‘I suppose so.’ She bit her lip. ‘Do you think Griffin will keep his word?’
‘If he does not, I will make him.’
‘And how will you do that?’
‘By any means necessary.’
Lowri grimaced at her food. ‘So we really have to do this monstrous thing, get a bairn between us, before Donnan and Rory go free.’
‘Seems like it.’
Her brow knitted. She did that a lot, and for some reason, he found it gave her face a child-like sweetness. ‘I want to know,Cullen, why your father does not name Allard heir and be done with it? He is the eldest.’
‘Clan Macaulay chooses its laird, not my father, and if he named Allard, then when he passed, I would challenge my half-brother for the lairdship, to the death, if needs be.’
‘But do you even want it? You seem to like this life you have here.’
‘This is a way to make money and to get free of my father’s influence. I am my own man here. My choices are my own, as are yours.’ He stared into her eyes, and she did not look away. Even dishevelled, Lowri had a rough beauty that stirred his loins. She was clever and resourceful, with mettle to spare. The feel of his fingers sliding over her soft skin slipped into his head. Had they met under different circumstances, he could have wooed her and made her like him. But he had taken Lowri’s honour by the threat of violence to her friends. Nothing could make up for that.
‘What happens if your father gets a son with his wife? He could name that bairn as heir,’ she said.
‘He’ll not get a son, lass.’
She shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘Because he cannot sire one. I have many half-sisters, almost too many to count, some from his first wife, married off, and some from his current wife. Mabel has given him four daughters, but no sons, no matter how many times he climbs on top of her.’
‘But there is you and Allard.’
‘Lass, do we look like brothers to you? Am I so similar to Allard?’
She shook her head, which was a relief.
‘Do you think either of us resembles the great Griffin Macaulay?'
Lowri bit her lip, thinking on his question. ‘Allard has a broad, bland face, and Griffin’s is long-chinned and sly, like a weasel. Allard is dark, and Griffin is blond. Your hair is a sort of dull brown, so you could be anyone’s son.’
‘I thank you for that,’ he said, wincing inside as her barb skewered his vanity.
She leaned forward. Clearly, the brandy was working, and she was dropping her guard. ‘So you are not his sons, is that what you are saying?’
‘Aye. My father was always desperate for a male heir, or so I am told. He harried his wives relentlessly to provide one. His mistresses too.’ Cullen’s heart lurched at the memory of his mother, strapped to a bed once her madness took hold. ‘Maybe those women he lay with grew weary of endless childbirth just to bring forth lasses who disappointed him. Maybe they lay with another man who could get the job done.’
Lowri took a big swig of brandy. ‘So are you saying, you do not know who your father is?’
‘Aye. My mother took that juicy little snippet to her grave. So, Lowri Macaulay, you are not only married to a bastard, but a bastard with no name, who does not know where he came from.’
‘You prefer to think that? You want to believe that someone other than Griffin sired you?’
‘Sometimes.’ He raised the brandy to his mouth, breathing in its oaky fumes. ‘But ‘tis no matter. As I said, I will fight for the lairdship should the need ever arise.’
‘And if you win it with some measure of power, then will you come seeking an heir. Will you try to steal my bairn from me?’
‘I would not do that. And besides, it is moot, as you will not have me.’
Lowri stared into his eyes. ‘I want to get out of this, so I will.’
He shook his head and laughed.
