Lachlan wanted to refuse. But he could think of no other way in the moment to escape the hundreds of Blair eyes still watching him, the scrutiny of the Carsons. He buffeted through both Harrell and Marcas, striding across the green, careful to keep his eyes forward.
He pushed open the door of Marcas’s house—the house he had grown up in—and was surprised to find Searrach sitting at the table. She rose immediately, and her brown eyes were startled, wary.
“Lachlan,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “Is it true? Da would tell me nothing.”
He took a brief moment to observe her—her dark hair, her rounded, womanly shape. Normally, the sight of Searrach could cause Lachlan to forget all thoughts besides taking her to bed. But in that moment, it was as if all desire for her had vanished; what need had he for physical distraction when his soul lay dead on the green?
“Aye,” Lachlan said with a nod. “Archibald is dead. You have to go. There is to be a council with the Carsons. Here. Now.”
“Oh, thank God.” Searrach placed a hand on the tabletop and seemed to sag there for a moment in a strange show of relief. Then she rushed across the floor to throw herself into Lachlan’s hesitant embrace. “Last night Da said you would never be chief. I’m so glad that—”
“It’s Marcas,” Lachlan interrupted, staring over her head at the wall.
He sensed her raising her face to look at him, and he could hear the confusion in her voice. “What?”
Lachlan’s jaw felt made of granite. “Marcas is chief now. I’ve only come to rouse Dand.”
Searrach stepped away from him abruptly, her features pulled together to the center of her face in confusion.
“You should go,” Lachlan said, and turned away to walk to the door set in the partition wall. “I’m sure your father wouldna want you here alone with me.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside the sleeping chamber, shutting out the woman still standing in the main room.
Dand was sprawled on his back on the wooden bed, his unruly hair standing from his head like a thistle bloom. The room was dim, owing to the small, high set windows. Lachlan walked to the side of the bed and stood for a moment, looking down at his younger brother. The heaviness of the moment fell upon him; just as with Marcas, with Searrach, nothing would ever be the same between him and Dand as soon as his brother awoke.
Lachlan’s breath caught painfully in his throat for the second time that young day. He wanted to sit on the edge of the matching bedstead and put his head in his hands. Instead, he kicked the rail at Dand’s feet.
“Huh?” Dand raised up his head and blinked at Lachlan, then promptly rolled to face the wall, pulling the blanket over him completely as he curled up in a ball.
“Get up,” Lachlan said. “Marcas wants you.”
Dand mumbled and squirmed beneath the covers.
“Archibald’s dead,” Lachlan said abruptly. “The Carsons are here, demanding council.”
The tumbling beneath the blankets ceased, and then the coverings were thrown off as Dand sat up. “Do we fight?” he asked, wincing at the dim light.
Lachlan started to shake his head, but then stopped. “I don’t know. Not yet.”
It only took the young man moments to dress, but they both heard the commotion in the next room well before they opened the door again. The house was packed with men, many wearing red, bushy beards. They sat on the low chairs, on the floor, at the table near where Marcas and Harrell stood; they lined the walls. There were even Carsons half in, half out of the doorway. Dand walked through first, and all eyes in the room went to him, and then over his shoulder to where Lachlan stood. The silence was loud.
Searrach had not heeded Lachlan’s directive to leave, and his heart gave a hopeful twitch as she now weaved her wide hips through the tight crowd toward where Lachlan stood, bearing a mug and plate of food in her hands. At least someone was still on his side.
“Good morning,” she said with a bright smile and handed the mug and plate to Dand. Her words seemed clear enough to be heard all the way to Glasgow. “I’ve kept you a place at the table next to your father.”
Dand took the offered sustenance and glanced over his shoulder at Lachlan, who only stared straight ahead, willing himself to show no reaction.
“Let’s get down to it, then,” Marcas called out, at last drawing the attention away from Lachlan. “Murdoch, what is it you have so rudely come demanding on the day our clan has lost its leader?”
“So rudely come, have we?” the red-haired Carson queried. “I’ve never had use for Archibald Blair the whole of my life, and I’ve no shame in saying ’tis glad I am that he’s at last dead. Rotting in hell is my hope.”
The room erupted in shouts, some of the men rising and facing their clan’s enemies, shoving, stumbling.
“That’s enough!” Marcas shouted. “I’ll nae ask you again, Murdoch.”
“Verra well,” the Carson man acquiesced. “We’ve come to dissolve the old treaty. There will be no more trespass on Carson lands—west of the falls and bridge—ever again. Guards have been set, with orders to cut down any Blair who comes in sight.”
The room was tomb silent again.
“Our town depends on the river, Murdoch,” Marcas said levelly. “There’s a reason the waters here are named Starving Lake.”
