Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(58)

A single shout came from the crowd. “Do you hold yourself forth as the new king, Dermot? Will we forever have a MacGilchrist to reign as overlord?”

“I,” MacGilchrist said, “do no such thing.”

The murmuring that began at the accusation died just as quickly.

“I put forward to you the same name I put forward two times before. Fergus’s only remaining son, Fingal MacEgan.”

A tall, thin man stepped into the circle and commanded the attention of every eye. This young man wore no chain mail beneath his clan’s tartan, held secure by the MacEgan brooch. His thatch of dark hair was tousled as if he’d just woken from a long slumber, but there was no sleepiness in his gaze, or in the cut of his bristled jaw, or in the way he raised his hand to acknowledge every man as he swept the entire crowd with a look so penetrating that Lachlan dipped his head so that his cowl would hide his face.

Fingal.

A thousand memories flooded his mind. His half-brother as an infant, placed in his arms, a mewling, red-faced thing. The toddler who leapt for the jingling length of chain mail links that Lachlan hung just out of his reach. The long-legged nine-year-old whose arm strained with the weight of a wooden sword as Lachlan sparred with him in the muddy courtyard.

When Lachlan had first determined to take the rod of kingship, he hadn’t envisioned ripping it from the hands of his fledgling half-brother—or the full-grown man Fingal had become while fostering with the MacGilchrists.

“I have news,” Callum Ewing bellowed as he stepped into the circle with Angus at his heels. “News that will change everything.”

Lachlan froze at the sound of these words, but his heart shouted no.

NO.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


“Lachlan MacEgan is alive.”

When Callum spoke those fateful words, Lachlan’s cry lodged in his throat. A collective gasp swept through the crowd, but Lachlan could only stand there wishing he could claw the words out of everyone’s ears. This announcement had been his plan from the start—but that was before he’d laid eyes upon Fingal.

Was he to fight his own half-brother over a chieftaincy that only duty and birth order compelled him to take?

“It’s true,” Callum shouted, above the crowd’s jeers and doubts and accusations. “Lachlan MacEgan is alive and well.”

Lachlan knew he was supposed to be looking around the agitated gathering, marking enemies according to who dissented, but now he had a more urgent mission. He stood riveted, waiting for Angus’s gaze to find his.

It did not take long. As Angus swept the crowd with his gaze, he paused for a moment to lock eyes with him. Danger be damned, Lachlan shook his head once, with force, so that Angus could not doubt his meaning.

Angus’s brow rippled in confusion but his perusal continued past Lachlan, to encompass the entirety of the crowd. Moments later, Angus’s gaze returned in a slow sweep.

When their eyes locked a second time, Lachlan tempted fate by shaking his head once again. He would not—could not—do what he’d come here to do, now that he’d seen his half-brother stand like a giant among these men.

“Angus!”

Fingal’s voice startled Lachlan. It was octaves lower than he remembered.

“Is it true, Angus,” Fingal said, as he swooped like an eagle across the clearing to stand before his cousin. “Is my brother alive?”

Angus nodded his shaggy head. “As surely as I stand here before you.”

Fingal embraced his cousin with such force that Lachlan felt his own chest squeeze. Then his half-brother pulled away to search the crowd.

“Is he here, among you? Lachlan! Lachlan, show yourself!”

Lachlan, Lachlan, show yourself!

The words echoed in his head, a memory of a thousand games of hide-and-seek in the deep woods.

I can’t find you, Lachlan! Show yourself!

“Your half-brother is safe.” Angus placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder to draw his attention. “He’s recovering from his wounds in Ireland until such time as he can return. He sent me forth to bring you word.”

“Then we shall feast in his honor tonight.” Fingal swept up the white rod by his feet and waved it above his head. “This council will be deferred until my father’s firstborn returns—”

“Fingal,” MacGilchrist interrupted. “How do we know that this man speaks the truth and isn’t here to put off what must be done?”

“Because he is my Irish cousin and beyond reproach.” Fingal took MacGilchrist by the shoulders. “Be happy, my lord, that this matter will soon be settled as it should be.”

A shadow crossed MacGilchrist’s face, even as the old chieftain bowed his salt-and-pepper head.

“Now to the castle, all of us,” Fingal commanded. “It’s time to drink deep and eat our fill. My closest kinsman is alive!”

The crowd dispersed under the power of Fingal’s enthusiasm. The men headed to their horses, talking among themselves. Fingal led Angus down the slope toward Loch Fyfe, asking questions Lachlan couldn’t hear.

Lachlan kept his head bowed as he turned away and headed to where Cairenn waited at the base of the slope, every step a drumbeat of hope. His breath came fast, and his ideas came faster. His mind tumbled down a future he’d closed off to himself, a choice that, until now, honor compelled him never to consider.