“What did you learn about the coffers?” she whispered as she took her seat.
“They will recover,” he said. Then he cast a look at Fergus. “I suggest someone search your uncle’s rooms. I have not entered there, but I suspect—”
“I’ll do it,” said Fergus.
And so Fergus did not eat when everyone else did. Neither did the three men he took with him. Three who were the most disgruntled about the situation. They returned with riches squirreled away, fancy purchases for vanity, and—most damning of all—the golden chest of her dowry.
It was empty.
Given how much her uncle had touted her dowry, had held it out to tempt the men to vie for her hand, that discovery reinforced everything Hamish had said. And in the end, even the ones who had benefited by her uncle’s occasional bouts of generosity, shook their heads in dismay.
And while Fergus and his men began eating, Reuben squeezed her hand beneath the table. “If you’ve decided,” he murmured, “now is the time for a bold declaration. Do not hold back. Do not hesitate. Say what you want and be done.”
He was right, and so she rose from the table and spoke clearly, calmly, and with a boldness that she could scarce believe came from her own mouth.
“My uncle deceived us all, and he has paid for his crimes. We must now look to the future.” She paused for breath only. Nothing more before she said what needed to be said. “I claim the right of leadership. By blood, I am the laird. And by right of battle.”
For a moment there was deafening silence. And then laughter, full and scathing from the men. Reuben didn’t laugh, and neither did Fergus. And neither did a single woman in the room. They remained silent, and in time, their dark looks quieted the rest.
Iseabail continued.
“I fought Hamish and five strong men, and I did it in a dress in the middle of Hyde Park. Who among you can say the same? I fought disease when I stitched your wounds and set your bones. I fought death with every child I have delivered. And I fought for Scotland with the magic invested in my blood from generations of women.”
“Your grandmother cursed us at Culloden!” exclaimed one. It was the perpetual curse of her witch blood.
Iseabail lifted her hands in a kind of shrug. “If she did, she has paid for it. If we set my uncle’s sins to rest this day, then hers are long gone as well.” She lifted her chin. “I will be your laird. Who stands with me?”
This was the boldest moment of all, and she held her breath when not one soul moved. Was this the moment when her uncle was proved right? When none would see past her grandmother’s crimes, whatever they might be? When everyone believed the men and not a soul respected the women?
It appeared so.
Until Talia stepped forward. “She is my laird,” she declared.
And one by one the women of the clan stood, echoing the statement.
“She is my laird.”
“She is my laird.”
She, she, she.
The men looked about themselves in confusion while the women stared defiantly at them. And one old sot shook his head, his voice loud in the silent hall.
“Ach, sit yerself down, woman. Laird is a name for a man.”
At his words, more than one woman wavered. Shoulders lifted as if expecting a blow. Heads ducked down in fear.
“Be bold,” Reuben whispered behind her. “Say what you want.”
What did she want? She wanted her clan to be safe. She wanted them to stand strong together with good food and strong families. It seemed so simple, but life was never simple. And nothing was given to the timid.
“Verra well,” she said, her accent coming out. “Then I will take those who stand with me, and we will cook and clean for ourselves. I will deliver their babies, heal their cuts, and tend our stock without ye.”
“There won’t be a babe to deliver without us!” scoffed a young man, barely shaven.
Talia grunted. “We’ve babes enough, thank ye Colin. And even if we didn’t, ye’d still be alone until ye bathe yerself properly.”
That produced guffaws a-plenty, but in a moment the hilarity died down. It was Fergus who broke the silence as he pushed to his feet.
