Page 51 of The Return of the Heir

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Alastair heard thecall of the piper and forced himself to end the kiss—a kiss that had been fueled by something he hadn’t understood when first his lips touched hers. But when her lips had parted, every instinct in him told him to bring her close and never let her go. It was a kiss that left him hungry and aching for more. It was a kiss that had been brewing, unfulfilled, for five long years. And yet it was not the time to fulfill the need they had for each other.

Lifting his head, he looked down into her face, at her magnificent blue eyes now clouded with passion. Her lips were slightly swollen from his kiss. Stepping away, trying to rein in the clawing need her kiss had evoked was harder than he ever imagined. He withdrew his hands from her hair and waist and stepped back. Some distant spark of sanity returned as the sound of the pipes pressed further into his thoughts. “That is the call for supper.”

Gwendolyn nodded, then bent to retrieve the strand of pearls at her feet. Quickly, she coiled her hair and simply wound the pearls around it. The effect was even more enchanting than before.

“After supper, I would like to talk with you. It is important.”

Her face paled. “I promised Rowena we would talk after supper. Might the matter wait until morning?”

He tried to hide his disappointment. Now that he had made the decision to send Beatrice away, he wanted nothing more than to spend each moment with Gwendolyn. “Of course. If that is what you wish.” He took her arm and led her back into the great hall.

Inside the chamber, the guests all seated themselves at the long table. Something had changed between them in those stolen moments in the nook, something they could no longer deny or discredit. Their passion had been mutual, potent and powerful. He doubted he would sleep much this night, not until he could finally tell Gwendolyn he had broken his betrothal to Beatrice. And more importantly, to admit to Gwendolyn that he still had feelings for her.

Alastair pulled Gwendolyn infinitesimally closer as they neared the table at the far end of the great hall. At his arrival, the sound of the pipes faded. Alastair seated Gwendolyn in a chair next to his before he took his own seat at the head of the table and looked out at his guests and family.

The peace he’d experienced in Gwendolyn’s arms faded and a sudden restlessness took hold. Today’s council meeting had been successful as far as getting the clans to see that the MacDonalds were manipulating the lot of them for their own purposes. The discussions would continue on the morrow when he intended to press the six clans to work together, while the rest of Scotland splintered into factions of those who supported the return of the Stuarts to the throne and those who opposed it.

Thoughts of war fled his mind when the piper heralded the first course. Mrs Honey served him first. “I made this dish just fer ye, brochan buidh.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a grateful smile as the savoury aroma of the ham and lentils filled his senses. Immediately following the first course were platters of monkfish smothered in a rich butter sauce, mutton with garlic and rosemary, kidney pies smothered in gravy, baked apples, and sausages. To finish the meal, Mrs Honey brought out castle cake with a sweet lemon scent and served it with a dollop of syllabub.

Throughout the meal, the conversation stayed light for which Alastair was grateful. Finally, when all had been satisfied with the meal, the lairds sat back, enjoying yet another glass of claret.

“Yer father might have been a difficult man, Alastair, but he knew how tae keep his cellar well stocked.” Laird Nicolson raised his glass. “Tae the Wicked Man MacLeod. May he rest in peace.”

“Rest in peace,” those gathered responded and one by one raised their glasses then tilted them back, except for Alexander MacDonald.

“That man was never peaceful a day in his life. Why would he deserve such a reward on the other side? Rotting in hell is more like it for all the chaos he created.”

Laird Nicolson’s lips thinned. “The man is dead. Leave him be. The younger MacLeod is laird now. He’s already proven to be more of a diplomat than his father. He’ll bring peace to the isles.”

Alexander MacDonald scoffed. “Nothing and no one will bring peace to the isles now that the Old Pretender is in France, obtaining renewed support from the French government to invade England.” The laird drained his glass. “War is coming whether we want it or not.”

“Agreed.” Laird MacQueen stroked his chin. “’Tis time to stop fighting each other and pick a side.”

“The Young Pretender is ready to fight for his rightful place on the throne. He’s called for an army, and when he gets it, he’ll clear our lands of the English vermin and send them back home.” Laird MacAskill searched the faces of those gathered. “Will we support his cause when the time comes?”

“Gentlemen,” Alastair interrupted, concerned how quickly the conversation had turned from wine to war. “Let’s not hold a war council around the supper table. I’m certain the ladies would rather talk of more pleasant things.”

“Shall I ask the piper to return and entertain us?” Callum interjected, trying to help Alastair steer the conversation in a different direction. “Or I could play the mandolin for you. I’ve a new ballad I could share.”

Ignoring Callum, Lady MacQueen gave an inelegant snort. “You men like to think we are all delicate as bluebells during a spring rain.” She leaned forward, her gaze narrowing on Alastair. “You’re forgetting we are Scottish women. We’re as hale and hearty as our men.”

Rowena nodded and cast Alastair a meaningful glance. “We are stronger than the men would like to believe.”

“We will all have to be strong. Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, war is on our doorsteps,” Lady MacAskill said. “As a mother who lost her only son in the last rebellion, I cannot allow his death to have been in vain. I’ll encourage my husband to go to battle for the rightful king, and I intend to fight alongside him.”

Laird MacKinnon pushed away from the table. “The Pretender should go back to France before more of our sons die. We have neither the men nor the weapons necessary to fight and win. Even with France’s support, the English army’s numbers will overwhelm us in no time at all. If we fight for the prince, we die.”

“I’d rather die a Scot who honours a rightful king, than a man who runs with his tail between his legs where his manhood should be,” Alexander MacDonald spat.

Alastair pressed his lips into a thin line. Since the conversation had started and built, they might as well see it through. If he didn’t want these men to compare him to his father, he needed to at least appear neutral despite his own feeling about the matter. “The young prince came to us, wanting our support even though he knew there could be no uprising without strong support from the French. And yet he came to us anyway. He came without men, or guns, or powder. He broke his promise to us, therefore we do not have to honour our promise to support him.”

“By all that is holy, I am honour-bound to protect King Jaime.” Laird MacQueen pounded his beefy fist on the table. “He wants war.”

“He only wants what is rightfully his and his father’s,” Lady MacQueen chimed in to support her husband.