“My brother Brus speaks the truth,” Royce said. “My daughter has been… difficult to manage since she was a wee lass, but she’s nae heartless.”
Lillith’s granda cleared his throat. “What my son is trying to say is that Lillith has struggled to find her place in this world since losing her mama at a tender age.”
Despite himself, Rory felt a pang of sympathy tug at his chest, but that did not change the fact that he had no wish towed the hellion. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rory offered. “As to why we are all now in this room, I wish to say that, given I was commanded here by the king’s decree, with great threat to both of our clans if we fail to comply, I intend to honor the decree by wedding yer daughter Lenora.” She definitely seemed the more biddable one. He squared his shoulders, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wound. “I’d like to get the matter over with as quickly as possible.”
The casual dismissal in his tone was deliberate. He needed these men to understand that this was a political alliance, nothing more. He had no interest in pursuing a connection with the hellcat who’d shot him, nor did he harbor romantic notions about her gentler twin. This marriage was a duty, and he would perform it with the same detached efficiency with which he managed his da’s lands.
Yet even as he spoke the words, his thoughts returned once more to Lillith—to the weight of her against him, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way her eyes had flashed when she’d proclaimed her desire to have killed him. He did not want a quarrelsome wife like his mama, and a house of strife he’d grown up in, and so he pushed away the thoughts of the lass. He stood by his decision. He would choose the gentle twin, the one whose quiet demeanor promised peace rather than constant conflict.
“It does nae work that way, Rory,” Iain MacLeod said, breaking the silence that had fallen after Rory’s declaration. The older man had been watching him with an intensity that made Rory distinctly uncomfortable.
“I’m unsure what ye mean,” Rory said. “The king stated that I may choose which twin to wed.”
“Aye,” Iain agreed, settling himself into a chair with the deliberate movements of a man whose joints no longer cooperated as swiftly as his mind. “ButI’llnae agree to either of my granddaughters being wed to a man who has nae taken thetime to know them properly. They deserve that much respect, at least.”
“With all due respect, Lord MacLeod,” Rory said, struggling to keep the edge from his voice, “I already know which twin I wish to wed.”
“Do ye now?” Iain’s eyes twinkled with what appeared to be amusement. “Ye’ve kenned Lenora for all of a few moments, and yer only interaction with Lillith involved her shooting ye and wishing ye dead. That’s hardly a foundation for making a life-altering decision.”
“I do nae need more time,” Rory insisted. “The king has commanded—”
“The king has commanded a wedding by the Winter Solstice,” Iain interrupted. “That gives ye time for a proper courtship. I propose ye use that time to become acquainted with both lasses. If, at the end of that time, ye still wish to wed Lenora, then so be it. But ye might find that first impressions can be deceiving.”
Rory opened his mouth to protest, but his da’s hand on his arm stayed him.
“Yer request seems reasonable,” Rory’s da said, shocking Rory with his acquiescence. “It will give both our clans time to… adjust to the idea of this alliance.”
The other MacLeod men nodded their agreement. Rory felt as though the ground beneath his feet had suddenly shifted. He had come expecting to make a simple declaration, to claim the docile twin and be done with it. Now he faced two fortnights of forced interaction with both sisters—including the one who had already demonstrated her desire to see him dead.
“I already know which twin I want,” Rory repeated, his jaw tight with frustration. “The docile one.”
Iain MacLeod rose from his chair and approached him, clapping a weathered hand on Rory’s uninjured shoulder. “Aye,I’m sure ye do think ye ken what ye want,” the old man said with a wink that seemed strangely knowing. “Time is a gift, son. Take it and ensure ye’re making the right choice.”
Something in the former laird’s tone made Rory’s skin prickle with unease. It was almost as if Iain MacLeod had glimpsed something in him that Rory himself had yet to recognize—a possibility that was unsettling, to say the least.
Iain waited until the heavy oak door closed behind Laird Matheson and his son before allowing the smile he’d been suppressing to curve his lips. He could feel the gazes of his sons and son-in-law upon him, and when he met each one, he understood the concern, bewilderment, and frustration he saw in their faces, but his gut told him he was right to do what he had, and he always trusted his gut. Also, he wanted the feud with his wife to be over, and this would please her.
“Have ye lost yer wits entirely, Da?” Royce demanded, pacing before the hearth like a caged wolf. “We had the perfect solution—he wanted Lenora, who would nae object nearly as strenuously as Lillith. We could have had this settled by nightfall!”
Brus poured wine into goblets, passing them around with a knowing smirk that reminded Iain so much of Marion at her most mischievous that it warmed his heart despite the tension in the room. “Did ye suggest this time because ye think he should wed Lillith?” Brus asked.
“Mayhap,” Iain admitted.
“Is it because she needs the steadying influence of marriage?” Rolland asked.
Iain shook his head, amused. Young men often failed to see what was directly before their eyes. He supposed he’d been like that at their age.
“Are ye going to explain yerself, Da?” Royce finally demanded, turning to face him. “Why insist on this time of… what? Courtship? When the man has already made his choice clear?”
“Because,” Iain replied, settling deeper into his chair, “I see an attraction between Lillith and the Matheson heir.”
The silence that followed his pronouncement was profound. Then, as if on cue, the younger men burst into laughter.
“Ye’ve finally gone daft in yer old age,” Brus chortled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “She shot him!”
“And openly wished she’d killed him,” Rolland added, shoulders still shaking with amusement.
Royce shook his head, looking at Iain as if he’d truly lost his wits. “Da, with all due respect, there is nae attraction there—only mutual loathing.”
