Chapter 1 #2
A dangerous little silence ensued. Lachlan would have laughed if he had been alive. The pain of that imagined laughter was so intense that Donaldina almost lost her balance.
Cormac’s mouth tightened. “Nae one questions yer grief or yer dignity. But the council must consider what is best for Clan MacNicol. The marriage agreement should be voided until the truth of Lachlan’s death is kent.”
“The truth,” Laird MacIver stated dryly, his voice edged with steel.
Cormac faced him fully. “Aye. The truth that Lachlan rode tae war beside ye and returned dead while ye returned living.”
Hushed murmurs resounded across the hall, the weight carrying Cormac’s words dropping like lead on the floor.
“I didnae abandon Lachlan MacNicol,” Laird MacIver answered calmly.
“Words are simple things,” Cormac offered. “The dead cannae contradict them.”
Laird MacIver stepped forward. Three MacNicol warriors along the wall followed suit. One of MacIver's men by the door did the same. In an instant, grief gave way to violence.
“This is me brother’s funeral,” Donaldina snapped, coming between them. “The first man who draws steel in this hall will answer tae me before he answers tae God.”
Laird MacIver stared at Cormac for a long moment before taking a step back. The men did the same.
Outside, the horn sounded. For a brief moment, Donaldina closed her eyes. There would be no more delaying or holding Lachlan in the hall, where firelight still touched him and duty still provided her with something to do. It was time to surrender him to stone.
The procession formed gradually. Lachlan's bier was raised on the shoulders of men. With a low voice beneath the sound of the doors opening, the priest started the prayer in Gaelic. Donaldina positioned herself behind the bier, focusing solely on her brother's plaid.
Outside, the black stone and harsher memory of Dun Ard rose about them. The stronghold seemed to have been carved out of defiance itself as it clung to the western cliff. The sea pounded the rocks below, unseen but never unheard, sending shockwaves through her soled feet.
Donaldina sensed Laird MacIver's presence behind her. It seemed ludicrous that she should be aware of him at such a time. It angered her. But there was a weight to his presence, like thunder outside the hills.
The bier started moving toward the outer path when someone jostled her.
At first, she assumed it was the mourners moving through the gate, but then a shoulder struck her, a cloak brushed against her arm, and the prayer wavered in the wind.
She turned, about to chastise whoever had lost their manners at this hour.
It was Cormac. “Me lady,” he said under his breath, “come quietly,” he said, his fingers closing around her wrist in a painful grip.
She frowned, completely lost for words. Then she noticed the blade in his other hand, held low against the black fold of his cloak. “Release me,” she demanded, her eyes widening.
“Dinnae be foolish.”
His hold tightened, the pain in her bones increasing rapidly.
She twisted sharply. The procession proceeded in a state of disorder all around them, with mourners moving toward the sound of the waves and the priest's broken prayer.
Cormac used the commotion to his advantage, dragging her sideways toward the smaller arch that led to the outer cliff path.
“Let me go!” she snarled.
“I will save ye from him, whether ye have wit enough tae thank me or nae,” he hissed, his eyes barely a slit.
“Ye will save yourself,” she snapped, “and call it loyalty.”
His eyes flared, and suddenly the blade touched her just enough for her to feel the cold iron brushing her throat. The world narrowed. The bier lurched as one of its carriers turned around, causing her brother's plaid to shift. Lachlan could not find peace, not even in death.
“Cormac!” someone cried.
“Stand back!” Cormac ordered.
His voice shifted. The councilman, the reserved mourner, and the devoted protector were long gone. This was the man underneath: harsh, resentful, and convinced that, if he called it that, every desire he had was fair and just.
Donaldina swung her elbow backward, connecting with his ribcage. Cursing, he yanked her even tighter. “Help me!” she called.
Raw and humiliating, the words tore from her.
A few MacNicol men moved forward, then halted.
She noticed their reluctance. They glanced from her to Cormac, from Cormac to MacIver's men, from duty to fear, and back again.
Cormac had been using the language of protection for far too long.
Some still believed him. Others were afraid that if they took action against a councilman, the clan would fall apart before Lachlan's body reached the cairn.
Cowards, she thought to herself.
Cormac pulled her under the arch. The outer path curled around the cliffside, the stones black and slippery beneath her. Beyond the low wall, the land collapsed into white waves that crashed into the black rock deep below.
Donaldina fought back with everything she had. Yet, no matter how much she clawed at his sleeve, how deeply her skin tore as she twisted her wrist, or how she almost slipped when she kicked backward, his blade remained pressed against her flesh, like the icy touch of death beneath her jaw.
“Be still,” he snarled. “Ye will not ruin this through pride.”
“This?” she gasped. “Me brother’s burial? Me clan’s peace?”
“Me clan,” he warned matter-of-factly.
Shouting erupted in the courtyard behind them. Donaldina turned her head as far as the blade would allow. Roy MacIver stood in the open yard. Across the distance, their gazes locked, like a hand closing around her heart.
“Too late, MacIver!” Cormac uttered, his grip on her tightening.
Laird MacIver started forward.
“Move,” Cormac breathed, and dragged her backward onto the cliff path.
Her skirts swayed in the wind. Below, the sea roared. MacIver's blade glinted in the gray light as he strained to close the distance, but the first hard tug had already brought her past the gate, down the narrow trail where one slip would give the storm what it sought.
Donaldina did not waste a single breath to cry.
She chose to scream instead.