important matters to discuss.”
Many of the men raised their tankards to their laird before turning back to dice and card games. A piper was beginning to play, along with several drummers. It was the time of night when the Chisholms retainers relaxed, the only time of day they allowed themselves the luxury of being at ease. Broen’s own men were quieter and merely sipping at the cider. The MacNicols retainers wouldn’t be at ease unless they were secured behind the walls of their stronghold, Deigh Tower.
“Ye know the way of it well, Broen.” Faolan led him down a well-lit hallway. Both men still looked at the ground to check for shadows before going too near a connecting corridor—no fortress was fail-proof, as Broen had proven when he’d stolen Clarrisa.
“But ye should also know me family has more to lose if the king gains a York-blooded son,” Faolan continued.
“Now, I will nae agree with ye on that point.” Broen followed Faolan into a chamber. He recalled it well from when it had belonged to Faolan’s father. Faolan smoothed a hand over the edge of the large table. A large chair sat behind the table, one worthy of the laird.
“I remember standing next to ye while me father scowled at the pair of us over this table.” Faolan sat in the large chair. “I still find the chair a bit uncomfortable for that very reason. I expect me sire’s ghost to arrive at any moment and begin giving me hell for the time I spend chasing the lasses instead of doing what he’d sent me to do.”
“Aye, I know what ye mean. Both our sires spent plenty of time trying to tell us how important the responsibility of being laird is, but it’s far more pressing when ye must feel the yoke yerself,” Broen muttered. But he didn’t let his guard down; suspicion was still raising the hair on his nape.
“Exactly. Hearing me father warn us to always remember what we were to become was nae the same as having to curtail me own desires in favor of what is best for me clan.” Faolan frowned. “Which brings us back to the matter of young Clarrisa and the good that can come from having her here at Raven’s Perch.”
“I stole her, so I’ll be the one finishing what I began. If ye wanted the duty, ye had the chance to speak up when yer uncle put the matter to us.” Broen didn’t sit in the chair his friend gestured to. Every muscle in his body was too tight. “Do nae betray the trust between us, Faolan. I would nae have ridden here if I doubted ye were a man I can call a friend.”
“Me position as laird is nae as secure as yers, Broen.”
Broen snorted. “Ye have a distorted view of me position, man. The Grants would love to know I’ve ridden off me land, so they could burn enough of me villages to believe they would have a chance at taking control of me clan. A few of me men would like that as well, because it would give them the chance to start the feud they are demanding from me.”
“Donnach Grant is nearing the end of his days.”
“Not soon enough for my taste. The fact that he’s getting old only promises that I’ll be hearing his son Kael has returned, a man whose loyalty none of us is sure of,” Broen insisted. “I stole the lass, so tell me where ye had her taken.”
Faolan stood, tension evident in his stance. “Wedding Daphne was the only issue we ever fought over.”
Broen nodded. “True enough. Until now, it seems.”
“Ye are nae the only one who wants justice for her death.” There was a warning in Faolan’s voice.
“I am no’ blind to that,” Broen muttered softly. “But ye welcomed me here as a friend, so let me finish what I promised yer uncle I’d do, because forcing Donnach to meet me and explain what happened will give us both the answers we seek.”
Faolan shook his head.
“Curse ye, Faolan.”
The Chisholms laird laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I am that, Broen. Cursed for certain, for I swear to ye I’ve seen young Daphne’s ghost.”
A shiver went
Many of the men raised their tankards to their laird before turning back to dice and card games. A piper was beginning to play, along with several drummers. It was the time of night when the Chisholms retainers relaxed, the only time of day they allowed themselves the luxury of being at ease. Broen’s own men were quieter and merely sipping at the cider. The MacNicols retainers wouldn’t be at ease unless they were secured behind the walls of their stronghold, Deigh Tower.
“Ye know the way of it well, Broen.” Faolan led him down a well-lit hallway. Both men still looked at the ground to check for shadows before going too near a connecting corridor—no fortress was fail-proof, as Broen had proven when he’d stolen Clarrisa.
“But ye should also know me family has more to lose if the king gains a York-blooded son,” Faolan continued.
“Now, I will nae agree with ye on that point.” Broen followed Faolan into a chamber. He recalled it well from when it had belonged to Faolan’s father. Faolan smoothed a hand over the edge of the large table. A large chair sat behind the table, one worthy of the laird.
“I remember standing next to ye while me father scowled at the pair of us over this table.” Faolan sat in the large chair. “I still find the chair a bit uncomfortable for that very reason. I expect me sire’s ghost to arrive at any moment and begin giving me hell for the time I spend chasing the lasses instead of doing what he’d sent me to do.”
“Aye, I know what ye mean. Both our sires spent plenty of time trying to tell us how important the responsibility of being laird is, but it’s far more pressing when ye must feel the yoke yerself,” Broen muttered. But he didn’t let his guard down; suspicion was still raising the hair on his nape.
“Exactly. Hearing me father warn us to always remember what we were to become was nae the same as having to curtail me own desires in favor of what is best for me clan.” Faolan frowned. “Which brings us back to the matter of young Clarrisa and the good that can come from having her here at Raven’s Perch.”
“I stole her, so I’ll be the one finishing what I began. If ye wanted the duty, ye had the chance to speak up when yer uncle put the matter to us.” Broen didn’t sit in the chair his friend gestured to. Every muscle in his body was too tight. “Do nae betray the trust between us, Faolan. I would nae have ridden here if I doubted ye were a man I can call a friend.”
“Me position as laird is nae as secure as yers, Broen.”
Broen snorted. “Ye have a distorted view of me position, man. The Grants would love to know I’ve ridden off me land, so they could burn enough of me villages to believe they would have a chance at taking control of me clan. A few of me men would like that as well, because it would give them the chance to start the feud they are demanding from me.”
“Donnach Grant is nearing the end of his days.”
“Not soon enough for my taste. The fact that he’s getting old only promises that I’ll be hearing his son Kael has returned, a man whose loyalty none of us is sure of,” Broen insisted. “I stole the lass, so tell me where ye had her taken.”
Faolan stood, tension evident in his stance. “Wedding Daphne was the only issue we ever fought over.”
Broen nodded. “True enough. Until now, it seems.”
“Ye are nae the only one who wants justice for her death.” There was a warning in Faolan’s voice.
“I am no’ blind to that,” Broen muttered softly. “But ye welcomed me here as a friend, so let me finish what I promised yer uncle I’d do, because forcing Donnach to meet me and explain what happened will give us both the answers we seek.”
Faolan shook his head.
“Curse ye, Faolan.”
The Chisholms laird laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I am that, Broen. Cursed for certain, for I swear to ye I’ve seen young Daphne’s ghost.”
A shiver went
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