Rory turned to her with a polite smile. This was the twin he should focus on—the one least likely to put an arrow through him or challenge his every word. “Aye, verra comfortable, thank ye.”
“The weather has been quite unusual for this time of year, has it nae?” Lenora continued, folding her hands neatly in her lap as servants began to place trenchers of food before them. “I’ve been observing the cloud formations these past days. Yesterday, we had the most fascinating array of clouds. They appeared almost like layers upon layers. I’ve noticed that when I see clouds like that in the sky, the weather changes.”
“Is that so?” Rory replied, reaching for his goblet as Lenora launched into a detailed description of clouds that he had never once considered in all his years of life nor cared to now.
She continued for some time, and he tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but it was nearly impossible, and she did not seem to notice his waning interest. “Today, the clouds were fluffier and appeared to look almost like sheep’s wool. I find them more akin to the texture of a particular stitch I’m using in my latest knitting project.”
Rory took a long drink of his wine, as Lenora droned on about knitting, and his attention was drawn to the conversation happening on his other side.
“The English king’s demands are nothing short of absurd,” Lillith was saying to her uncle Brus. It was obvious by the animation in her voice that she cared greatly about the topic she spoke about. “He claims the southern border lands belong to England based on a treaty signed under duress ages ago. Any fool can see ’tis merely a ploy to test our king’s resolve.”
“Ye may be right,” Brus replied, seeming genuinely interested in his niece’s opinion. “But King Robert kinnae afford to appear weak, especially nae with the northern clans already restless.”
Rory leaned slightly toward their conversation, surprised by Lillith’s knowledge of the ongoing border disputes that constantly troubled Scottish-English relations.
“King Robert should propose a new treaty altogether rather than arguing over the old one,” Lillith said. “Create something that addresses the current concerns of both crowns, nae just rehash ancient grievances.”
Rory nearly choked on his wine. It was the exact strategy his da had suggested to their king’s advisors months ago, though the council had dismissed it as too innovative. To hear it from the mouth of this golden-haired hellion in hunting leathers was… unexpected.
“What think ye of the situation, Matheson?” Brus suddenly asked, catching Rory eavesdropping.
Rory straightened in his chair, momentarily tense at being caught. “I believe the lass speaks sense,” he admitted. “Fresh negotiations would serve both kingdoms better than clinging to disputed parchment.”
Lillith’s eyes widened with what looked to be surprise before narrowing with definite suspicion. “Ye’ve an interest in politics?”
“I am my father’s heir,” he replied simply. “Understanding such matters is my duty.”
“The cloud formations are changing again,” Lenora interjected from his other side, clearly unaware of the conversation she was interrupting. “I expect we’ll see a completely different pattern by morning. ’Tis much like the changing patterns in a knitted shawl, which reminds me of the one I just completed.”
Rory nodded politely while considering a future that seemed suddenly far too clear. Wed to Lenora, his life seemed destined to be filled with endless conversations about weather patterns and knitting stitches, while real matters of importance—clan politics, border disputes, alliances—remained undiscussed with his wife. He blinked at the thought. He hadn’t known until this very moment that he would want to discuss such matters with his wife. He’d only ever considered that he didn’t want to fight with his wife like his da and mama fought.
He glanced at Lillith, who had resumed her animated discussion with her uncle, gesturing emphatically as she argued some point of diplomatic strategy. There was fire in her, a keen intelligence that matched the physical courage she’d demonstrated in the woods.
She would make a formidable partner in ruling a clan—challenging, certainly, but never dull. A man would never fear his mind growing stagnant with such a woman by his side.
Rory silently cursed himself for the thought. He had already decided which twin would make the better wife. Lillith wasexactly the kind of woman he’d vowed to avoid—headstrong, defiant, with a razor-sharp tongue. She was his mama all over again, and he had spent his childhood watching his parents’ marriage dissolve into constant conflict.
Yet as Lenora began describing the exact shade of blue she planned to use for her next knitting project, Rory could not help but find his attention drifting once more to Lillith, who was now gesturing passionately about something called ‘diplomatic leverage’ that had her uncle nodding thoughtfully.
“What do ye make of clan negotiation, Matheson?” Brus MacLeod’s question pulled Rory from his thoughts. The man stared at Rory with shrewd, but not unfriendly, eyes. “’Tis an art form unto itself, would ye nae agree? Different entirely from battlefield strategy, though nae any less vital to a clan’s survival.”
Rory nodded. “My da often says a good negotiator can accomplish more with words than ten warriors can with swords.”
Brus smiled. “Yer da is a wise man, despite our clans’ differences.” He took a drink before continuing. “I’ve found, in my years as branch laird, that sometimes the most unexpected allies can prove the most valuable in negotiations.”
“What do ye mean?” Rory asked. His da had taught him much about clan politics, but he was always eager to learn more.
“Take my wife, Sebille,” Brus said, gesturing toward a striking woman with amber eyes who sat further down the table. “Three winters past, the Ferguson Clan was encroaching on MacLeod hunting grounds. Small skirmishes broke out, and it seemed we were headed for open conflict.”
Rory raised an eyebrow. The Fergusons were known for their stubbornness and fierce pride. “There was nae a war?”
“Nay,” Brus confirmed. “Because while I was busy exchanging threats with Laird Ferguson, Sebille befriended his wife at a gathering in Edinburgh. Within a fortnight, she hadnae only learned what the Fergusons truly wanted—access to a particular glen known for medicinal herbs they needed—but had also crafted a compromise that would benefit both clans.”
“A trade agreement?” Rory guessed.
“Aye. They gained seasonal access to the glen, and we received a portion of their fine wool.” Brus chuckled. “Sebille presented it to me as if it were my own idea, clever woman that she is, and I presented it to Ferguson the same way. Both of us saved face, and both clans prospered.”
“’Tis a fine tale,” Rory acknowledged. The idea of a woman playing such a crucial role in clan politics was unusual but not entirely foreign to him. His own clan had several elder women whose counsel was valued, though never openly acknowledged.
