A beginning of a plan was not the same as having it all mapped out. But waking my brother meant the end of any hope of ridding myself of the ghost and regaining Liam. Taking a deep breath, I turned and made my way toward my horse and toward the unknown.
Chapter Three – Munro
Ross Stronghold
The wine was bitter on my tongue, but I welcomed the sting and the familiar haze that would follow. I shifted in my chair, and the wood creaked beneath me like old bones that had forgotten how to carry weight. Below the dais, my clansmen gathered in clusters, their voices low and discontented, rising and falling like waves against the shore.
What did they think when they looked at me? I shook off the unwelcome question and took another swallow from my cup as my uncle moved through the crowd, laughing and greeting them, stopping when someone reached toward his sleeve, hoping he’d deign to listen. Of course, he would. He was a good man. Sympathy colored his face. I yawned in boredom.
James appeared at the great hall entrance, and my boredom turned to sharp irritation as he strode to the dais and took his seat to the right of me to hear the clan grievances. “May I pull five men from training today to help me fix cracks in the bedchamber quarters?” he asked as he sat.
I gave him the same satisfactory silence I’d kept for the past sennight, since he’d meddled in my life and forced my hand by calling in the life debt I owed him.
“God’s blood, Munro.”
I heard the annoyance in his strained tone, and it gave me perverse satisfaction.
James made a derisive sound, then said, “Guinn and Bess’s bedchambers are drafty. They’re cold when they sleep, even with their blankets.”
Something in my chest squeezed that I didn’t care for at all. “Fine,” I clipped, taking a long look at the great hall as the rest of the council made their way to the dais. The lit torches flickered and danced in the corners, which meant a draft was snaking its way through cracks in here as well. The Ross emblem, which hung on the wall, was tarnished, whereas it had once gleamed. It was neglected, much like me.
I ran a hand over my face, feeling the scratch of my unkempt beard against my palm. A glance down showed that my tunic had the stains of last night’s wine, or perhaps the night before that. The days bled together now, distinguished only by the depth of the emptiness I felt, so it was hard to say with certainty when I’d spilled wine on myself.
“Let us begin, Munro.”
I jerked my attention to my left, surprised to see my uncle had taken his seat as well as the rest of the clan while I’d been lost in my thoughts. I nodded and waved my hand to indicate they should proceed. My uncle’s eyes lingered on the flagon at my side before he turned away. I filled my cup again, ignoring the slight tremble in my hand. The first of my clansmen stepped forward, wringing his cap between weathered hands.
“Laird Ross,” he began, bowing his head in a show of respect. “The roofs in the village are leaking terribly. My own cottage has water pouring in when it rains, and John Ross’s wee bairn took ill from the damp.”
I stared at him, trying to summon the proper concern, the proper response. Once, I would have risen immediately, ordered repairs, perhaps even picked up a hammer myself. Now, the thought of action felt as heavy as a mountain on my chest.
James’s words about Guinn and Bess’s drafty bedchamber came to me, and shame heated me, surprising and unwelcome. I scrubbed my hand over my face, wondering briefly if my skinhad colored with my unexpected response. “We’ll see to it,” I said finally.
“Thank ye, laird,” he said, and I thought I could detect a hint of shortness in his tone, but before I could examine it, another man stepped forward to take the place of the now retreating clansman. This man was tall and gaunt, with hollows beneath his cheekbones that spoke of hunger.
“Laird, the food stores are almost bare.” I nodded as James and my uncle had both been pestering me about this. The man cleared his throat. “The crops did nae fare well this year, and the hunting has been poor. We fear there will nae be enough to see us through winter.”
A murmur ran through the gathered clansmen. Fear had a scent. It smelled of sweat and desperation and the knowledge that hard choices lie ahead.
“We’ll increase the hunting parties,” I replied, though the words felt empty even to my own ears. “And trade with the MacKenzies for grain.”
Before the man could respond, a flash of red near the great hall door caught my eye. A small figure darted past the open doorway. My heart seized in my chest as I glimpsed my daughter Guinn, her face alight with mischief as she chased after her younger sister Bess. The sound of their laughter drifted to me, bright and terrible.
Isabella had laughed like that, easy and unguarded. The thought occurred before I could stop it. I reached for my goblet to down wine to dull the memories, but another came. Her laugh had made others join in, whether they understood the jest or not. I drained my cup and filled it again, desperate to drown the memory before it could bloom further into something I couldn’t bear.
“Laird,” Braden Ross said, snapping my attention to him and away from my memories—thank the Gods. The challenging lookin his eyes surprised me. Braden had always been a respectful, though serious, man. He was one of my finest warriors, a natural-born leader. “With all due respect,” he said, the words careful but pointed, “perhaps the time has come for the council to consider appointing a new laird to see to these matters. One who has the vigor to address our clan’s needs.”
The silence that followed was absolute, save for the cackle of the hearth fire and adrip, drip, dripof water somewhere. I should have felt rage at his disrespect or shame like the heat of it I’d had a flash of earlier, but the wine was beginning to weave its magic, so I downed the contents of the goblet as my gaze drifted to the doorway where my daughters had been.
“Ye’ve overstepped, Braden,” Uncle Gordon said, my constant defender. “The lairdship of Clan Ross is nae subject to the whims of one man.”
As I swept my gaze over the assembled crowd, I could see the damage was done. Heads nodded in agreement to join a ripple of murmurs now rising in the crowd. The seed had been planted, and even my uncle’s swift intervention could not uproot it entirely.
“I believe that’s enough for today,” Uncle Gordon continued, his voice carrying a weight of authority that I knew mine no longer possessed. “The council will address these concerns. Ye have my word on it.”
The crowd began to disperse, some casting glances back at me as they went. I remained seated, unmoved, a stone in a river that continued to flow around me.
“Ye might try to look as if ye care, nephew,” Uncle Gordon said, voice pitched low once more.
