle yer silence, Connor.”
With that, she spun on her heel and walked away, leaving Connor standing frozen in the stable aisle. The echo of her footsteps lingered like a knife in his chest. He felt the weight of guilt pressing down on him, a sudden clarity dawning; he had fallen for her, heart and soul, in spite of himself.
Connor’s mind raced, images of her face, her fiery spirit, the way her eyes looked at him, all mingling with the urgency of the news David had brought.
He swore silently to himself that when he returned, if he returned successfully with Michael, he would tell her everything.
He would tell her how much she meant to him, how she had become the first thought in his morning and the last at night.
For now, though, there was no time for confessions, no time for tenderness.
His brother’s life, his flesh and blood, hung in the balance, and Connor would see him brought home if fate permitted.
Every muscle in his body coiled with anticipation, his pulse hammering as he mounted his horse.
The weight of the responsibility, the past, and the unknown future pressed on him like never before.
He looked back once, over the dark stables, at the place where Eva had stood.
The memory of her expression, hurt and fierce, lingered, gnawing at his resolve even as determination sharpened it.
He exhaled, forcing himself to focus. Michael’s life was out there somewhere, and Connor would not fail him again, not after twelve long years of loss.
David’s hand rested on the reins of the first horse, eyes steady and expectant. “Are ye ready, Laird?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of shared history and trust.
Connor nodded, gripping his reins tightly. “Aye, David. We ride for McKay lands. Keep yer wits sharp and yer eyes open. We find him, or we return knowin’ what has been done.”
The horses whinnied, pawing the ground, as if sensing the urgency of their master’s heart.
Connor swung into the saddle, feeling the familiar strain of leather and muscle beneath him, the wind brushing against his face, and the bite of cold morning air sharpening his senses.
Each thought of Eva, each pang of longing and guilt, was locked away for the moment, set aside in favor of duty and family.
As the column of riders left the castle grounds and the distant turrets of McLaren faded behind them, Connor’s mind remained both burdened and focused. The path to McKay lands stretched before him, dark with the uncertainty of twelve years, but burning with the possibility of reunion.
He pictured Michael, a boy no longer, but now a young man, bearing the mark that only his eyes could recognize. Connor’s grip on the reins tightened.
“I’ll bring him home,” he murmured, voice low, almost to himself, “and when I do, I will return to ye, Eva… and ye shall ken everythin’.”
Connor’s jaw set in grim determination, his chest tight with the weight of hope, fear, and the fire of unspoken desire for Eva. He did not look back again, focusing only on the road ahead, where his brother, and perhaps salvation, awaited.