He was handsome, so handsome that it made Jeane’s chest seize up.
Fergus cleared his throat, pulling away from her.
“I hope ye’re nae shirkin’ yer responsibilities,” he muttered, and then he was gone, striding down the hallway and out the back door.
Jeane watched him, contradictory thoughts swirling through her head.
He acts cold and uninterested most of the time, but those times that he doesn’t… that he seems like himself…
That was a man that Jeane could see herself falling in love with.
But which man was he, really?
Fergus felt the fresh air on his face, and it seemed to help the galloping of his heart. Jeane had pulled him into the light, looked at him as if he were a man, not a monster.
Her eyes hadn’t focused on his scars but his eyes, his jawline. It was like being seen for the first time all over again. He hated the feeling—vulnerable, scared.
Because he wanted Jeane to look at him like a woman looks at a man. Not the way a woman looked at a monster. But he’d never thought it would happen and certainly not so soon.
Did Jeane see through his scars, his gruff exterior, and see the man beneath? The man he’d been before the attack?
Fergus didn’t know if that man even existed anymore.
He cleared his throat, walking back inside and to the great hall where Aiden was eating supper.
A few other clansmen were scattered around, but no one that Fergus couldn’t talk freely in front of.
He sat down at the head of the table, and Aileen set a heaping plate in front of him.
“Make sure ye eat heartily, Me Laird,” Aileen said in a sweet voice, but Fergus knew she was serious.
Aileen had practically raised him after the fire, and Fergus listened to her more than his councilmen.
She disappeared into the kitchen again, and Fergus dug in, eating the rabbit and potatoes that Aileen had prepared with vigor.
It’d been too long since he’d taken a meal. His stomach protested, but he ate anyway, knowing he’d need his strength. After all, the castle wasn’t protected from the Leary clan— not yet.
“Tell me what happened, Me Laird.”
“I told ye. One of Leary’s men attacked me. I killed him, but he was on the castle grounds. Inmeforest, Aiden. Somethin’ has to be done.”
“Aye,” Aiden agreed. “We’ll talk to the council about guards.”
Fergus nodded. He retired to his study after dinner, drinking a single cup of mead to wet his tongue. He would likely be doing a lot of talking in the council meeting.
He didn’t exactly revel in telling the story, admitting that he hadn’t eradicated every last soul who followed the man who had killed his parents.
Fergus stepped into the council room at midnight and looked around at all his advisors. He sat at the head of the large table. At his right sat Harris Craig, in his sixties, one of his father’s most trusted advisors. He sat with his hands folded, his salt-and pepper hair slicked back from his face.
Next to Harris was Finlay Doyle, and Fergus had no idea how old he was, but he was at least twenty years older than Harris. Fergus thought he might be the oldest man alive, but he wassharp as a tack. His grizzled hands were folded in his lap, and you’d think he was asleep, but Fergus knew he was listening.
Finally, Aiden sat next to Finlay, and the council meeting could begin.
“I’ve heard tale that ye were attacked,” Harris said, and Fergus nodded.
“Aye.”
Finlay sat up straight. “Attacked by whom?”
