Lachlan fought to control his temper. “I thought our bond of manrent included protection in return for thecalpduties I’ve paid to you.”
The earl’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I do not need to be reminded of our agreement, or my duty thereby. But what do you suggest I do? Storm the king’s castle to free your brother?”
“You have influence with the king and the Privy Council. The king’s actions were unjust. Hector has raided my lands and illegally stolen my castle, he has no legal claim to Coll.”
“Duart claims otherwise, since you refused your duty to him as chief.”
Lachlan held his anger in check. “He is not my chief. And Hector is hardly a friend to you,” he reminded him. Argyll and Hector had been feuding since Hector married without the earl’s consent.
Argyll gave him a hard stare, surprised no doubt by Lachlan’s refusal to play toady to his despot. Lachlan pandered to no man, powerful or not.
Argyll turned his attention to a man who entered the hall and handed him a missive. Annoyed by the interruption, Lachlan attempted to wait patiently as Argyll scanned the letter. The earl’s face darkened with fury. He let out a long string of expletives, displaying a temper completely incongruous with the stoic unflappability that had earned him his epithet—the Grim. He stood up, crumpled the letter into his fist, and tossed it into the fire.
“That chit will be the death of me.”
“My lord?” Lachlan asked.
Argyll turned back to him as if he’d forgotten he was still there. He studied him hard, giving him a long, calculating look. Some of the anger left him, and he sat back down on the chair. Lachlan thought he detected a hard glint in Argyll’s black eyes, so he was surprised when Argyll said, “I believe I might be able to help you.”
He nearly sighed with relief. He needed Argyll’s influence to get his brother freed, and he hadn’t allowed himself to think about the possibility of failure.
“But…”
Lachlan tensed, not liking the sound of that.
“In return, I need you to handle a little problem for me,” Argyll finished, reaching for a large crystal glass of claret. He took a long drink, sat back in his throne, and propped his fingers together in a triangle before him.
Lachlan’s instincts flared. “What kind of problem?”
“My young cousin Flora MacLeod. It seems she’s decided to run off with Lord Murray.”
Lachlan arched his brow. Lord Murray, though young, was a fierce political rival of Argyll’s. No wonder he’d been furious. Lachlan vaguely recalled Rory MacLeod’s youngest sister, Flora. She was a renowned heiress, he remembered that much.
“You want me to stop her?”
Argyll’s mouth curved in what was supposed to be a smile, but it actually looked more like a grimace. “In a matter of speaking.” He paused. “I want you to marry her.”
Lachlan froze. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. Having caught the gleam of calculation in Argyll’s eyes, he thought at first to refuse. But though he had no intention of taking a wife for some time, an alliance with Flora MacLeod could not be summarily dismissed. In marrying her, he’d ally himself not just with Argyll, but also with Rory MacLeod. And with Hector, he supposed, though that weighed in the negative.
Lachlan’s expression gave no hint of his thoughts. “Why? What’s wrong with the lass? Is she addled?”
A bark escaped from Argyll, nearly causing him to spew his claret. The sound was so out of character, it took Lachlan a minute to realize it was laughter. “No. She’s quite beautiful. And very rich. Her tocher is two thousand merks—in addition to the lands she brings.”
His heart stopped. It was a bloody fortune. Money like that could restore his clan’s fortunes in one fell swoop. She was a prize indeed. His gaze sharpened. “Then why me?” Lachlan might be an unmarried Highland chief, but with a tocher like that, Argyll could have his pick of Lowland toadies.
Argyll tapped his fingers together in his lap. “Because you might have a chance. You seem to be the sort of man that would make an impression on a young girl.”
Lachlan frowned. “I don’t understand.” Why would her impression matter? It was her duty to marry where her guardian demanded. “Don’t you control her marriage?”
He shrugged. “Technically, the right belongs to her brother—though he would not marry her to anyone without my approval.” The MacLeod and Argyll also shared a bond of manrent. “The MacLeod has refused to force the gel to marry, so he would not agree to a match if she is not willing. You and he are friends. He will not object to your suit. You must convince her to marry you. But be forewarned, it is not a simple matter. The lass is trouble. Her mother spoiled her and gave her some rather unusual notions of duty.”
Trouble. Vague recollections of conversations with Rory suddenly came back to him. Of his headstrong young sister who was always getting into some sort of mischief or another. The last thing Lachlan wanted was a spoiled brat for a wife. But he also knew that this marriage was more than he could hope for. Not only was there the money to consider, but it would also cement the ties with both Argyll and Rory with blood. He’d made his decision, although with his brother and clan suffering, he’d never really had one.
“Convincing her won’t be a problem.”
“You haven’t met her yet. Contrary doesn’t begin to describe the gel.”
Lachlan wasn’t worried. He could handle one willful lass. But he also knew Argyll well enough to know that he would not be granted such largesse without something in return. “What else?” he asked, not bothering to hide his suspicion.
