“It does nae matter,” I replied, defiant.
James shook his head, a muscle working in his jaw. I knew this gesture well. He was biting back words too harsh to voice,even now. “Yer da thought it mattered,” James said. “He ensured ye would be laird and nae yer uncle, as had always been tradition. Have ye ever asked yerself why?”
I had, but it had been long ago, and no definitive answer had ever presented itself. The only member of my da’s council who was still alive and who might have known was Hector, and he’d long ago told me my da had not given a reason, only the order.
“These are yer people,” James bit out. I suppose he thought I’d been ignoring him. “They need ye.”
I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “Need me? Look at me, James. What good am I to anyone now?”
“Ye could be good again if ye’d put down the damned goblet and remember who ye are.”
His words struck somewhere tender, a bruise I’d thought had long since hardened to callus. I drained my wine instead of answering and reached for the flagon to pour more. “I do nae want to remember who I was,” I said.
James grabbed my hand as I was tipping up my goblet. “I’ll nae sit and watch ye drink yerself to death as yer uncle and aunt do, smiling as they pour ye more, encouraging ye to have another.”
I jerked my hand away, spilling wine on the table as I did. “Ye do nae ken what ye speak of. Just a bit ago, Uncle Gordon encouraged me to stop drinking. He has stood by me since the day Isabella died.”
James leaned forward, close enough that I could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the lines of worry etched around them. “Has he?” he asked softly. “Or has he been waiting for the perfect moment? Think, Munro. Who benefits most from yer continued decline?”
I wanted to dismiss his words, to wash them away with more wine, but something in his tone anchored me, forcing me to listen as he continued.
“People will starve if the food banks are nae addressed,” he said, his voice gaining urgency. “They’ll freeze because their homes need repairs. Word will get out that ye’re weak, and we will be attacked. People will die.” He paused, and I knew what came next before he spoke it. “Maybe even Guinn and Bess. Do nae ye care?”
This mention of my daughters hit like a physical blow. My hand tightened around the goblet, knuckles whitening. My shoulders stiffened as if bracing against a sudden chill. Unbidden, an image rose—Guinn and Bess huddled in a cold room, their small faces pinched with hunger, with fear. With the knowledge that their da failed them again.
“Ye swore to protect them,” James said, softer now. “Ye swore it to Isabella.”
The knot in my throat swelled, choking me. I’d spent two years building walls around her memory, around the guilt that festered beneath my grief. Two years drowning myself to keep from facing what I’d done, what I’d become. And now James stood before me, tearing down those walls stone by stone with nothing more than truth.
I set my goblet down with more force than I intended, wine splashing over my hand. The words I needed were there, somewhere beneath the fog of drink and despair. What were they? Did I care? Did I want to find my way back to the man I had been, the da my daughters deserved?
The great hall doors swung open with a creak that echoed across the stone floor. A servant hurried in, bowing hastily before speaking. “Forgive the interruption, laird, but a woman is requesting to speak with ye who showed up at the castle gate.”
The intrusion shattered the moment. Whatever clarity James had dragged near the surface slipped away, retreating behind the familiar comfort of indifference. “A woman?” I asked, lifting my cup again.
“Aye, laird,” the servant confirmed. “Says she’s traveled far to see ye on a matter of some urgency.”
“Is she comely?” The question came automatically, a reflex born of two years spent seeking brief comfort in willing bodies. The moments of pleasure could not fill the hollowness inside me, though. Still, I’d take what I could.
The servant’s gaze flickered to James before returning to me. “Aye. She’s quite fair, despite the weariness of travel.”
“Then by all means,” I answered with a mocking flourish of my hand, “send her in. I could always use another distraction.”
James made a sound of disgust low in his throat. “This is why they will take everything from ye, Munro,” he said, voice tight with disappointment. “Because ye do nae care for anything.”
I meet his gaze steadily, forcing my lips into a smile. “Nae true,” I replied. “I care for wine. And comely lasses. The rest can burn for all it matters to me.”
The words felt wrong, like a lie. Clearly, I needed more wine. I drained yet another goblet as the servant bowed again and turned to fetch the visitor. James remained beside me, silent now, his disappointment a weight I refused to acknowledge. I focused instead on the wine, on the prospect of a new face, a new body to lose myself in.
Several more swigs of wine later, the servant led a woman through the great hall door. Her cloak clung to her, damp from travel, the hood pushed back to reveal hair the color of autumn fire. Even in the dim light of the hall, it caught flame, drawing my gaze. I found myself straightening in my chair, some long-dormant instinct stirring beneath the wine’s haze. The lass moved with purpose toward the table; each step measured and deliberate despite the weariness that showed in the slight drop of her shoulders. Wariness and determination warred in her bearing.
As she drew nearer, torchlight spilled across her features, illuminating a face that stirred something in me I thought long dead. Her eyes were dark as peat, deep enough to drown in, set in a face both delicate and strong. There was a tension around her mouth, as if she held words behind her lips that fought to be free. The dampness of the journey had left the tendrils of her hair clinging to her cheek, and my fingers twitched with the unbidden urge to brush them away.
“Laird Ross,” she said, looking at James. Her voice was steady despite the slight tremor in her hands as she clasped them before her. “I thank ye for receiving me at this late hour.”
“I am Laird Ross,” I said, finding myself amused that she thought it was James. I motioned to James. “This is my right-hand man, James.”
James rose and gave a proper show of respect. “A pleasure, my lady,” he said before sitting once more.
