Page 52 of The Return of the Heir

“God’s blood,” Laird Nicolson erupted. “Not one army has invaded England in six hundred years for good reason. The Royal Navy has more ships than the Scots do. English soldiers are highly trained. They have cannons and muskets, and plenty of powder. You’d have us go up against them with our claymores and targes? You think we’d win such a conflict?”

Laird MacDonald stood. “Our Scottish pride will see us to victory.”

Laird Nicolson glared at the man. “We’ll choke on our pride and our own blood if we take up the sword for the prince.”

Alastair stood as well. He’d let this conversation run longer than it should have. If it kept on going, they’d all soon be drawing their swords. Before he could speak Gwendolyn also stood.

“Ho-ro-veel-a-vok, bone and flesh of me. Ho-ro-veel-a-vok, blood and pith of me,” she sang softly. “Skin like falling snow, green thy mail coat. Live thy steeds be, dauntless thy following.” At the sound of her melodic voice, all conversation in the room halted as they listened to the story of a fairy in a green kirtle who came to Dunvegan to quiet the laird’s half-fae child.

Letting Gwendolyn’s voice wash over him, Alastair concentrated on her mouth. But that was a mistake. For it made him remember the sweetness of her kiss. He closed his eyes, and the sound of her voice moved across his mind, until suddenly he remembered it all—every second they’d been together, every touch they’d shared. The memories sent his pulse racing even as they evoked a bittersweet sense of loss. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the fairy lore of Dunvegan. His mother must have taught her the tune while Gwendolyn had been imprisoned in the tower.

When she finished, Alastair opened his eyes and clapped his appreciation along with the others. Thanks to Gwendolyn, the volatile mood in the chamber had softened, and conversation turned to safer subjects. How had he allowed himself to forget how incredible she was? Even as an orphaned girl, she’d shown a strength of spirit that was unusual in a woman.

Was that why the MacDonalds had left her and her siblings alive when they’d taken the lives of everyone else in the village? Had Alexander MacDonald unknowingly recognised that strength? Or had he left them alive so that they could tell the tale about who had claimed the lives of the Harris clan?

Alastair did not really care why they were spared. He was simply grateful that they were. He drew a satisfied breath. Their lives had been filled with turmoil, and much suffering on Gwendolyn’s part, but they had survived it all to get them to this moment. There was still much to resolve between them, so many things to discuss, but he was no longer afraid of doing whatever he had to in order to demonstrate to Gwendolyn that he was a different man, a better man than the one who had failed her so terribly before. He was older and wiser and would be everything she and her siblings needed in the days, months, and years ahead. He flexed his hand, wanting nothing more than to go to her side, to touch her, but he was pulled from his thoughts when Laird MacQueen tapped him on the shoulder.

“The supper was delicious, Laird MacLeod, but isn’t it time to send the women away and get back to our discussion? We have yet to decide whether to join forces to support Bonnie Prince Charlie or if we should forgo him in favour of preparing for the inevitable attack by the English.”

“Supporting the prince will help us to cleanse our lands of the English,” Laird MacAskill said, setting his whisky glass down with a thump.

Before the arguments started up again, Alastair stood and addressed the ladies present. “Excuse us for being such boorish supper companions. As you can see, we still have much to discuss. If you will excuse us, I promise to return your husbands to you before the hour grows too late.”

Taking the hint that he wanted the chamber cleared, Gwendolyn and Rowena stood, forcing the other ladies to do the same.

“See that you do,” Lady MacQueen said, turning a sour gaze on Alastair before she left the chamber in a flurry of ruffled skirts.

Gwendolyn waited at the door, and when the others were past her, she moved to close the chamber doors. Before she did, she cast him a look he did not understand. He had the feeling she was steeling herself for something.

But what?

He moved to go to her, when Laird Nicolson’s voice pierced his thoughts, pulling him back to the conversation buzzing around him. In the next moment she was gone, and he had no choice but to turn his attention to the matter at hand.