“For God’s sake, forget your damned pride,” she said. “The lad needs you. Ye must protect him.”
“He fell off his horse,” Rory said, throwing his hands up. “Every lad does that.”
“I’m telling ye,” she said, “Kenneth is your son, and he’s in danger.”
“He is my guest,” Rory said, getting a wee bit angry himself. “And I will ensure his safety, as I would for any guest.”
She stamped her foot. “There’s too much at stake for ye to be so damned stubborn!”
“Aye, there is a great deal at stake.” He took her hand. “Our son should be my heir and the next chieftain of Clan MacKenzie. Don’t ye want that too?”
“Nay, I don’t,” she said, and jerked her hand away. “I wouldn’t have my son be a thief and take it from the rightful heir. He’d be no better than Hector.”
Rory tried to hold on to his temper and failed. “Do not compare any son of mine to that man.”
“You’ve let your pride blind ye to the truth,” she said with fire snapping in her eyes.
“And what truth is that?” he bit out.
“Kenneth is the very image of you,” she said. “Your blood runs through that lad’s veins. As I see it, ye have a duty to him, and ’tis high time ye accepted it.”
“So the lad has red hair,” Rory said, spreading his arms out. “Half the men in Scotland could be his father.”
“One of the reasons I loved you—or thought I did—was that ye always chose to do the right thing, no matter the consequences,” she said. “But you’re not the man I thought ye were.”
Though she was being wholly unjust, her words were like a blade she thrust straight into his heart.
“Power has made ye like every other man I’ve known,” she said. “I liked ye better, Rory MacKenzie, when ye were just a warrior.”
Having delivered her final stab to his heart and twisted the knife, she spun on her heel and left him without a backward glance.
CHAPTER 40
Sybil’s opinion of him now was lower than dog shite. How would he ever win her back? He could not accept the Grant lad as his just to please her. If he somehow managed to hold on to the chieftainship, claiming the lad would make him the next chief. If the lad did not have MacKenzie blood, that would be wrong. A false chief inevitably brought bad luck to the clan.
The boy’s mother had not named Rory as the father for eight years—if then. He had only Grant’s word for her supposed deathbed confession.
And yet it waspossiblethe lad was his.
He knew of no way to resolve that question, but there was another he could lay to rest. Sybil’s accusation that someone purposely tried to harm the lad would nag at him until he proved it false.
After supper, he headed to the stables to examine the pony himself. When he asked where it was, the taciturn stable master pointed to the far corner of the stable. Rory paused when he saw a head of bright red hair pop up on the far side of the horse. His own hair had turned to auburn as he grew older, but when he was a bairn it was that same blinding shade.
The boy kept up a steady, soothing murmur as he brushed the pony.
“You’re not afraid of him after he bucked and bolted on ye?” Rory asked.
The lad looked at him over the horse’s back with wide eyes. He was clearly more frightened of Rory than of the horse that had nearly broken his neck.
“It wasn’t his fault.” The lad stroked the pony’s neck as he spoke, a gesture that Rory suspected soothed him as much as the animal. “He’s the best horse ever. I’ll not let ye take him away from me.”
“I won’t.” Rory patted the pony’s rump. “I can see he’s a fine animal and good friend to ye. A lad needs a horse like that.”
“Thank you, Laird MacKenzie.” The tension in the boy’s body visibly eased.
He must have been worried sick he would lose his horse. For the first time, Rory began to see the situation from the lad’s side. He was only eight, and his family had left him among strangers and in the care of a hostile stranger. He carried no blame for his mother’s deception or his grandfather’s scheme to make him the future MacKenzie chief.
“How would ye like to go hunting?” Rory asked.
