A roar went up from the assembled warriors—a thunder of approval that shook the rafters. The sound crashed over Craeg, and his chest tightened. Pride warred with something darker. Heavier. At one and twenty, this mantle felt less like an honor and more like chains being forged around him, link by link.
He turned to face the hall, forcing his expression into something that might pass for pleasure.
They were all there. The Macleans of Duart, Dounarwyse, and Croggan, and their kin. Rae Maclean and Logan Black, the two other chieftains—both considerably older than him—were smiling. They looked content. Settled. As if ruling their lands was all they’d ever wanted.
Greig stood near the front of the crowd, arms crossed, a smirk playing at his lips. Beside him, Ailean flashed him a wide smile and raised his cup in salute.His friend’s joy was infectious, and Craeg managed a smile back. But it felt hollow. Greig and Ailean would be riding out soon to join Murray’s cause once more. Fighting the English. But Craeg would stay here. Trapped behind these stone walls and playing at being laird.
His gaze then found his mother.
Liza stood with Alec—his stepfather—at her side. Her dark eyes glittered with unshed tears, and the proud smile on her face made Craeg’s throat thicken. She’d been lady laird for years, ruling Moy with an iron will after his father’s death. Alec had stood at her side through it all as Captain of the Moy Guard. Now she was passing this castle and its lands to Craeg. Trusting him with everything she’d built. Soon, they’d move to the new tower house at Laggan, farther east along Mull’s south coast, leaving him to rule without interference.
Leaving him alone with the weight of it all.
His father had loved this. The power. The control. The ability to bend others to his will. Craeg’s stomach turned over. What if that same hunger lurked in his blood? What if the only difference between him and Leod Maclean was time?
Better to be at war. Better to channel whatever darkness lived in him toward killing the English invaders than risk turning it on his own people.
Next to his mother, his sister, Lena, bounced on her toes, unable to contain her excitement. At thirteen, she was already head and shoulders taller than her mother. An irrepressible lass with long dark hair and mischievous blue eyes, she caught his gaze and grinned.
Warmth filtered through Craeg’s chest despite himself. He dipped his head in acknowledgment, then turned back to Loch as the clan-chief gestured for silence.
Loch Maclean was nearing his fiftieth winter these days. Grey threaded his once black hair, grooves bracketed his mouth, and fine lines crinkled around his dark eyes when he smiled, yet he still stood as strong as one of the Lochbuie stones, the ancient stone circle a short ride north of this castle.
“There’s one more matter to attend to,” Loch said, his tone shifting. A serious expression filtered over the clan-chief’s face then.
Craeg stilled. His skin prickled as suspicion washed over him.Christ. What now?
Their gazes fused for a heartbeat, and then Loch glanced toward the side of the hall. Pulse quickening, Craeg followed his gaze.
A figure stepped forward. Tall, broad-shouldered, his short black hair shot through with white. The Macquarie chieftain. He’d been among the many invited to Moy for Craeg’s investiture. A dark-haired young man stepped forward as well, although he was careful to keep a few respectful steps back from Macquarie—the chieftain’s son, presumably.
“Craeg.” Hamish Macquarie nodded to him. “On this auspicious day, I wish to offer my congratulations … and a proposal.”
The chains tightened. Craeg felt them cutting into his skin now, invisible but real as iron. “Aye?”
The Macquarie chieftain’s smile was practiced. Charming yet with a predatory edge. “Our clans have long been neighbors. But I believe it’s time we strengthened the bonds between us.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Craeg saw his mother stiffen.
“I have a daughter,” the chieftain continued. “Isla. She’s of twenty summers, well-mannered, and trained in the running of a household. She would make a fine wife for a young chieftain.”
Craeg’s pulse lurched into a canter. His hands fisted at his sides. This was it, then. While Greig and Ailean rode to war, he’d be here. Taking a wife he didn’t want. Siring an heir. Settling disputes over cattle and fishing rights. And slowly suffocating behind these walls while he waited for his tainted blood to surface.
“An alliance through marriage would benefit both our clans,” the Macquarie chieftain pressed on, clearly sensing Craeg’s hesitation. “Ye’d have the support of my warriors should trouble come to Moy. And my daughter would bring a handsome dowry.”
From across the hall, Craeg caught Greig’s eye. His friend’s smirk had faded, replaced by something that looked almost like sympathy. Beside him, Ailean shifted uncomfortably, suddenly fascinated by the contents of his cup of wine.
Both of them were still free. Their fathers still ruled. They could come and go as they pleased, bed whatever lass caught their fancy, and ride off on adventures without a second thought.
The unfairness of it burned in Craeg’s gut.
He glanced at his mother again. She was watching him carefully. This was his choice to make. She wouldn’t interfere. But he could see the calculation in her eyes—weighing the benefits of such an alliance against whatever reservations she might have.
And what werehisreservations worth against the good of the clan?
Nothing. That was the answer, wasn’t it? His wants. His dreams of fighting beside his friends. His terror of becoming his father. None of it mattered against duty.
A polite cough intruded then. Hamish Macquarie was trying to get his attention. “I’d like ye to meet my daughter.” The chieftain gestured behind him.
