CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blake sat at the table, watching as the feast continued among the clan-folk moving through the Great Hall. He’d been served at the laird’s table with Hutch, Reyna, his mother, and the Elders, but the rest of the clan had served themselves at tables along the sides of the room, with a large space cleared for dancing.
The meal had been something of an unsettling experience. Servants now sipped from every cup, jug and tankard before it was given to a member of the laird’s table. Likewise, the food was all tested at the table with solemn demonstrations before it was served.
Despite the obvious precautions, and the unspoken reasons for them, the mood of the gathering was one of celebration and welcome. The people who gathered were happy to be in Blake’s presence, and the presence of their laird. It felt strange. Oran Murray hadn’t been one for celebrations, unless they were celebrations of his own glory, which were far from entertaining for anyone else.
It also felt strange to be wearing Sinclair colors again, after so long in Murray tartan. He’d never stopped yearning for his own clan and that tartan he’d grown up donning, but the last time he’d worn it, he’d been a youth. He’d not yet earned the belt of a warrior. It was different.
It was also difficult to relax when he was uncertain of his place in the clan. He’d returned home, but to what? He should have taken over the clan after his father’s passing, but instead the title had passed to his uncle. And now the lairdship was Hutch’s through his father.
Where did that leave him? He’d missed his cousin and had been happy to see him, but he was still a former heir who had apparently been deposed in his absence. He understood why and how it had happened, and he could hardly fault his cousin, but at the same time, he couldn’t help feeling a bit off-balance.
There was also the matter of the uncertainty Reyna had mentioned in passing as they made their way to the hall, a sense of unease that matched his own. He hadn’t seen the glance she mentioned, but he couldn’t bring himself to discount whatever she thought she’d observed, even if it was merely a harmless interaction between Hutch and his mother. For all he knew, it was merely a response to some argument they’d had about another matter entirely.
He shook off the feeling and rose to his feet. He was home, and there would be time enough for such discussions later. This was a celebration, and he’d be a fool to waste the opportunity.
He made his way to Reyna, just as his mother leaned over to speak to her. “Begging yer pardon, Maither, Lady Gregor…” He offered Reyna his hand. “Will ye join me fer a dance? If I’m nae interrupting ye?”
His mother smiled and waved them both away. Reyna took his hand, and he led her out onto the floor as the music began to play a couple’s reel.
He’d never had a chance to dance with Reyna. She was radiant, graceful on the floor, and utterly enchanting in her borrowed dress and Sinclair Clan tartan. Her steps matched his, and her body moved with him as if they’d always danced together.
Peripherally, he was aware of whispers filling the air. He didn’t care what others were saying. All he cared for was Reyna’s smile and the feel of her against him as they made their way through the steps of the dance.
Three steps forward, one step back, circling each other, and then changing sides to circle the opposite direction... the steps flowed smoothly, and came easily, reminding him of childhood lessons he’d never had a chance to put to use. Fortunately, he was a warrior, light on his feet, and even a decade hadn’t dulled his muscle memory.
He leaned in as they came close together. “Are ye enjoying yerself?”
“Well enough.” Her eyes were bright and laughing at him. “I’m glad ye dance as well as ye fight.”
“I’m glad yer feet are as nimble as yer words.”
She laughed with him, and they separated again as they whirled through the next steps with joyful, relaxed abandon.
The music slowed to a halt as the song came to an end, leaving them both breathless, bodies pressed lightly together. Blake stared down at Reyna, her eyes sparkling as she returned his gaze. Her chest moved against him enticingly as they both breathed deeply, perspiring lightly from the dance.
It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to lean closer and tilt his head for a kiss, especially as Reyna leaned upward toward him.
Then a soft cough broke them apart, and Blake stepped back as his mother smiled apologetically at him. “I’m sorry, Blake. I didnae wish tae interrupt, but now that the dance is over, I need tae speak tae Reyna fer a moment, if ye dinnae mind.”
He did regret the lost opportunity, but he also understood. He hadn’t yet had a chance to formally seek permission from Laird Gregor to betroth himself to the laird’s daughter. He certainly hadn’t had a chance to announce a formal relationship to Reyna. It would do them both a disservice to be overly affectionate in front of the members of his clan before proper arrangements had been made.
He smiled. “’Tis nae problem, Maither. I’d be pleased if ye could take Reyna tae get some refreshment as well.”
The two women walked away, arm in arm, leaving Blake to make his way off the floor to where a servant was handing out tankards.
“Blake.” Hutch’s voice stopped him. His cousin stood at his shoulder, holding two cups. “I’d like a word in private with ye, if ye will.”
“O’ course.” Blake took the cup Hutch offered him and followed the other man out into the quiet of the hallway before speaking. “What is it ye need?”
“Tae be blunt... I need tae ken yer intentions, now that ye’ve returned.” Hutch faced him, his expression solemn. “I dinnae regret having ye come home, nae at all, but the fact remains that ye were the son o’ the laird me faither replaced. Ye ken the Council o’ Elders confirmed me as the Laird Sinclair, but I dinnae ken if ye’re willing tae accept that judgment.”
Blake swallowed back the faintly bitter taste in his mouth. He’d known the question was coming, and he’d thought long and hard about it, ever since he’d received Hutch’s letter. Seeing Hutch in his father’s study, wearing the torc his father had once worn, had brought those thoughts to the forefront of his mind, and he’d considered them ever since. The lairdship had been his birthright, the place he’d been raised to expect he would one day occupy, when he was a fully grown and a proven warrior for the clan.
Even in his exile, he’d not lost that sense of his own place in the world. After all, until Oran Murray had forced the issue withReyna’s father, he’d thought he might take over Clan Murray someday. He’d even dreamed of becoming Laird Murray and brokering a peace with Reyna’s kin, before approaching his own to plead his case from a position of strength, where he could demand a fair hearing as an equal.
But those were boyhood dreams, and he’d learned under Oran’s cruel loyalty that a laird needed to think of his clan, not his own ambitions. He’d also learned, over the long, wearying years of fighting and striving to maintain his position, that his happiness didn’t lay in having power. In his heart, he wanted a peaceful life with Reyna at his side.
