Margaret Mallory - The Guardian

“You’re a liar,” Hugh said, but sweat was beading on his forehead.

“Murdoc MacKinnon admitted the treachery to my wife.”

“A woman will tell ye what she thinks ye want to hear.” Hugh’s eyes darted around the room. “What I think happened is that Connor and the other two decided to return to France soon after the four of ye came home.”

“Then why have ye been spreading the word that they were murdered by the MacKinnons?” Ian asked. “Shall I call on Connor, Alex, and Duncan to tell us the tale?”

The high, sweet sound of a whistle started at the back of the hall, causing everyone to turn and look. At the back of the room, stood Connor, Alex, and Duncan, without their disguises. Men gasped and women drew back their skirts to let them pass as the three started forward.

“It’s Samhain, uncle,” Connor called out. “Are ye prepared to meet the dead?”

Hugh’s eyes went wide, and he made a strangled sound, while his men crossed themselves and backed away. Though the three men limped and their faces were bruised, there was no mistaking that these were warriors to be reckoned with.

“Ye should have murdered me yourself,” Connor said, when he reached his uncle at the front. “Only a fool would rely on a Maclean or MacKinnon for such an important task.”

When several clansmen surrounded Hugh, he looked to his guards to protect him. But Hugh’s men, who as pirates were known for vanishing into the mists to avoid capture, had disappeared into the crowd. In no time, Hugh was disarmed and dragged to the side.

Every eye in the room was fixed on the four Highland warriors who had returned from France. Despite their injuries, they were hard-muscled men in their prime, a new generation of MacDonald men, ready to take their place as leaders and protectors of their clan.

Ian’s father began pounding his cane rhythmically on the stone floor. Immediately, others began to stomp and clap to the same rhythm. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Deep voices filled the hall, shouting in time to the stomping and clapping. “Chief-tain! Chief-tain! Chief-tain!”

Connor stepped forward and raised his arms as the crowd roared louder and louder, proclaiming him as their choice.

It was a miracle Connor managed to stand alone as long as he did. Sìleas didn’t think the crowd noticed when he started to weave, but Alex and Duncan limped forward to stand on either side of him.

Ian stood a little apart, his eyes searching the hall until he found her.

They had succeeded. Connor would be the next chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat.

Ian felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders—a weight he had carried since the moment he first learned of the calamity at Flodden. He had redeemed himself by saving his clan from certain disaster.

The fight was not over. Hugh still had supporters—some in the hall and others who slipped out of the castle in the chaos. They would have to be dealt with eventually, but they would cause no more trouble tonight.

Ian wanted to share this moment with Sìleas. Smiling, he turned to look for her.

His heart swelled when he saw her, because she was smiling back at him, her eyes shining. People moved out of his way as he pushed through the crowd toward her. Suddenly, her gaze shifted to something behind him, and she screamed.

He spun around in time to see a flash of steel behind Connor, Alex, and Duncan, where the men were holding Hugh. In the midst of the tumultuous jubilation, no one else seemed to notice when one of the men holding Hugh sank to the ground with blood gushing from his throat. A moment later, the second man holding Hugh doubled over, with blood seeping between his lips.

Neither did anyone heed Ian’s cry of warning as Hugh pulled the dead man’s dirk from his belt. Ian was already pushing through the crowd, racing to get to Connor before Hugh did.

Though Ian was running as fast as he could, he saw everything with piercing clarity, as if time had slowed. He saw each person who fell out of his way, Duncan’s hands clapping, Alex’s head thrown back in laughter—and Hugh moving toward Connor with the point of his blade aimed at Connor’s back.

“No!” Ian shouted, as he took the last three steps at a dead run and flew through the air.

He felt the sting of a blade glancing off his back as he crashed to the floor on top of Connor with a hard thump. When he looked up, with his dirk ready in his hand, Duncan and Alex were holding Hugh above him. Screams and shouts echoed off the walls, and every dirk and claymore in the hall was unsheathed.

“I appreciate ye saving my life,” Connor grunted from beneath him. “But do ye think ye could get off of me now? I feel as if a horse fell on me.”

“I hope I didn’t break open any of your wounds,” Ian said, as he got up. “Ach, from the blood it looks as though I did.”

“The blood is yours this time,” Connor said after Ian helped him up. “Turn ’round and let’s see how bad he cut ye.”

“I don’t even feel it,” Ian said, looking over his shoulder at his bloody shirt.

“Connor, what do ye want us to do with this murderer?” Alex asked, and gave Hugh a shake.

“My father was a great chieftain, and my brother Ragnall would have been an even greater one,” Connor said, looking at his uncle. “You have deprived the clan of their leadership.”

Ian thought Connor would be a better chieftain than either of them, but it wasn’t the time to say it.

“You haven’t the hardness it takes to be chieftain,” Hugh spat out. “Your father at least had that.”

“I won’t mar tonight’s celebration with an execution—but say your prayers, Hugh, for you’ll die in the morning.” Connor turned to several clansmen who were standing nearby. “Take him to the dungeon. He’s a slippery one, so mind him closely.”

The noise in the hall was deafening as men carried Connor around in the chieftain’s chair. In the wake of the revelation of their former chieftain’s murder, the clan’s choice was clear. That did not mean no one had doubts about Connor’s leadership, but none would express them tonight.

They chose Connor because he was his father’s son and Ragnall’s brother—and because he was not Hugh. Most members of the clan did not know Connor’s mettle yet. In time, he would prove himself to them. Once they knew him as Ian did, they would follow Connor because of the good man he was and the great man he was destined to be.

For tonight, Connor and the clan were safe. The celebrations would go on through most of the night, but Ian did not need to stay for them. He had one more thing he must do to make up for the past, one last step to redeem himself with the person who mattered most.

He found Sìleas elbowing her way through the throng of men crowded around the front. When she felt his gaze, she gave him a broad smile, as before. After all the ways he had failed her, her smile was a small miracle, a gift he hoped to earn in time.

He lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the hall.

Most of the guests would be sleeping on the floor of the hall tonight, but Ian intended to take one of the few bedchambers. Connor owed him that.

CHAPTER 42

As soon as the chamber door was closed behind them, he pulled Sìleas into his arms. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in the familiar scent of her hair and skin. While she was in danger, all his focus was on rescuing her. Then he had to turn his mind to getting Connor to the gathering and making him chieftain.

“I almost lost you.”

Only now that his tasks were completed and the dangers passed, did it fully hit him. His knees felt weak at the thought of how close it had been. He ran his hands over her to assure himself that she was whole.