Page 48 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

She looked up. “Me?”

“Aye.”

Donaldina studied the marked holdings. The old Gunn lands lay scattered along the southern coast, poor in soil but rich in hidden coves. Families there had submitted to MacNicol authority long before Lachlan became laird, yet old loyalties did not always die merely because men stopped speaking of them openly.

“Sending armed men would confirm every accusation he has made,” she mused. “That ye came tae conquer MacNicol lands and silence anyone who objects.”

Roy nodded once.

“I would send word tae the families first,” she continued. “Remind them that their grazing rights and rents remain unchanged. Offer them a place before the council if they have grievances.”

“Cormac may call it weakness.”

“Cormac calls anything weakness when it doesnae involve a blade.”

Roy’s mouth moved faintly.

“And if they refuse?” he asked.

“Then we learn which men have chosen him before he learns how many have chosen us.”

Silence followed. Roy examined the map again, weighing her response with the same gravity he would show as a seasoned commander.

“I would send two messengers,” he told her. “By separate roads.”

“In case one is intercepted?”

“Aye. And neither should be a MacIver.”

Donaldina understood at once. “A MacNicol voice will carry farther.”

“It is yer clan.”

The words were simple. Yet they eased a tension she had not known she carried. Roy did not speak as though marriage would erase the MacNicols into his authority. He did not assume that the King’s decree transformed her people into an extension of his own.

Donaldina became aware of how close they were sitting. Their shoulders nearly touched above the map. The room darkened around them, leaving the last amber light upon Roy’s face.

He was looking at her again, without that dangerous softness she saw in the garden. This was respect. Somehow, it left her equally unsteady.

“Lachlan trusted ye with Dun Ard,” Roy spoke.

Donaldina looked toward her brother’s empty chair.

“He trusted me tae keep his books.”

“Nae.” Roy’s voice remained quiet. “He trusted ye tae keep his clan.”

Grief pressed suddenly against her throat. Her gaze fell to the worn arms of Lachlan’s chair. She remembered him sitting there before the war, laughing as he complained about rents while slipping the ledger across the table for her to correct. She remembered standing beside him during council sessions, offering suggestions in a whisper that he later repeated aloud.

She never resented him for it. Lachlan listened even when others would not. Yet the clan continued to believe that every wise decision belonged solely to him.

For years, Donaldina told herself that the work required no recognition, that duty was sufficient. Yet, beneath the discipline lay a small, wounded part of her that wanted someone to understand what it cost to count winter stores while fearing Lachlan would never return, and to sign orders in his name and then surrender every success to his reputation. Roy understood after a single afternoon.

She closed the ledger carefully.

“I only did what was necessary.”

“So dae most people who hold a place together while others receive praise for it.”