Kenneth stood there for a moment longer, listening to the quiet of the keep, the weight of what lay ahead settling over him – Council, ceremony, responsibility – and beneath it all, a fierce, unwavering certainty.
Finally, he moved away, stepping toward his own door only a few paces further on. He paused as footsteps echoed along the stone passageway toward him.
A voice called his name. “Laird Kenneth.” A young squire hurried toward him, breathless, clutching a small parcel to his chest.
“Sire,” the boy said, bowing quickly, “this package has just arrived. It bears the king’s seal. We thought it best ye see it at once, even though the hour is late.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Adark and venomous snake coiled at the pit of Kenneth’s belly at the sight of the red wax seal and the embossed crown pressed deep into its surface. The English king did not trouble himself with pleasantries or good tidings – especially where the Scots were concerned. Only bad news travelled with such ceremony.
Without a word, Kenneth took the package and turned sharply away, striding down the corridor. He would go to his study, where he could face whatever message awaited him in solitude. Dread settled heavily in his chest as he entered the room. He stoked the fire, adding another log until the flames leapt higher, chasing the chill that had seeped into his bones. Only then did he take his seat.
He rested the package on the table, his fingers tracing the raised crown, chafing at the reminder of how tightly the English king sought to bind him – and the MacDonald lands – to his will. Pouring himself several fingers of whisky, he sat back once more, gazing into the fire as thoughts of royal interferenceand encroaching authority pressed in. He drew in a deep, slow breath and exhaled just as slowly, his blood already heating. It was no time for his rage to take over.
Taking another sip and drawing in a deep breath he finally broke the seal.
Inside lay a lengthy missive.
The king began with practiced courtesy, acknowledging the long history of Clan MacDonald, even reaching back to the founder, Dòmhnall, and the Lords of the Isles, when the seas themselves had fallen under MacDonald charge. The words were measured, imperious, yet almost respectful.
Then the tone shifted, and Kenneth’s banked rage grew hotter.
The king claimed to have been informed of a brewing clan war between the MacDonalds and the MacLeays. He commanded that the lairds of both clans meet at once to discuss their differences and come to an agreement – or at the very least, a truce – to prevent further bloodshed.
Should they fail to do so, the king would consider their actions rebellion against the Crown. In that event, the lands of both clans would be forfeit.
Kenneth laid the parchment flat upon the table, his heart pounding, his hands turning to fists. This wasexactlywhat hehad feared – a calculated maneuver to seize control of their territories.
He snorted in disgust. The king’s spies would know well enough that reconciliation between Laird Aidan MacLeay and Laird Kenneth MacDonald was impossible. What had passed between them had forged a blood feud and Kenneth well knew that Aidan would never relinquish his hunger for vengeance over Eilidh’s death.
This was a trap. An all too obvious ploy by King George to confiscate the lands of two clans.
Kenneth kept his breathing steady in an attempt to dampen his fury.
Tomorrow, he would lay this letter and the king’s demands before the Council. The situation offered no easy solution, yet one truth remained immutable – the MacDonald lands would never be surrendered to the Crown.
Gritting his teeth, Kenneth returned to stand by the hearth, the crackle of the fire punctuating his thoughts as memory and pride stirred within him. The MacDonald name was not merely ink on parchment or a courtesy acknowledged by an English king. It was blood and salt and iron.
His ancestors had ruled those islands long before English crowns turned covetous eyes northward. They had answered to nay king but their own, holding the western seas with strengthand cunning before they were even aware of England and long before England had learned to fear the Highland clans.
Kenneth’s jaw tightened as he stared down at the letter. The MacDonald lands were more than territory to be bartered or seized. Every glen and shoreline bore the memory of those who had lived and died to keep them free. He loved the harsh beauty of that land just as he loved his people, their steadfastness, their hard work, their defiance and their refusal to bow down.
He would not betray his legacy. Not for threats thinly veiled as diplomacy, and not for the convenience of an English crown.
Somehow, he must find a way to thwart the king’s command without plunging his people into ruin. Aidan MacLeay’s hatred burned too hot for peace, yet Kenneth could not afford open defiance – not now, when the king watched so closely, waiting for the slightest excuse to strike.
He turned from the fire and made his way back toward his bedchamber, carrying with him the weight of history, duty, and an unshakable determination to see his clan endure.
As he strode the passageways leading him to his chamber, another, more personal unease – one he had, so far, refused to acknowledge – forced its cruel way to the surface.
Selene.
She was soon to be his bride, yet she was also the daughter of an English aristocrat, raised beneath the banners of a crown that demanded her obedience. From childhood, loyalty to the English king would have been impressed upon her as a virtue, with absolute obedience framed as duty. Courtly manners, measured speech, and allegiance to royal authority would have shaped her world long before she ever set foot upon MacDonald land.
If he defied the king openly, where would that leave her?
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
