Alex was silent for a moment. “Ye’re a fool.”
“Nay. I’m a MacKay.” Mathe thumped his chest. “And so are ye.”
“Not by choice.”
Mathe stood directly in front of him now, his eyes narrowed.
Alex’s heart hammered as Mathe gripped his shoulders. “I doona know what gods ye worshipped in the heathen lands—what men ye served, but ye’re here now. Called home by the Almighty. Dinna ye see that, lad?”
See what? The remnants of his father’s life that was unfairly cut short? Or his brother, Laird John, also known as Gentle John? What legacy would Alex leave behind if he were laird of the MacKays? None. Because Alex wasna meant to be laird. He was a ruthless mercenary interested in one thing—gold. “I told ye before, old man, I’m a sellsword, not a bloody laird.”
Mathe raised his hand and slapped Alex’s cheek. Shock and rage swirled within Alex’s gut. The lingering sting from Mathe’s calloused hand deepened his anger. Their gazes locked, and Alex beat back the urge to retaliate. No man, not even his sire, had ever assaulted him so shamelessly.
“I am prepared to die.” Mathe dropped to his knees and bowed his head, pulling the length of his gray-streaked hair to one side, revealing the back of his neck.
“Why did ye strike me?” Alex growled.
“I acted on behalf of yer da. For never has a son of the Highlands acted so wretchedly. Ye are a selfish, lad, Alexander Joseph MacKay. I’d rather die than live to see the day this clan is destroyed from the inside-out.”
Alex huffed out a frustrated breath. Curse his birthright. Damn the Highlands. And to Hades with the beautiful past that sat abovestairs awaiting word on her future life. “Keep yer head, old man.”
Alex pivoted, taking in the details of his father’s solar—the hearth and mantle, shelves packed tight with manuscripts, the wood benches, padded chairs from Italy, the weapons hanging on the wall, and his ma’s tapestries. Nothing had changed, only him. He strode to the door, forced it open, and headed out of the keep. The only cure for his rage? A heedless mount unafraid of galloping blindly across the rock-ridden terrain Alex once considered home.
Chapter Eight
“What do yemean she willna come down for the evening meal?” Alex blinked in disbelief, wondering if Leah had misunderstood Keely. “Did ye relay my message word for word?”
“Aye, milord, I did.”
“Not forgetting the part about carrying her down if I must?”
“Aye, I was sure to say so.”
Alex couldna accept more disobedience. First his council, and now Keely. “Are ye laughing at me, Leah?”
“Never, Laird Alex.” She gave a quick curtsey. “Lady Keely gave a firm answer. She has requested that I bring a tray to her room.”
“Did she bathe?”
“Aye.”
“Pick a gown from the ones I sent?”
“Aye.”
“So, she is ready for supper?”
“I even dressed her hair.”
“Ye’re dismissed, Leah. Leave the lady’s food to me.” Alex stomped up the curved, narrow stairs. Keely had no right to defy him. Neither did Mathe or Jamie, or the other captains on the council, or his many cousins, warriors, tenants, servants, or any other bloody fool who drank his wine and gorged themselves from the meat set upon his table.
“And when did ye start referring to anything in this keep as yer own?” he asked himself.
Arriving at Keely’s doorway, he quickly waved the two guards away. “Rest for a bit. I will watch over Lady Keely.”
The men thanked him and bowed.
Once they were out of sight, Alex turned back to the arched door. His sire had commissioned a famous saor from France to craft it. A unicorn lying in a bed of grass and thistle graced the top. Clan MacKay was written in Gaelic, English, and French underneath the scenery. His ma had adored the unusual wedding gift. Alex shook his sentimental thoughts off, and banged on the polished wood. “Lady Keely.”
