“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Moira said, getting to her feet.
“Ach, ye were better at covering your tracks when ye were seventeen.” Connor took another drink of his whiskey. “Do ye want to marry him?”
“I’m never getting married again,” Moira said, putting her hands on her hips. “Not to Duncan. Not to anyone.”
“So you’re just toying with him again?” Connor said.
“Toying with him?” she said, her voice rising. “Who do ye think ye are, speaking to me like that, Connor MacDonald? What I do is none of your concern.”
“I am chieftain of this clan, which means everything is my concern,” Connor said in that same aggravatingly calm tone. “And, as my sister, what you do reflects on me.”
“If our clansmen don’t respect ye for yourself, nothing I do will change it.” And because she was angry, she added, “Even after what our mother did to him, our father commanded the respect of all the clans of the isles. So don’t blame me if they don’t respect you.”
“I suppose you’re right about that.” Connor heaved a sigh and turned to look out the narrow window.
Suddenly Moira noticed how careworn her brother looked and realized how heavily the burden of leading their clan weighed upon him. Her father had not suffered the same.
“If we take Trotternish Castle, I expect we’ll have a few MacLeod hostages,” Connor said. “I’ll try to make a trade for your son.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“That was Duncan’s idea as well,” Connor said, still looking out the window. “He said he made a promise to you.”
“With all the plans to take Trotternish, I feared he had forgotten,” Moira said in a soft voice.
“Duncan does not forget promises,” Connor said as he turned and fixed his penetrating gaze on her. “And I’ve never known him to fail to keep one.”
A short time ago, Moira would have disagreed. But Duncan had only said he would love her always. She was the one who thought that was a promise of marriage and a lifetime together.
“I would still need to persuade the MacQuillans to let the lad foster here,” Connor said, rubbing his forehead.
“I fear that will be no easy task,” Moira said.
“One thing is for certain—” Connor gave a dry laugh and shook his head. “—unless I want a trail of dead MacQuillans, I won’t be sending you and Duncan to talk with them.”
* * *
Duncan stormed across Dunscaith’s courtyard and banged through the doors of the keep. As he entered the hall, he did not notice—or care—if there were ten people or a hundred in it. There was only one person he was looking for.
After learning he had a son, he’dhad to suffer through an endless evening at Trotternish Castle, playing tune after tune like a king’s fool. Then it had taken him two days to travel home, with impatience and outrage burning at his soul the entire way.
As he crossed the hall, Ilysa appeared at his side. “Ye seem a bit upset,” she said, picking up her skirts to walk fast enough to keep up with him. “Is there something I can do?
“Where in the hell is Moira?”
“She’s in with Connor, but—”
That was all he needed to know.
The men guarding Connor’s door scrambled to step aside. Duncan pounded on the door and did not wait to open it. As soon as he did, Moira filled his vision. She stood in the center of the room with the light from the long, narrow windows playing across her features.
The fury Duncan had banked since he learned the truth about Ragnall burst to the surface, making his head pound and his skin feel too tight. In the far recesses of his mind, the ever-alert warrior in him was aware of someone closing the door behind him. He marched up to Moira until he was close enough to scorch her skin with the heat of his temper.
Moira’s eyes went wide, but she stood her ground. It was never courage she lacked, but any sense of loyalty and honor.
“Why did ye not tell me that Ragnall was mine?” Duncan asked, clenching his fists to keep from picking her up and shaking her.
Moira’s mouth fell open, and her hand fluttered to her chest. “You saw Ragnall?”
