Yer cousin,
Hutch
Blake felt himself swaying, and he might have fallen if Preston hadn’t guided him to a chair and shoved him into it.
His uncle was dead, and his clan now knew he was innocent, or at least were willing to believe it. At long last, after ten years of exile and loneliness, he could return home.
But was it even his home anymore? Could he bear to return to a clan where they might still view him with suspicion, and where he would have to watch as his cousin claimed his birthright?
And what of his position here? Oran Murray was a foul-tempered, evil man, violent and cruel. When Blake had taken up the position as his second-in-command and potential heir, he’d tried to use his new authority to mitigate the laird’s viciousness and the harm to his people. His influence was limited, but who would do even that much if he was gone? Would Luke resume his place as Laird Oran’s second-in-command? If that happened no one would be safe.
And what about Reyna? How could he abandon her here, and leave her to Oran’s mercy, or lack thereof? To leave would mean he could no longer protect her. He thought about offering to steal her away, but he knew she’d never go with him, not without being sure her brother was safe and free.
For that matter, could he even be certain that Oran would let him leave, if he tried to return to his clan? Given his position, Laird Murray might well decide it was better to see him dead than permit him to rejoin his clan, where he might reveal the secrets of the Murray clan. Even a promise of an alliance was unlikely to convince Oran to release him. The laird of Murray Clan wasn’t the type to let anything go – much less something asvaluable as a skilled, high-ranking warrior that he’d invested so much time and interest in.
“Och, what is it? What’s the news Blake” Preston thumped his arm lightly to get his attention. “Ye look white as a ghost.”
Blake handed him the letter. Preston read through it, then gave him a startled look and a raised eyebrow. “I ken ye might mourn yer uncle’s death, but I’d think ye’d be thrilled ye’re now a free man, able tae return home.”
Blake snorted and heard the edge of bitterness in his own voice as he replied. “Ye’re more foolish than a lad who’s been fairy-struck, if ye think it’s that simple. Dae ye really think Laird Murray would just let me wander off, after all these years?”
Preston frowned. “Might have tae bargain a wee bit, I’ll grant ye, but at least it’s an option fer ye.”
“I dinnae ken that it is.” Blake took the letter back and tossed it into the fire. He knew better than to leave a missive lying around that might give someone like Luke a weapon against him. He rose to his feet. “Doesnae matter now, either way. Reyna will be back soon, and ‘tis best we both get back tae our duties afore someone comes by and wonders what we’re about.”
Preston snickered. “Reyna, is it?”
Blake scowled but didn’t bother responding. He took a minute to regain his composure and restore his cold, aloof mask, then left the room, Preston a step behind.
Something had happened, she knew that as soon as she returned to the entrance and saw Blake’s face. At first glance, he appeared as emotionless as ever, but he was a shade paler than he had been, and there was a subtle tightness of his jaw that showed tension. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but before she could say anything, he bowed and waved her toward the huge double doors a short distance away. “If ye’re ready, Laird Murray will be waiting tae greet ye.”
Reyna swallowed her nerves, straightened her back, and lifted her chin. “I’m ready.”
The two men escorted her into the Great Hall, where Laird Oran Murray was waiting, lounging in a large, throne-like chair on the dais at the opposite end of the room. Reyna tried not to show her disgust at his appearance. He was about her father’s age, but not nearly as well preserved. His hair was thinning and lank, white and oily like sheep’s wool before cleaning. His teeth were crooked and heavily yellowed, and if he’d ever had a warrior’s muscles, they’d long since run to fat, especially around his waist, where his girth seemed doubled by his paunchy beer-induced belly. His clothing was scarcely any better than his sallow skin, oil-stained and wrinkled as it was. His smile was cold, callous and sharp enough to cut. “Reyna Gregor, welcome tae MurrayKeep.” He waved her forward, without even doing her the courtesy of rising from his chair. “Come here, girl.”
She swallowed back her indignation and strode forward until she was a few steps from the food of the dais. There she stopped and swept into a curtsy. “Me Laird Oran Murray.”
His gaze flicked past her. “Brutus, me lad, ye’ve done well in bringing me the bride I asked fer. I’m pleased with yer promptness, and it appears ye’ve delivered her in good condition.”
Before she could decide whether to be insulted by his casual dismissal of her greeting, he turned back to her. “Well, girl, come here.” He gestured curtly. “Come closer and let me get a decent look at ye.”
She wanted to snap back that he could see her just fine from where he was sitting, or better still, he could come down and greet her like a civilized man instead of a rude bastard. She bit her tongue and obeyed instead, trying to convince herself that he might only be weak-sighted, or recovering from some injury. Or simply so used to addressing servants that he didn’t know how to speak to a partner.
She stopped a few feet away, and he stood. Then, to her utter mortification, he casually reached out, grabbed her jaw, and dragged her forward. His fingers bit into her cheeks as he turned her face one way, then the other, inspecting her with a dispassionate gaze better suited to a farmer looking at animalsfor sale. He actually squeezed her chin to force her mouth open so he could look at her teeth!
By the time he let go, she was shaking with mingled shock, embarrassment, and burning fury. “Ye…”
He spoke over her, as if she’d never opened her mouth, his words cold and cutting. “Well, ye’re pretty enough fer a Gregor wench, though ye’d be better if ye didnae have those marks disfiguring yer face. Still, ye’re comely enough tae be worth looking at, I suppose, and ye’re healthy enough tae have all yer teeth and decent smelling breath.”
Rage roared up, and loosened her tongue, despite how she’d sworn to mind her manners in the face of such a cruel and volatile man. “Ye cannae treat me like a horse and a broodmare!”
He laughed in her face. “And why nae? Yer faither was certainly willing enough tae trade ye like one.”
Her hands clenched into fists, and it took all the control she had to keep from trying to hit him. “Ye didnae give us any choice when ye stole me braither and the heir tae our clan!”
“They’re nae yer clan, wench, so ye’d best get that nonsense out o’ yer head. Yer promised tae me, and once the wedding is done, ye’ll nae be a Gregor, ever again. Ye lost yer name when yer faither gave ye over tae me.” A cruel smirk twisted his petulant mouth. “Nae that I blame him. ‘Tis only sense tae trade a son and heir who can carry yer clan forward fer a useless girl chit who cannae dae more than look pretty.”
He turned and went back to his chair. “So. Taemorrow, I’ll ready the horses fer the hunt tae bring back something fer the wedding feast. Tis the duty o’ a laird when claiming a bride, and I’ll nae have yer faither saying I dinnae honor the traditions and obligations o’ our clan.” He tilted his head. “And ye, girl, will dae whatever it is a lass does tae ensure that ye give me proper pleasure fer our wedding night, and a son and heir in the bargain.”
