Page 61
“What happened here?” Ellen demands, voice sharp.
“Looks like a bit of a scuffle, aye?” James says evenly, his gaze settling on Callan.
That sets Ellen off. “A scuffle? James, Marcus is bleedin’ from the side of his mouth! At the ceilidh of all places. The first time we have a large celebration in years, and my boys are out here throwin’ fists before a drop of scotch has even been consumed!”
“He’s a feckin’ outsider,” Callan mutters. “Ye think they care?”
Ellen’s jaw tightens, but James intercedes as he places both of his hands over her shoulders. “Ye’ll both be joinin’ us in the study.” Not posed as a question, Callan and I nod in unison.
He kisses the side of Ellen’s face and whispers, “I’ll handle it. Go inside, and I’ll meet ye there.” Ellen leaves without uttering another word.
James’ expression seems to soften as he meets Triona’s eyes. “Go get him cleaned up inside,” he orders, gesturing to Marcus’ bloodied lip. She shoots him a tentative look as she reaches up gently to cup his chin between her forefinger and thumb.
“Do not bother, Triona. I am more than capable of handling this,” he says, gesturing to his bloodied lip. “Go take up place beside your friends.”
“Are you certain?” Triona asks. Marcus smiles down at her and draws his hand outward to encircle her wrist.
“Of course, love. I want you to enjoy your night.” And like something out of a bad dream, I watch as he brings her palm to his lips and places a saccharine kiss in the centre. He uses his other hand to draw her body in closer against his.
James clears his throat, clearly as taken aback as the rest of us. Callan stands beside me, eyes focused anywhere but at the bastard with his hands on his sister. The one who just publicly laid claim to her.
Triona steps out of his embrace, seeming uncertain and torn.
James lingers, assessing what to do next. His gaze shifts back to Callan, and he gives a dismissive nod, then turns to usher Triona back out into the beginnings of the party.
“We need to talk,” Callan mutters under his breath.
No shite.
What have you been keeping from me, Callan?
Callan paces in James’s study, his boots heavy against the floorboards. His jaw is set, his voice low but vibrating with tension. “Before she left for Edinburgh, I saw them. Out in the open—as if they didnae care who might walk by. His hands were all over her, Finn, and his mouth…” He stops short, exhaling sharply. “Anyone could’ve seen it. Anyone.”
Frustration with everything simmers in my chest. “And you said nothin’? Ellen’s practically planned their nuptials, Callan. You sat on yer hands while this went on?”
He stops pacing and turns to glare at me, his eyes dark with something more than anger—guilt, maybe. “What was I supposed to do? Be the cause of ‘em forcin’ her hand on the spot? Have her married to that feckless scunner just to save face? Ye ken me better than that.” His voice drops, sharp with emotion.
“When I looked at him, Finn… I swear his eyes were like the Earl of Hell himself. I kent from the first moment he walked up to her in town that he was trouble.”
“If you thought all that, why hold yer tongue?”
Callan shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Because I thought I had time. Time to stop this before it went too far. Thought to take care of it without her bein’ involved. I didnae want to be the one to pile another unknown burden on her.”
That stops me cold. “What unknown burdens do you mean?”
Callan’s lips press into a thin line, his shoulders tense. He doesn’t answer, his gaze darting toward the door as if willing someone—or something—to interrupt. The silence stretches, thick and charged, until it’s broken by the soft creak of the study door.
James and Ellen step inside, their faces tight with urgency. Ellen clutches her shawl as if it’s the only thing anchoring her. James’s expression is harder, his usual calm replaced by a fierce intensity.
“Da—” Callan starts, irritation clear in his tone, but James cuts him off with an incisive look.
“Enough,” James says, his voice like a crack of thunder. “We’ve a lot to discuss, and little time to do so,” he asserts. “So for now, we need ye both to keep yer eyes open and yer mouths shut. No more bloody feckin’ fights. No room for mistakes. We’ll explain more... but no’ tonight.”
“What are ye on about, Da?” Callan asks.
James doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns an unusually icy glare at Callan. When he finally speaks, his words come in a long forgotten language: “Tagann aimsir ar cách, toilteanach nó ainneonach.”
Callan’s shoulders slump, and his defiance drains away. For a moment, he looks more like a lad caught misbehaving than the strong, stubborn man I know him to be. His hands fall to his sides, limp and defeated.
