“Leave me be, Angus. Ye ken how much I hate these political gatherings. I daenae much appreciate havin’ to leverage my own betrothal as an opportunity to please various ambassadors and council members.”
“That’s a fair thought,” Angus agreed. “But ye are nae an ordinary man celebratin’ yer betrothal. Ye are Laird MacDean, and things are different for ye. Ye ken this already, I think.”
Callum turned away from the drinks table, clutching a greasy glass of whisky. He sipped this drink a little more slowly. Already, the alcohol he’d drunk was congealing inside him, sitting on an empty stomach and making him sick. His wits were not shaky yet, but nausea had begun to set in.
“Thomas Johnson has left,” Angus added in an undertone. “He took himself off, but I would have asked him to go in any case. I can track him down and have him imprisoned till the weddin’ is over.”
Callum flinched hard. “Nay, I daenae want my former father-in-law thrown into the dungeons. The man is grievin’.”
Angus shrugged. “If he frightens her away…”
“He’s grievin’. He lost his child. He still blames me for it.”
“He mustn’t,” Angus responded sharply. “Yer marriage is the clan’s future.”
“I heard that the council does nae approve.”
“They daenae. She’s English and would nae have been their pick. But that does nae matter. What matters is that ye are settlin’ down at long last.”
Callum eyed his friend thoughtfully for a long moment. It was not exactly a secret that Angus had hoped that his niece would become Lady MacDean. He’d never said as much, but then Angus was very good at saying what he wanted to say without using his words. Most of the councilors had a relative or friend they’d like to see Callum marry.
And while many lairds did marry into other clans to cement their alliances—or in some cases, they married rich women to get themselves out of trouble—it was equally common to hear of lairds marrying local women, women who were guaranteed to be accepted by their clans.
It was not a terrible idea. And perhaps if Callum had not long since decided never to wed again, he would have chosen from his own Keep. Not Kat, though. Kat was too much like her. Like Elsie.
Callum swallowed down a knot of misery and anger, pointedly turning away.
“I suppose ye are right, then,” he said aloud, hoping against hope that Angus would take the hint and move away, leaving Callum to his thoughts.
“Is Lady Melody returnin’ to the party?”
“I think nae. She’s tired. A great deal has happened to her over the past few days, and she is exhausted.”
Angus grunted. “That is fair. So long as she’s been seen, that’s all that matters. I’ll leave ye to mingle, me Laird.”
Callum inclined his head, not turning around. He heard Angus walk away and allowed himself a long exhale of relief.
Another half an hour, then he could slip away. The party would keep itself going without his input. Already, Callum’s skin itched. The room was too hot, too noisy, toomuch.
Lucas was nowhere to be seen; he’d sent Melody away, and now the place was just full of strangers with their wide, assessingeyes, watching him scornfully. He wondered, not for the first time, what words rolled through their heads when they saw him.
Kinslayer.
His fingers tightened reflexively around his glass, and he forced himself to drink down the whisky in one long gulp before he could risk cracking the glass.
“There ye are, me Laird.”
He sighed at the familiar voice. “I thought I had nae seen ye yet tonight, Grandmother. I’d hoped that ye would do the sensible thing and spend a quiet evenin’ in yer room.”
She snorted. “Does that sound like me?”
It did not. Callum turned, meeting his grandmother’s thoughtful eye. She was wearing one layer fewer of her blankets and shawls, but she was still wrapped up too tightly for the room’s heat.
“Are ye nae dyin’ of warmth, Grandmother?”
She chuckled. “Me, lad? Nay, I am old. My paper-thin skin and cracked old bones daenae keep me warm as they used to. Now, enough chat about me health. Where is Melody?”
“Gone to bed.”
