“Nor would I.” Sutherland emptied his cup and set it aside. “I also willna trust MacKay without proof of their intentions. And I’ll take their arms from them as they enter the keep.”
“They willna like it, but that’s wise.”
“The lass, Mariota, would be a good match. I hear she’s comely enough to please any man. And I’m no’ getting any younger. Ye lads must marry soon and give me more heirs.”
Cameron furrowed his brow, then tossed off the rest of his whisky. He was accustomed to roaming at will. Marriage had never been part of his plans—at least not until he met Mary Elizabeth Rose. Now, the notion intrigued him—as long as she was the bride. But he knew what his father wanted to hear. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“Ye must ken what yer choices are in life, lad, never more so than when ye are picking a wife.”
“The lasses rarely have a choice. Why should I?”
“Do ye wish for me to add yer name, sign the betrothal agreement and send it off to Laird MacKay today? ’Tis easily done.”
Cameron’s belly clenched. “Nay, I dinna want that.”
“This lust ye think ye have only for the Rose lass may turn to fire for another in another’s arms.”
Cameron had a sinking feeling James Rose had told his father more in those letters than the state of his health.
Chapter 9
Knowing a reaction last evening would not have swayed his father, Cameron slept on the news about the betrothal offer. The next morning, he lay in bed, thinking about it. He had not changed his mind—such an alliance was not for him, even though Sutherland saw it as a more valuable alliance than one with Rose. Wedding a woman he’d never seen, from a clan his had feuded with for over a hundred years seemed to make little sense.
Neither alternative fit the way he expected to continue living his life, but of the two choices, he’d prefer to stand at Mary’s side, even if that meant he became consort to the Rose laird. Still, Mary’s father’s recent marriage and the possibility of a male heir made it all too unanswerable. Unknowable. He just knew he already missed Mary, which surprised him. He’d had plenty of lovers, but none ever filled this thoughts after he left them the way Mary Rose did.
His body tightened as he recalled the way she felt, wrapped in his arms. Her warm, sweet scent, and the gentle touch of her fingers on his fevered brow. The memory made him harder, then filled him with remorse. He now regretted teasing her and trying to tempt her, standing bare and rampant in the bath before her. Other lasses had been more easily conquered, but to Mary, he was only a difficult patient, a flirt, even a comfort, but never a lover. She’d still thought of him as her wounded and ill Sutherland and resisted him easily. That memory dampened the desire coursing through him. She deserved a better man than him. She deserved to wed an older son, an heir who could give her the kind of life and the kind of position she was accustomed to. As the youngest son, he never would.
Perhaps his father was right—he should give Mariota MacKay a chance. But it didn’t feel right.
He rolled out of bed, still favoring his side. Clangs and shouts in the bailey told him some of the lads were practicing at arms. Joining them would improve his mood—and rebuild his strength.
He dressed and donned his weapons, then headed outside. Scanning the men on the practice yard, he spotted his oldest friend, Malcolm, who was intent on demolishing the clan’s arms master. “Enough,” Cameron heard the arms master say. “Go mangle someone else.”
Malcolm grinned and stepped away, then spotted Cameron. “Perfect timing. I find myself in need of a new partner.”
Cameron grasped his forearm. “Ye’ll have to go easy on me. Ye heard what happened, aye?”
“Got yerself stuck by an Irish mercenary, aye,” thearms master interjected with a clap on Cameron's shoulder. “Ye used to be faster.”
“Well, we thought he was already dead. I learned my lesson the hard way.”
The arms master grinned. “And it’s a good one to share with the lads.” He stepped away.
Malcolm hefted his blade. “Now then, what’s yer pleasure?”
“Nothing too strenuous. Ye’ll find my strength and stamina are no’ up to my usual standards.”
“Let’s see how weak ye are, then,” Malcolm replied, stepped back, and brandished his sword.
He let Cameron take the lead, for which Cameron was grateful. Malcolm matched him, thrust for thrust, but didn’t push any harder than Cameron did. When Cameron planted the point of his sword in the dirt and bent over it, Malcolm called a halt.
“That’s enough for yer first day back, aye?”
“Aye. Tomorrow, then?”
Malcolm nodded and grinned. “If ye’ll have an ale with me now.”
“There’s an idea I can get behind,” Cameron told him and straightened with a wince. Malcolm eyed his broadsword, but Cameron lifted it onto his shoulder rather than let his friend carry it for him. He wasn’t that tired, or that weak. They left the practice ground together.
