Chapter Five
Alex planted her feet firmly on the cold, stone floor of the great hall, despite the throbbing ache drumming at her toes and heels. Refusing to yield to her fatigue and the weight of her grief, she stood, receiving her kinsmen one by one.
Corc, stooped with age, slowly climbed the steps to the high dais and eased stiffly down on one knee in front her. With his head bowed, she strained to hear the words that rasped from his tremulous lips.
“My lady, with gratitude I served yer father, yer father’s father, and I can even recall the days of yer great grandfather’s chiefdom. Happy and blessed are we who have basked beneath the kind justice of their light.”
Alex squatted down and gently clasped the old man’s hands. Imbuing her gaze with a warmth her grieving heart could not feel, she smiled and whispered their clan motto. “Luceo non uro.” I shine not burn.
Corc looked up then and met her gaze. His red-rimmed, faded-blue eyes brimmed with tears. “No light has ever shined brighter than ye, Alex,” he said, his chin quivering.
Alex gently squeezed his hands. “Ye’re too good to me by far, Corc. May all the angels and all the saints bless yer sweet heart.” Helping him stand, she pressed a kiss to his wrinkled cheek before handing him off to Michael, who helped him shuffle back down the stairs.
She turned once more to face the line of kinfolk just as a mop of red hair raced at her. Before she could draw her next breath, Cassie’s slim, wee arms encircled her waist in a clinging embrace. Alex’s heart broke a little more when she looked down into the child’s big, tearful eyes.
“Oh, sweetling! Don’t cry, dear lass,” Alex crooned, swiping Cassie’s cheeks, her own heartache momentarily forgotten in the presence of Cassie’s innocent pain.
Helen came forward then, her nose red, tears freely streaming down her cheeks. “I tried to keep her at home. But when she found out that yer da died, the poor dear has not stopped sobbing.”
Swallowing the fresh knot of tears pushing up her throat, Alex looked back down at Cassie. “Ye and me both,” she whispered.
“I’m so sorry, Alex,” Helen said. Then she shifted her gaze to Mary who stood at Alex’s side. “I hope he did not suffer.”
“We do not think he did,” Mary said, her voice thick with tears.
Alex drew a deep breath, fighting to remain composed. “He passed in his sleep.” Her voice broke, releasing a well of tears beyond the barriers of her control.
Helen pulled both Alex and Mary into a crushing embrace.
“There, there,” Helen crooned softly. “Ye both cry all ye want. There’s no finer man than Donnan; a sea of tears would not be too many to spend on the likes of him.”
“Helen,” Michael said, also drawing Alex’s gaze. “Perhaps ye can convince Alexandria to rest for a spell.”
Mary wiped her tears and nodded. “Please, Alex. If not rest, then at least some food and drink.” Then Mary turned to Helen. “She hasn’t eaten all day, nor has she sat, not once.”
Helen cupped Alex’s cheeks. “The line of mourners yet extends beyond the courtyard gates. Ye’re no good to anyone if ye faint from hunger.”
“Where’s William?” Alex asked Michael.
“He’s gone riding with Gavin to race off some of his grief.”
Alex’s gaze shifted to Mary. Her cousin’s face was a composition of worry and pain. Slowly, Alex nodded. “I will not sit, but I will have some broth.”
Michael disappeared and reappeared in a flash with a bowl in hand, along with a hearty crust of bread. He motioned to her father’s imposing high-backed chair. “Sit just while ye eat, my lady.”
She shook her head, planting her feet wider with new resolve. “That chair will stay empty until it is rightfully filled.”
Michael bowed his head. “And so it shall, my lady.”
Alex moved away from the others with her food. For hours, she had stood receiving her kin—not just the villagers living within the protection of Luthmore but also the cottars scattered across the countryside. Days would pass before the entire clan had come to bid farewell to their beloved laird.
She glanced at the empty chair, and then out across the sea of villagers. Whether conjured by her despair or images of truth, she thought she noticed some of the men eying her father’s seat overly long while whispering to those who stood nearby. She imagined what they said...
There is no heir—only she. Who will fill that chair? Did each man want it for himself?
Whipping wind barreled through the open doors into the great hall, lifting her hair off her shoulders.
She whirled around, her eyes drawn to the wind’s source.
The banner of the MacLeod appeared, followed by a man of great height with broad shoulders and cold, hard eyes.
Behind him followed another man of equal stature, scanning the room with the same harsh gaze.
A heavy pulse of thick dread coursed through her.
She had known her neighbors would call, but she had not believed they would call so soon.
She turned and motioned for a servant, quickly handing off the sustenance she had barely tasted.
Then she returned to stand in the middle of the high dais right in front of her father’s chair.
Gordon MacLeod strode past the line of villagers.
Her pulse raced harder. She was weary. The weight of grief bogged down her mind, sapping her strength.
She was not ready for a standoff with the MacLeod, but that did not matter—it couldn’t matter.
Her people needed her to be strong, and that is what she would do.
Steeling her courage, she widened her stance and looked the MacLeod boldly in the eye as he stopped at the foot of the stairs.
Despite being on higher ground, his great height reduced the impact of her strategic placement.
Still, she elongated her back to claim every advantage of her position.
She wanted to rid her people of fear. She wanted them to feel secure in the absence of their laird, especially in that moment of intense, vulnerable grief.
Fear was all too easy a pathway to turn down when hearts were broken.
“Gordon MacLeod,” she said, speaking first. “Ye have come, I ken, to pay yer respects to my father and my kin.”
The MacLeod dipped his head to her, his brow pinched with a sadness that did not reach his eyes. “Clan MacLeod mourns the passing of Donnan MacKenzie,” he said loudly for all to hear.
She clenched her fists. He clearly wished to convey his own message to her people.
The MacLeod turned then, showing her his back, and raised his hand to beckon the attention of everyone in the great hall.
“But Clan Mackenzie, know this—while yer chieftain’s chair is empty—I vow to safeguard yer borders.
” Then he turned and looked pointedly at Alex, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder and said, his voice still projecting across the great hall.
“My son, Eudard, is strong. He’s a warrior. He will watch over ye.”
Alex tensed as she locked eyes with Eudard MacLeod.
An arrogant smile curved his lips. She stiffened.
The Laird of the MacLeod had just implied a match between herself and Eudard.
The idea of binding her people to a leader as hard and ruthless as Gordon MacLeod made her stomach twist. She had to fight to suppress the disgust from appearing on her face.
Drawing a deep breath, she spoke loudly to ensure her voice carried to every villager.
“Clan MacLeod is strong, but so too is Clan MacKenzie. I’ve heard tell, Gordon MacLeod, that ye’ve already committed the strength of yer clan elsewhere by forming an alliance with Lord Ruddington, who sits not seven leagues from here in a castle that does not belong to him.
” As she spoke, her confidence grew. She stepped down one step, bring herself eye to eye with the MacLeod.
“I presume then that yer son will be occupied safeguarding the Englishman’s borders. ”
The MacLeod’s nostrils flared at her refusal of his implied proposal. “Lord Ruddington sends his condolences, and if Clan MacKenzie were to give their allegiance to King Edward, Lord Ruddington and his many knights would provide yer clan with protection and greater wealth.”
She wanted to rail at him. How could he betray Scotland?
But she knew she was not in a position to provoke the ire of the MacLeod.
“We have long protected our own borders and will continue to do so. Our allegiance is to Scotland. I thank ye for yer sympathies.” She turned to Michael.
“See that Laird MacLeod and his son enjoy MacKenzie hospitality and provide them with supplies to ensure a fine journey home.” Then she curtsied before turning on her heel and striding away with her head held high.
The moment she passed behind the screen, which concealed the stairs to the family rooms, her knees felt like they would give way.
Her heart thundered in her ears. She had held her own, but it had cost everything.
She scurried up the stairs so that she might break down in private.
MICHAEL STOOD JUST outside the solar and listened to Alex’s sobs.
He wanted to comfort her, but having known the lass her whole life, he knew had he shown himself, she would have choked back her tears and swallowed her pain.
He shook his head, regretting the enormity of pressure weighted on her young shoulders.
For years now, she had been the acting laird of Clan MacKenzie, but always in secret.
Now that her father was dead, she would feel the full weight of that responsibility.
The eyes of the clan were on her, watching, hoping, waiting—but there was only so much a woman could do.
And the presence of the MacLeod today made it clear that everyone was very aware that Clan MacKenzie had no man to assume the role of chieftain.
This had to be remedied, and sooner rather than later, but now was not the time.
He also knew it was essential that Alex be allowed to grieve.
Michael’s opportunity to discuss Alex’s need for a husband came just two days after the Laird’s funeral.
He sought her in her solar to discuss the harvest. Once everything had been addressed, Michael cleared his throat.
“My lady, we need to discuss what happened when Laird MacLeod came to...uh...pay his respects.”
Alex stood in a huff and crossed to the mantle, taking down her father’s sword. “Pay his respects? That’s a very polite way of saying circling for the kill.”
“Aye, well that, too. The point is, ye were right.” Michael cleared his throat again as he crossed the room.
“Clan MacKenzie has always protected its borders. We do not need the MacLeod or King Edward’s protection.
” He paused, waiting for her to look at him.
When her eyes locked with his, he said, “But the clan does need a chieftain.”
Her nostrils flared. “I have been this clan’s chieftain for the past three years.”
Michael nodded. “Aye, ye have, but in secret. Alexandria, ye’re still a woman.”
With a fierce yelp, she swung the heavy sword and brought it down on the mantle, its blade sinking into the wood.
Breathless, she yanked the sword free and turned to face him.
“I ken ye’re right.” She leaned the sword against the wall and expelled a long breath.
“There’s no way around it. I’ll just have to find myself a husband. ”
She crossed to a side table and poured two cups of wine. Handing one to Michael, she gestured toward the high-backed chairs facing the cold hearth and said, “My father is dead. ‘Tis up to us to sort the matter now.”
She sat down and sipped the wine. “So,” she said.
Next to her, Michael cleared his throat. “So,” he said in reply.
“A husband,” she muttered before taking another sip.
“Aye, a husband,” he repeated.
Frustrated, she set her cup down and scooted to the edge of her seat, turning to face Michael. “This shouldn’t be so difficult. ‘Tis only a husband. Ladies secure husbands every day.”
Michael shifted in his seat, mirroring her body language. “Right,” he said. “’Tis just a husband.”
She stood up then and started pacing in front of the hearth. “Exactly. We just need a man. Any man should do. Why not any one of the MacKenzie warriors.”
Michael shook his head. “Nay, my lady. The MacLeod offered ye his son, and ye publicly rejected him. If ye were to now marry a commoner, doubtless ye’d start a feud. We are the stronger clan, but ye don’t want to go looking for trouble.”
She stopped dead in front of Michael, her hands on her hips. “I’m not marrying Eudard MacLeod. He is a beast of a man.”
“I agree, my lady. But having just received his offer, albeit indirectly, ye now must marry someone of noble birth.” Michael raked his hand through his hair.
“After Robin died, yer father should have betrothed ye to another man straightaway. Now what do we do? I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about finding ye a husband. ”
Alex sat down again. “I can do it.”
“Ye,” Michael snorted. “What are ye going to do? Solicit lords and clan chieftains on yer own behalf.”
She slumped back in her chair. “I suppose ye’re right.” Then a moment later she jumped to her feet. “I’ve got it. Abbot Matthew!”
Michael frowned. “Ye can’t marry the abbot.”
Alex laughed out loud for the first time in days. “Michael, I think ye’re the one who needs rest. What I meant is that Abbot Matthew can find me a husband.” She crossed to the large table on the other side of the room. “I will write to him straightaway and tell him all that has occurred.”
She took up her quill and began to compose her letter, pausing only when she heard Michael sigh dramatically. She looked up, meeting his gaze.
He shook his head before downing his portion of wine. “Matchmaking monks—this is bound to go well.”