Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(51)

Angus planted his hands on his hips and swayed where he stood. “I see now that there’s a divine hand in our meeting, Callum Ewing.”

“Indeed,” Callum said, “I’d welcome God’s intervention in the deeds of these past months.”

“Perhaps He sent me to remind you that you cannot betroth a daughter to one man, if she’s already betrothed to another.”

“She was betrothed to Lachlan MacEgan,” Callum sighed, “who is now nothing but fish-eaten bones.”

“Is he?”

In the buzzing silence that followed, Cairenn pressed her forehead against Lachlan’s back, where his shoulder blade flexed. She wanted to feel the warmth of his body before everything ended. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed the scent of him, of smoke fires and salt air and leather and man. She wanted to feel as if she possessed him, if only for a moment, if only for this moment.

“Callum Ewing,” Angus chided. “Have you forgotten that Lachlan’s mother was half-selkie on her mother’s side?”

“If he were alive, selkie or no, he would be here, fighting for his rightful place. He would already be married to my daughter, and I would be the first man at his side. If you know otherwise, Angus—”

“I do know otherwise,” Angus said. “As sure as I stand here before you, Lachlan MacEgan is alive.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN


Once inside the smoky mead-hall of the Ewing castle, Lachlan ducked into the shadows as Angus’s men casually swarmed around him in an effort to shield him from prying eyes. The Ewing sept knew that Lachlan was alive and well, but they didn’t yet know that he walked among them. To be recognized was to destroy any chance of discovering his enemy before his enemy discovered him, so he had to be as quiet and unremarkable as possible.

With his face low, Lachlan wound his way through the room as Angus’s ‘porters’ and ‘clerics’ kept pace. A wide trestle table filled most of the modestly-sized hall, but smaller tables had been thrown up around it to allow seating for the new arrivals. He headed toward an outer table where he would be within easy earshot of Callum Ewing, who now brooded over a tankard of ale.

Lachlan swung a leg over a bench and gave Ewing his back as Angus’s men took their places around him, casually brushing mud off their boots. Thus shielded, Lachlan dared to search for familiar faces in the hall. He recognized Leana, of course, looking like the brat he remembered as she pouted on a bench beside a knight who seemed to be ignoring her. He recognized a number of Ewing men, brawny fighters he’d competed against in foot races, caber tosses, and sheaf throws in clan gatherings during spring festivities. He kept looking and looking until he realized that the person he was looking for was Cairenn.

He knew she wasn’t here. The minute they’d passed under the portal of the castle keep, a young servant had swept her away. She would not be allowed to bed down with the men, so he assumed she’d been taken to wherever the lesser female guests ate meals and laid their pallets. Her absence was an aching hollow.

His heart squeezed in its cage of guilt. On the road, when Callum had turned his horses and men back to his own castle, Lachlan had turned to Cairenn with a mouth full of comforting words that never left his tongue. The strain on her face had stopped him cold. For long leagues, she’d remained silent and indrawn, allowing no more intimacy than an occasional touch of his hand. It didn’t seem right to question what she might be reading in the minds of the Ewing men, not while the subject of Leana remained unspoken between them. Every time he opened his mouth in the hopes of offering comfort, he swallowed the lies.

Someone passed close by his elbow. He ducked his head and raised his tankard to hide his face and then chided himself for being distracted. With Cairenn away, he had to use his own eyes and ears tonight. When he lowered the ale, he spied a freshly-washed Angus striding into the mead-hall toward Lord Ewing.

“My faithful Angus,” Callum Ewing bellowed as Angus approached. “My apologies for riding ahead of you on the road like that, but those woods have Lamont ears. If what you told me is true, then the betrothal with the Lamonts is worthless—and that will not sit well with them. I dared not leave my daughter vulnerable to capture.”

“Your swift response gave my mind ease,” Angus said. “It proved that your blood runs loyal to Fergus.”

“I should strike you down for even doubting it.”

Lachlan heard the bench scrape against the straw-strewn flagstones and assumed Angus had taken his seat.

“So tell me,” Angus said, pitching his voice louder than necessary, considering Lachlan’s position an arm’s length away, “has the council met already? Has the rod of kingship been passed on?”

“It has not. There is still no chieftain of the MacEgans.”

Angus made a clucking noise. “You’d think whoever the assassins are would move quickly to seize power.”

“It’s more unnerving that they haven’t.”

“Another clan could easily swallow yours up if there’s no leader to make the call to arms. Is it instability that they crave?”

“I would say yes,” Callum said, sighing, “if two councils hadn’t already been called since Fergus’s death, and a leader all but chosen each time—”

“A leader?” Angus interrupted. “Who?”