Page 10 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

CHAPTER FOUR

The dining hall had been prepared for the evening meal. Fresh rushes covered the stone floor, and fine tapestries hung from the walls, even though Morag instantly noticed they were showing their age. Candles flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that made the gathering feel almost festive despite the day's grim events.

Morag had been given a place of honor at Colin's right hand, though she felt anything but honored as she surveyed the faces around the polished oak table. These were the men who would help rule her life once she became Lady Armstrong, and most of them were studying her with barely concealed curiosity.

"Lady Morag," Colin said formally, "allow me tae present ye the council and Niven Reid, me advisor."

Niven inclined his grizzled head. "Me lady. I trust yer chambers are tae yer liking?"

"Aye, thank ye." Morag's voice was carefully polite. "It's pleasant enough."

"And this is Duncan MacLeod, our captain of arms," Colin continued, gesturing to a weathered man with intelligent eyes. "And Jamie Armstrong, me cousin and heir, should anything happen tae me."

Jamie, a man perhaps five years her senior with the same dark hair as Colin but a more open countenance, smiled warmly. "Welcome tae Armstrong lands, me lady, though I'm sorry yer arrival was marked by such violence."

"As am I," Morag replied, meaning it. "I'm grateful fer yer cousin's timely intervention."

"Colin has always had a talent fer being exactly where he's needed most," Jamie said with obvious affection for his cousin.

As the meal progressed, Morag found herself studying her betrothed more closely, and what she saw made her stomach tighten with apprehension.

He sat like a king holding court, his broad shoulders filling the carved chair at the head of the table. Every gesture was controlled, economical, as if he'd learned to waste neither movement nor words. When he spoke to his men, his voice carried the kind of quiet authority that made grown warriors lean forward to catch every syllable. There was no warmth in it, no laughter—just cold, implacable command.

Even his courtesy toward her felt calculated. He ensured her cup stayed filled, that the finest cuts of meat found their way to her trencher, but it was the kind of attention a man might pay to a valuable horse—careful, practical, devoid of genuine feeling.

His men clearly revered him, but Morag noticed they also watched him constantly, as if gauging his mood before they dared speak. Jamie was the only one who seemed truly at ease in his presence, and even he chose his words carefully.

Looking at him, Morag thought to herself this must be what the Iron Laird was like when he was in his element. A man who ruled through sheer force of will and expected absolute obedience from everyone around him. Including, she realized with growing dread, his wife.

The men were courteous, if reserved, and the food was surprisingly good despite the castle's obvious financial strains. But when Colin casually mentioned the wedding arrangements, his tone no different than if he were discussing grain stores or patrol schedules, her composure faltered completely.

"The ceremony will take place day after tomorrow," he said, cutting into his meat with the same matter-of-fact tone he might use to discuss the weather. "Father Ferguson will arrive tomorrow evening tae perform the rites."

Morag nearly choked on her wine. "Day after tomorrow? But I only just arrived! Surely there's nae need for such... haste?"

Colin's expression remained neutral. "There's every need."

"But—"

"The arrangements have been made," he said with a finality that brooked no argument.

Morag felt heat rise in her cheeks. Around the table, the other men seemed suddenly fascinated by their plates, clearly uncomfortable with the tension crackling between their laird and his bride-to-be.

She reached for the salt cellar, her movements sharp with suppressed irritation, when her sleeve caught on the edge of her trencher and rolled back slightly. The candlelight fell across her wrist, revealing angry red marks where the rope had bitten into her skin.

The table fell silent.

"Christ," Jamie breathed, his fork halfway to his mouth. "Lass, yer wrist…"

Morag quickly pulled her sleeve down, but it was too late. Every man at the table had seen the evidence of her rough treatment, and their faces had gone hard with anger.

"Those bastards," MacLeod growled. "Beggin' yer pardon fer the language, me lady, but those men deserve tae be hanged."

"It's naething," Morag said quickly, mortified by the attention. "Just a bit of chafing. It'll heal."

But Colin was no longer eating. His dark eyes were fixed on her wrist with an intensity that made her shiver, and when he looked up, his expression was colder than winter steel. His jaw went rigid, his eyes darkened to black, and when he spoke again, his voice could have frozen water.

"Gentlemen," he said abruptly, rising from his chair with predatory grace. "I believe we've concluded our business fer the evening."