Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Eva rode onto the McKay lands with her spine straight and her hands folded in her lap, the weight of the day pressing upon her chest. McLaren guards surrounded them in quiet formation, their cloaks dark against the gray sky that hung low with mourning.
She leaned closer to Connor, keeping her voice low so only he could hear.
“Connor,” she whispered, “are we safe here, truly?”
She felt eyes on Connor the moment they dismounted, sharp and resentful. The looks followed him as he walked, unbowed, toward the gathered clan.
He did not look at her as he answered, his gaze steady ahead.
“For now, aye,” he murmured, “nay soul would dare spill blood at a funeral and shame their dead.”
They moved among the McKay folk, Eva’s heart pounding as the tension thickened the air. She glanced at Michael, who stood pale and rigid, his grief a quiet storm behind his eyes.
“Will they come for ye later?” she asked Connor softly.
“I daenae ken, but in time they’ll see this as justice, nae cruelty, for Jack’s sins were his own.”
The funeral grounds were set upon a rise overlooking the glen, the earth freshly turned and dark with rain.
Men stood bareheaded, women wrapped in black cloaks, the wind tugging at wool and hair alike.
At the center lay Jack’s coffin, simple oak bound with iron, marked with the McKay sigil.
A hush fell as the kirkman stepped forward, his voice solemn and worn.
“We gather this day,” the kirkman said, “to commit Jack Welsh, Laird of Clan McKay, unto God’s mercy and the earth from which he came.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as he spoke of judgment and forgiveness, of sins weighed and souls answered for.
Eva listened, her fingers tightening in Connor’s sleeve as the man intoned.
“Let us pray for peace among the livin', that bloodshed may end here.” The words felt heavy, as though spoken directly into the rift between the clans.
Michael stepped forward when called, his voice shaking as he spoke a few halting words.
“He raised me,” he said quietly, “and for that I will always grieve him, though truth be a cruel companion.”
Some McKay women wept openly, while others stared hard at Connor, their grief edged with fury. Eva felt torn between sorrow and fear.
The kirkman lifted his hands once more. “Lay to rest, Laird McKay,” he said, as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
A McKay elder spoke next, his tone clipped as he thanked those who had come, his eyes never leaving Connor.
“May the dead rest,” the elder said, “and the livin' choose their paths wisely.”
Connor inclined his head, accepting the words without flinch.
As the final prayers ended, the wind picked up, scattering heather petals laid upon the grave. Eva felt Connor’s hand find hers, grounding her amid the murmurs and shifting stares.
“It’s done,” she whispered, unsure if she meant the funeral or the long shadow of Jack’s deeds.
“Aye,” Connor replied softly, “and now we walk forward, whatever comes.”
They turned to leave, Michael lingering a moment longer before the grave. Eva watched him place a small stone atop the mound, his jaw tight with grief and resolve. When he rejoined them, she offered a small nod, one of shared endurance. Together they walked back toward the carriages.
She watched Connor walk beside his brother, her heart tightening at the sight of the lad’s bowed head.
Michael’s shoulders were hunched as though the weight of the world pressed down upon them, his youth no shield against such grief.
His face was pale and drawn, eyes fixed on the ground with a sorrow too old for fifteen years.
Eva felt a deep ache for him, knowing no words could mend such loss.
She stepped closer to him as they walked, her voice gentle.
“Michael,” she said softly, “are ye alright?”
He lifted his gaze, eyes shining with unshed tears, and shook his head.
“Nay,” he answered, his voice rough, “I daenae ken how to be.”
He drew a breath and spoke again, the words tumbling out as though long trapped. “I mourn me faither, for he raised me, though he did terrible things,” Michael said. “But I’m lost as well, for I daenae ken who I truly am.”
Eva nodded, her chest tightening, and said, “It’s a cruel tangle of truth and grief ye’ve been given.”
Connor slowed his stride and turned to face Michael, his voice firm yet kind.
“Ye daenae need to decide anythin’ this day,” he said. “I want ye to stay at Castle McLaren, with me. Ye are of Clan McLaren and it is yer home. Ye are me brother, whether ye believe it yet or nae.”
Michael swallowed hard and nodded slowly. “I’ll stay, then,” he said, “for I cannae return to the Welsh home, nae after this.”
They resumed walking, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as the carriage came into view. Eva felt the tension ease just a little, replaced by a fragile sense of shelter forming around Michael. She admired Connor at that moment, the quiet strength he offered without demand.
“Ye’ll find yer place,” Eva said softly to Michael, “even if it takes time.”
Michael gave her a small, grateful look. “Thank ye, Eva,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The driver opened the carriage door, and one by one they climbed inside. Eva settled onto the cushioned seat, smoothing her skirts as Michael sat across from her and Connor beside her. Outside, the guards mounted up, ready to escort them home.
As the carriage lurched forward, Eva glanced at Michael again. He stared out the small window, watching the McKay lands slip past as though memorizing them for the last time.
“It’s strange,” he murmured, “leavin’ a place when ye daenae ken if it was ever truly home.”
Eva nodded slowly. “Home is more than land,” she said, “it’s the folk who choose ye.”
The road stretched ahead, winding through hills and fields now softened by evening light.
Eva watched the countryside pass, her thoughts drifting to the future that awaited them.
There would be questions, pain, and healing yet to come, but also belonging and truth.
She silently vowed to stand by both brothers, whatever path lay ahead.
When they returned to Castle McLaren, Eva followed Connor and Michael into the solar as dusk settled, the tall windows glowing with the last amber light of day.
A long oak table stood near the hearth, set with trenchers of bread, wooden bowls, and chipped pewter cups.
The air smelled of roasted venison, leeks, and barley broth, rich and comforting after the long road.
Eva felt a quiet gratitude settle in her chest as they took their places, a family supper at last.
Servants moved softly as they laid out the meal, pouring ale and setting down platters still steaming from the kitchen. There was oat bannock warm from the griddle, butter melting into its cracks, and a dish of turnips mashed with salt and herbs.
Connor broke the bread and passed a piece to Michael, his voice gentle.
“Eat, lad,” he said, “ye’ve had a hard day and need strength.”
Michael took it with a small nod, fingers trembling just slightly. “Thank ye,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the table.
She watched Connor pour broth into Michael’s bowl without comment, the gesture simple and kind. Michael swallowed, then cleared his throat as though bracing himself.
“I owe ye an apology,” Michael said at last, his voice low but steady. He looked up at Connor, eyes bright with emotion. “I should’ve believed ye when ye said ye were me brother.”
Eva held her breath, sensing the weight of the moment.
Connor set his spoon aside and met Michael’s gaze. “There’s nay need for apologies,” he said quietly. “Anyone would be in disbelief to hear such a thing, and it’s nae easy to come to terms with.”
Michael’s shoulders eased just a little at those words. He looked down and pushed his food aside. He had barely touched it. “I wish I could’ve kent our parents,” he admitted, grief softening his tone. “But at least I’ve the chance now to get to ken ye.”
Eva felt her eyes sting, moved by the simple honesty of it.
Connor leaned back in his chair, studying his brother with care. “I wish that too,” he said, his voice thickening, “if we cannae change what was taken from us, we should make the best of the time we have. What we can do is make up for the lost time and be true brothers.”
Michael stared at Connor’s hand for a long moment before placing his own atop it.
“I’d like that,” he said softly. “I daenae ken all the rules of bein’ a brother, but I’ll try.”
Connor smiled then, a real smile that reached his eyes.
Eva watched them, her heart swelling as the firelight danced over their faces. She spoke gently, not wishing to intrude yet unable to stay silent.
“Ye’re both stronger than ye ken,” she said, “and this table will always be a place for truth.”
Michael glanced at her and gave a shy smile.
The servants returned with a dish of honeyed apples and cheese, setting it between them as the night deepened outside. Connor poured another round of ale, lifting his cup slightly.
“To family,” he said simply.
Michael echoed the gesture, his voice quiet but sure, “To family.”