“My Laird,” she said, looking at Laird Buchanan. She didn’t dare look anywhere else, lest the slender thread of hercomposure snap under the strain. “Might we speak privately to discuss this matter?”
She was exactingly polite, and under other circumstances one of her sisters might have teased her for sounding so proper and straightlaced. Now, however, Ailsa could just feel their steady regard. They were watching her for cues—even Vaila. She could not show them the cracks in her composure.
Ewan did not have the same reaction.
“Like hell,” he snapped. “Ailsa, I?—”
“You’ll come too, Ewan,” his father interrupted before Ewan could speak further. Ewan, whom Ailsa knew respected his father’s leadership immensely, snapped his mouth shut. It looked like it cost him some effort, but when his eyes flicked out to the listening clansfolk, she knew he recognized the wisdom of his father’s words, too. “This concerns both of ye.”
Tiny murmurs moved about the room as the three—the Laird, his heir, and the woman who was meant to be the future Lady of the Keep before everything had gone to hell—excused themselves and slipped out the door. There would be talk, Ailsa knew. Talk was the lifeblood of a keep like this one.
But she would worry about it later. Right now, she could only think of herself and her sisters. The rest of it would have to wait.
She gave Vaila a nod as she left, reminding her next eldest sister to mind the two younger ones while she was gone, then squeezed Eilidh’s hand and gave Davina a smile that was likely not all that convincing.
The instant the door to the Great Hall closed behind her, Ailsa’s shoulders slumped.
Ewan’s hand came to her back, steady and reassuring. “Come on now,” he said, gently chiding. “Let’s go talk.”
He kept his hand there as they moved down the hallway, and Ailsa wondered if it wasn’t the only thing keeping her upright. She felt almost sorry when they reached Laird Buchanan’s study,and he waved them into chairs, forcing Ewan to remove his gentle touch.
She practically collapsed into her seat. Ewan, by contrast, looked as though he was struggling to stay down, as though only sheer force of will stopped him from surging to his feet and rushing off to murder Finlay Gordon at that very moment.
“Da,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, in a manner that drew devastating attention to his muscular legs. For once, Ailsa didn’t matter. Even dwelling on the attractiveness of her possible betrothed was preferable to her current circumstance. “Ye cannot even think of returning the ladies?—”
“Nay, of course not,” the Laird interrupted with a disgusted huff.
Ailsa wanted to feel relieved, but tension still thrummed through her body.
“Even if it wasnae as dishonorable as a man could be to turn on his allies at the first sniff of trouble,” the Laird went on, “and even if we werenae talking about ladies, it wouldnae be sensible to give in to these threats. Gordon is a usurper. Usurpers must be punished. Anything less smacks of weakness, which will only bring further trouble to our door.”
Somehow, this was the thing that soothed Ailsa; the idea that the Laird wasn’t going to protect her and her sisters just because he felt obliged, whether due to his own moral code or because he felt he owed a debt to her father, but because it was good sense, too.
Not for the first time—and certainly not for the last, she knew—she wished her brother were here. It was a heavy burden, making decisions for an entire clan. She wished she could share the load with someone else.
“I’m very sorry for putting you all at risk,” she said quietly.
The Laird made a scoffing noise of dissent in the back of his throat, while Ewan looked even more thunderous.
“It’s nae your fault at all, Ailsa,” he seethed. “I’ll nae have ye saying otherwise, do ye hear me?”
Even in these circumstances, Ailsa felt a frisson of excitement over his passionate defense. She swallowed and nodded, though she kept her gaze fixed on her lap.
“Aye, Ewan. Thank ye.”
“Good,” Ewan said flatly. “And, of course, we must wed at once.”
Ailsa’s head whipped over to look at him so quickly that she heard the bones in her neck crack.
“Ye wish to marry me?” she asked. “Still, after all this?”
Part of her was still astonished that he’d been willing to marry her at all, even before Finlay Gordon had threatened war. How could he, when she’d rejected him so viciously?
The look he gave her was determined, unflinching.
“We need to wed, Ailsa,” he repeated. “Until we are married, Gordon’s threat will hang above ye, above us all. Once we marry, I will be the rightful Laird to the Donagheys. Yer leadership will be ascertained, as well.”
This was, Ailsa supposed, not precisely the same aswishingto marry her, but she was not exactly in any position to argue. If he would gain something from the marriage—and the Donaghey lands were no small thing to acquire—she would gain tenfold.
