He let the words hang there, blunt as a hammer.
“This marriage,” he went on, “was never about bloodlines or finery. It was about survival. Malcolm’s agreement with the Fletchers guaranteed trade. It guaranteed grain, livestock and most importantly, coin. If I’d sent Davina Fletcher away after his death, her faither would have shut his gates tae us and cut the deal clean through. Nae tae mention that we would haveappeared weak in the eyes of both our enemies and our allies, fer nae keeping our word.”
Even if that same word meant him marrying the woman who was supposed to belong to his now dead brother. The thought kept weaving itself into Baird’s conscious mind, like venom spreading throughout his body.
One of the younger men opened his mouth to protest, but Baird’s stare silenced him.
“Think on it,” he continued. “The Fletchers control the eastern routes and the river ports. They’ve grain in abundance, and ships tae carry it. Without them, our people starve. With them, we survive. It’s as simple as that.”
He began to pace slowly behind his chair. “A union with Lady Davina keeps that route open. Refusing her would have been an insult, one we could ill afford. So, unless any of ye have a better way tae fill the granaries before the snows come, ye’ll keep yer tongues still.”
No one answered. The anger in the room had cooled into grudging understanding. A few exchanged uneasy glances, realizing at last that his decision had not been impulsive but necessary.
Baird met their eyes one by one. “This marriage wasnae born of sentiment,” he said. “It was strategy. The clan’s needs come before me own. Before me sorrow. They always have and always will.”
He let the silence linger a bit longer before speaking again. “Now that ye understand why the marriage stands,” he pointed out, “we have a greater matter tae settle.”
The councilmen straightened, sensing the shift in his voice.
“Me braither’s death was nay accident,” Baird continued. “A man daesnae clutch his chest and drop dead at the altar without cause. If it was poison, then someone meant him harm and that someone may yet be among us.”
A murmur rippled around the table.
“Has the healer found something?” Baird asked.
“Nay, me laird,” said Duncan, the steward. “He’s still examing the body. The castle healer’s working with two of the city’s physicians. They’ll send word as soon as they ken the truth.”
Baird’s jaw tightened. “See that they dae. I want every vial, every cup, every scrap of food Malcolm touched brought tae the infirmary fer testing. Leave naething unchecked. If this was murder, I’ll have the name of the man responsible and his head before the week’s end.”
The men exchanged uneasy looks, and the earlier indignation was now replaced with apprehension.
He pushed back his chair and stood, casting his shadow long across the firelit floor. “Until we ken more, nay a word of thisleaves this room. The last thing we need is panic spreading through the keep.”
One of the younger councilors nodded quickly. “Aye, me laird.”
Baird’s gaze swept the room, hard as cut stone. “And the same goes fer what was said here about Lady Kincaid. The marriage stands. Ye’ll treat her with the respect due her title, or ye’ll answer tae me.”
A few throats cleared, but no one argued.
Satisfied, Baird drew a long breath. “Good. Now, enough talk. We’ve a hall full of guests waiting tae see that the Kincaids are still strong. The feast begins soon, and I’ll nae have anyone thinking this clan’s broken.”
He started for the door, then paused on the threshold. “Keep yer eyes open,” he added. “Whoever took Malcolm’s life may still be watching us.”
The men bowed their heads in acknowledgment.
Baird left the chamber without another word. His mind churned with too many thoughts of duty, vengeance and survival. However, as he neared the stairs, another image broke through the haze: Davina, pale and shaken, standing alone amidst the chaos.
For reasons he didn’t care to name, the thought of her steadied him. It was time to face the hall. It was time to show his people that their laird and his new bride would not crumble under pressure.
The great hall of Kincaid Castle glowed with torchlight and the shimmer of poured wine. Some laughter echoed off the high stone walls, though much of it rang hollow, for it was born more of nerves than joy.
The wedding feast had begun.
Davina descended the stairwell slowly, with her hand resting on her father’s arm. Ramsay Fletcher kept his spine straight and his jaw set, projecting the calm of a man who had weathered worse storms than this. Still, she felt his grip tighten when every head turned their way.
It was strange, she thought, how quickly the world could turn from horror to spectacle. Not a handful of hours ago, they had carried Malcolm’s body from the hall, and now the same people who had wept were raising cups to toast the Kincaid name.
“Keep yer chin high,” her father murmured quietly. “They’ll take strength from ye if ye look unshaken.”
