William grinned, gripping his sword in his hand lightly. “Aye, big words for a Scot who hasnae seen a fight in ten years.” The crowd laughed at the jest, but Irvine was more enthralled by the sword in his father’s hand. The sword had seen many a fight from what Irvine had been told. William had been a hired killer before he met his mother and had made legends of his own. It made Irvine proud as well to be part of a family that had powerful names in it, meaning that he had to make his own when he came of age.
Great-Uncle Leeth just grinned, and William charged at him, bellowing a war cry. Swords clashed as the gathered crowd cheered them on, the men meeting each other thrust for thrust. Irvine watched with rapt attention, his breath catching every time he thought one of them was going to be bested. Even in his advanced years, his great-uncle was still every inch a warrior, and his father, he had never seen anyone move faster.
He could watch them for days.
Finally, the men relented their assaults on each other and clapped each other on the backs.
“There it is!” his father called out, lowering his sword. “Ye seen wot ye wanted to.”
But his great-uncle wasn’t looking at the crowd but at Irvine directly. “Come here, lad!” he called out, motioning for Irvine to join them.
Irvine swallowed his fear as he climbed through the fence and crossed the sparring ring, seeing the look of disapproval on his father’s face. He knew where Irvine was supposed to be, and it wasn’t here.
“Tis the future of the McPearson clan, destined to be a great warrior and leader himself!”
Irvine ducked his head at the cheers, his face burning in embarrassment. He was nothing like the two great Scots behind him. He would not have any legends told about him, nor would he have a ledger full of deaths he had caused as his father had.
“Hold yer head up, Son,” his father murmured, clamping a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t sound angry, which Irvine was relieved to hear. “Ye are a McPearson even if ye carry mah last name. This is yer future, yer birthright. Dinnae let them think otherwise.”
So, Irvine lifted his head and met the crowd head-on, schooling his expression into one that was of determination. He would not allow them to see his weakness from now on and would work hard to live up to the name that had been bestowed upon him.
He would not let them down.
Irvine shook out of the memory, his chest aching at the loss of his great-uncle and now his great-aunt. That day had been a changing point in his thoughts of how he was going to serve the clan, though he had never once thought it would be as laird. Now he was on the cusp of that future unless he couldn’t complete this mission and prove to the elders and to his great-uncle Kenneth that he was prepared to be a leader.
Finishing his cleaning, Irvine shrugged on the clean but damp tunic and stomped back into the hut, finding Malcolm waiting for him.
“Last chance tae change yer mind,” his friend reminded him as Irvine threw the dirtied tunic on the narrow bed in the corner.
Irvine sighed. “The deception has already begun. ’Tis too late tae turn back.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I just hope ye know wot ye are doing. I didnae come this far tae fight mah way out of this place.”
“Ye came because ye didnae want me tae come by mahself,” Irvine reminded him with a laugh. “As if I cannae defend mahself.”
“That is still debatable,” Malcolm teased as a knock sounded on the door. Irvine glanced at the sword on the bed before he crossed the room and threw it open, finding Bridget standing on the other side of the door.
“’Tis time if ye are ready,” she said, her eyes roaming over his now clean face.
“Aye, we are ready, lass,” he told her. “Show us the way.”
6
Bridget didn't know why she felt so nervous around Bruce, but all he had to do was look at her, and her insides would grow restless.
Like he was looking at her now.
“Well then,” she forced out, clasping her hands before her, “I will show ye the stables.”
Bruce gave her a short nod, and Marcus followed behind him, shutting the door behind him firmly. Both men had cleaned the travel dust off their faces, and now she could see the angles of Bruce’s face clearly. Whereas she thought him to be handsome at first, he was far more than that now, and her heart pitter-pattered in her chest as he fell in step beside her.
“Tell me, Bridget,” he said, her name on his lips making her sigh inwardly, “how many tenants are there?”
“I’ve lost count,” she admitted, clearing her throat. “But I would say we are shy of a hundred Scots here.”
Bruce let out a low whistle. “Almost a clan.”
She smiled. “Never a clan. We dinnae need a leader.”
