“More lately than afore. I fear there are problems with her breeding.” Struan broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the pool of juices on his trencher. “That is one of the reasons I called ye back to Dunnedin.”
“There are more?” Robert waited to see what the laird was willing to reveal.
“I thought ye would want to see yer father afore he passed on, of course. And, the clan will need a new steward. I thought ye might be the one for it.”
Robert had wanted to know and now he did. Struan had no intention of claiming him, of acknowledging his rightful place in the clan. He was willing to use him for the good of the clan but would not give him a place within it.
Eight years and no contact should have been enough to wash his heart clean of any longing for being accepted. Eight years of making his own way, of finding his own supporters and family of a kind. Eight years.
But, somehow, just word from the clan had rekindled thelonging he’d thought was dead. The sight of Dunnedin had continued undoing his resolve to expect nothing. And hearing the familiar voices and noises of the village and the keep awakened the desire to be part of the clan where he’d been born and raised.
For naught.
Struan would play out the game forever, never admitting his mistakes, never paying for them. He shook his head.
Well, if there was one thing he’d never been called, it was stupid. He would not start now. Tamping down the feelings that struggled to rise to the surface, he shook his head again— this time in refusal. He wanted it all or nothing.
“Nay. Ye will no’ be the steward of the clan as yer faither was afore ye?”
Struan’s face never flinched, his eyes never narrowed. There was nothing in his expression or voice that would have told another of his cold-hearted deception. But Robert knew, and he pressed the point.
“Is that all yer offering me, Struan?” He waited and watched closely. The answer given now was just as important as the one denied eight years ago.
“That is all I have to offer ye, lad. Will ye stay on as steward?”
Robert kept his expression blank and pulled his emotions under a tighter control. No one would see his longing and his bitter disappointment. He would serve out his last duty to the clan MacKendimen and go back to those who offered him more. Make a life for himself there, since none would exist here.
“Nay, Laird, I canna stay here. I have a place waiting for me at Dunbarton with Duncan.”
“And ye would refuse yer own clan?”
“My own clan? I have no clan of my own. My faither was a distant cousin whose family was taken in by the MacKendimens, but he was never welcomed as a part of it.”
“Robert, ye are putting too fine a point on it. This is yer home.”
“Nay, this is where I was born. My home now lies wi’in Dunbarton, my future with the MacKillops.”
“That is yer decision?” Struan asked once more.
“That is the only decision I can make.” Robert stood, wiping his hands on a napkin, hungry no more. “I will begin my duties on the morrow when Lady Anice feels up to showing me around.” He threw the linen square on the table and turned to leave.
“Anice,” Struan mumbled.
“Pardon?” Robert waited, hands clenched into fists.
“Anice. She wants to be called ‘Anice.’”
Robert turned back to face his father but Struan would not meet his eyes now. “Why?”
“Why what?” Struan was evading the real issues between them.
“Why does she no’ want to have her title used and why did she pass out at table?”
“She haes her own reasons about her name and I respect them. The fainting was due to her breeding.”
“And yer son? Where is he?” The word almost stuck in his mouth. Son.
“Sandy, as he now wishes to be called, is back in London with the king. As he haes been for over six years.” Struan’s tone told him not to push further, but he could not help himself.
