“We have waited long enough!” Murdoch Carson bellowed. His words echoed in the valley, and birds were stirred from their treetop nests. The green was now crowded with townsfolk, wide-eyed and pale, watching the Carson chief with wariness, but the man kept his own gaze locked on Lachlan’s foster father. “I demand a council. Now,” Murdoch said. “This will be settled before my men depart, lest you wish more Blair lives lost this day beyond that of your thieving chief.”
Lachlan and Harrell both drew their daggers at once, and the ringing of steel echoed on the green as the riders followed suit, with sword and dagger of their own.
“We’ll fall upon ye like rats,” Harrell warned. “Nary one o’ ye left in whole-piece before my eyes can blink.”
Marcas stepped between them all, his arms outstretched, turning in a slow circle. “Nay!” he shouted. “There will be no bloodshed this day. God damn whoever dares it!” He flung his arm toward Archibald’s shawl, fluttering like a rag on the wall, and looked back to Murdoch. “We can call no fine until the new chief is named.”
“Then name him and be done with it,” Murdoch said, and to Lachlan’s ears it sounded almost like a challenge. “Is it such a mystery? Everyone along the western coast knows the Blair’s heir is his grandson. You will have no quarter from me for your games.”
Marcas turned his head to look into Lachlan’s eyes, and hope rose inside him. Lachlan stepped toward his foster father, his words coming out low and rushed.
“He’s right, Marcas. I have always been the heir. I—”
Harrell thrust into the conversation. “He disowned ye, lad. Everyone heard it. And there was nae repentance from him in the night, of that I can attest.”
“And I’m to take your word, am I? He wasn’t in his right mind,” Lachlan argued. “That English bastard, Montague—”
“Had naught to do with what yer father did thirty years ago,” Harrell interrupted. “Ye hold the proof of it in yer own hand.” He looked to Marcas. “The fine willna stand for it, Marcas. Ye know what has to be done, well as I.”
Lachlan locked eyes with his foster father, feeling the morning air cut through his shirt like the icy waters of the Keltie, the pendulous weight of his future pulling him down just as surely as water over the falls. He could still see his grandfather’s shawl on the side of the house from the corner of his eye. All he needed do was pull it down and claim it.
Marcas must have read his thoughts. “Lachlan–”
“It’s mine,” Lachlan ground out.
Murdoch’s voice rang out over the green. “As chief of the Carsons, I demand council with the Blair!” His gaze was a weighty thing on Lachlan, taunting him.
The tension between Lachlan and Marcas vibrated, and as Lachlan glanced again at the fluttering scrap of fabric, Harrell called out his own warning. “Marcas…”
Lachlan and his foster father turned toward the house in the same moment, and in hindsight, Lachlan knew he could have reached the plaid before Marcas, could even have taken it from the older man by force if he’d so chosen; fought him for it and bested him. But there had been a part of him that had thought—had hoped—that Marcas was only taking hold of the shawl in order to hand it to Lachlan with his blessing. The fine would listen to Marcas.
But the gray-haired man, the only father Lachlan had ever known, yanked the long sheet from the wall, ripping the corners from the nails and whipping it through the air. He held it in his right fist, the ragged ends now dragging in the mud as he met Lachlan’s gaze.
“Marcas,” Lachlan whispered to him, a quiet plea.
Marcas drew the shawl through his fists, length by length, until it dangled evenly between his two hands. Then he raised it slowly, dropping it over his own left shoulder, tucking both ends over his right hip beneath his belt.
“It’s the law, Lachlan,” Marcas said.
No blade delivered to Lachlan’s heart could have wounded him more, and he felt the physical shudder in his chest.
It was over now. Marcas had sealed his fate.
Lachlan’s foster father turned back to the group of Carsons, who weren’t bothering to hide their surprised and intrigued expressions.
“The council between the clans shall gather in peace at my own house while the old chief is prepared for the funeral,” Marcas called out for the benefit of the entire green, including the townspeople, who seemed frozen into place with wide eyes. He turned his head slightly over his shoulder to address Lachlan but didn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Dand needs be told. I didna wish to rouse him until I knew for certain the Blair was dead. I’ll meet you both there.”
Each pounding beat of Lachlan’s heart was like a blow. Now he was Marcas’s runner? And Dand’s, too, he reckoned. The chief, and the chief’s heir.
It was Harrell who objected, though. “Lachlan’s nae right to be present, and ye know he’ll nae leave once he’s there.” Harrell tossed him a spiteful look. “Want to be sure of hearing everything that doesna concern him.”
“Lachlan is welcome to stay,” Marcas said. “It is my house and it is still his home.”
“He canna address the fine,” Harrell argued.
“I will decide who will and willna speak, Harrell,” Marcas said, and although his voice was low and even, it was very clear that Marcas had had enough of Harrell’s interference. “You demanded law, and so you shall have it. I am the law.” He dropped his eyes to near Lachlan’s boots again. “Will you go or nay?”
