“True enough.” Lucian could hardly speak. Indeed, the actress was screaming in his ear. Her passing – which he did not believe was from her heart – only confirmed his father’s perfidy. The great lengths he’d taken to see his will done.
Clearly, Sally had known or suspected something. But no one believed her. And she’d been silenced before she could convince anyone.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I should go out to the stables, see how the women are doing with your uncle.” Budge edged back toward the still-open door. “By your leave?”
“Aye, go. I’ll join you as soon as I’m dressed.” Lucian strode to the door, waiting there as the steward scuttled away down the long, dimly lit corridor.
Alone again, he wondered if there was some truth to the rumors of darkness at Lyongate. He pushed the notion aside at once. Not an inch of Scotland was anything but good, beautiful, and even soul-stirring.
But he did allow for a strain of wickedness in his family.
Either way, he needed to hurry.
He owed it to his uncle to attend him. Thank the gods his father had possessed a final shred of remorse, using his last breath to confess. Telling his would-be rescuers that, years ago, he’d killed his own brother and buried him in the stableyard…
A dark deed he’d felt compelled to do to ‘save’ Lyongate. He’d declared Uncle Alastair sealed his own grisly fate by declaring his wish to be done with all debt by selling the entire estate. Medieval castle and furnishings, the vast grounds, all clan livestock, even the right to the Black Lyon title.
Lucian’s heart squeezed. He, too, would have reeled at the threat of losing so much.
Lyongate wasn’t just a place.
It was also more than a home.
For the MacRaes of the far north, Lyongate was everything. The wild moorlands and rugged cliffs, the massive castle of ancient stone, even the briny depths of the North Sea, all came together in a tight weave of centuries-old legend and pride. Clan members felt that sense of belonging in every drawn breath, in each beat of their hearts.
No doubt, Lyongate was in Lucian’s blood.
Still, not even such a shattering loss would have driven him to take his uncle’s life.
His father had done the unthinkable.
Then he’d worsened it by rasping that he’d not sinned, for he’d had to seize lairdship. According to the men who’d found him, he’d sworn any medieval MacRae would’ve done the same, securing clan lands at all cost, even if the chief himself stood in the way.
And then he’d died.
Lucian closed his eyes. He pulled a hand down over his face, the weight of guilt – his, or not - almost bringing him to his knees.
But he wouldn’t buckle, wouldn’t weaken or surrender. No matter his lot, the stain that would soon darken Lyongate and his whole clan. He would persevere. He’d live his own ideal of his medieval ancestors, albeit he wouldn’t run around waving a sword or dirking men in their sleep.
He tossed a glance at the window, the distant horizon, silvered by the moon. Then he strode across the room and reached for his shirt and plaid, still tossed over a chair near his bed.
The laird’s bed,by all that’s sacred...
He was now laird.
