Page 27

27: RESPONSIBILITIES

MALE LAUGHTER REVERBERATED in the stillness, traveling over the icy waters of Loch Awe.

Glancing ahead at where Colin Campbell rode next to Lennox at the head of the company, Bonnie frowned.

“Campbell gets on well with yer brother,” she noted.

Iver huffed a sigh. “Aye … the pair have been as thick as thieves ever since we left Stirling.”

Bonnie’s frown deepened.

Both men had barely acknowledged her presence during the journey from Doune to Kilchurn.

The past four days had been cold and tiring, and not just because of the weather.

Her attention shifted then from Iver’s brother and the Lord of Glenorchy, to where a castle, its dove-grey curtain walls gleaming in the pale glow of the winter sun, perched upon a rocky islet.

The waters of Loch Awe, which they’d been riding alongside for the past few hours, were still this afternoon, reflecting Kilchurn’s bulk.

Her breathing caught, her brow smoothing.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Aye,” Iver murmured.

“Last time I passed this way, there was little to see. Campbell has done much work in the past years.”

Bonnie didn’t answer.

She was too busy taking in the view.

Snow-clad mountains encircled the fortress, the largest of them etched looming against the afternoon sky, and she tilted up her chin to view it properly.

“That’s Ben Cruachan,” Iver said, noting the direction of her gaze.

“Dramatic, isn’t it?”

Bonnie’s mouth curved.

It was, indeed.

Up ahead, Campbell and Lennox drew up their horses and waited for Iver to approach.

And as they neared, Campbell flashed Iver a grin.

“Just look at that, eh, Mackay. I bet ye haven’t seen much to compare to Kilchurn.”

“No,” Iver admitted.

“I haven’t.”

Campbell turned then, his arm sweeping to the castle rising against the western sky.

“I wanted curtain walls to rival any castle in Scotland,” he boasted.

“This fortress is impenetrable.”

They urged their horses forward, continuing on their way.

It was a bone-chillingly cold afternoon.

Their breaths steamed in the gelid air, and they rode along an icy road with mounds of frozen snow on either side.

Meanwhile, Kilchurn Castle gradually marched closer.

And as they approached, Bonnie spied a low-lying causeway, visible just above the still waters of the loch, leading between the mainland and the islet.

It was a perilous crossing, for the causeway was slippery, and blocks of ice gently nudged at its edges in the freezing water.

Before them, the gates rumbled open and the portcullis rolled up, welcoming the laird home.

“Don’t worry, lass,” Iver murmured into Bonnie’s ear as they crossed.

“I’ll try to keep our stay here as brief as possible.”

The thunder of shod hooves on ice echoed against the high curtain wall before them, and then they were riding up the slope into the castle itself.

Moments later, Bonnie found herself inside an internal courtyard.

A tall tower house loomed on the eastern side of the cobbled space, while lofty walls, lined with what looked like stables and guard barracks, encircled them.

Stable hands were waiting for the party, and they swiftly relieved the laird and his guests of their horses.

Iver lowered Bonnie to the ground, and then he handed his courser over to the young man waiting to take the animal.

As her husband gave the lad some instructions on how to handle his spirited gelding, Bonnie drew her woolen cloak close.

It was a tranquil afternoon, yet the damp cold drilled to the marrow of her bones.

She wriggled her tingling toes in her boots before reaching up to rub the tip of her nose.

It was numb.

Meanwhile, an older man with a bald head and a careworn face approached.

“Welcome back, Campbell,” he greeted the laird.

“It’s good to be home,” Campbell grunted back, turning to him.

He then motioned to his companions.

“Athol, this is Iver Mackay … laird of Dun Ugadale and his brother. Iver and Lennox, meet my steward, Athol MacNab.”

Bonnie tensed, while next to her, Iver scowled.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed that Campbell didn’t introduce her.

Jaw clenched, Iver shifted his attention to the steward.

“May I present my wife, Bonnie?”

“Pleased to meet ye, My Lady,” MacNab replied, offering her a smile.

Bonnie smiled back, instantly warming to the man.

Meanwhile, Campbell’s gaze had shifted, searching the steps to the keep behind MacNab.

“Where’s Davina?”

The steward’s face tensed.

“She has a headache … and has taken to her bower.”

The laird scowled.

“Aye, well, make sure she’s well enough to attend supper this eve.” His heavy jaw tightened.

“We have guests, and she shall be hosting them.”

MacNab nodded.

“I shall see it done.”

“Good.” Campbell then turned back to Iver and Lennox.

“Right lads, my steward will have servants take yer things up to yer chambers … in the meantime, take a closer look at what I’ve built.” He motioned to the tower house.

“It’s five floors high … what do ye think about that?”

Lennox flashed him a grin.

“Impressive.”

“Aye,” Iver replied with a little less enthusiasm.

“It’s fine indeed, Colin.”

Campbell turned then, gesturing to the stone steps leading into the tower house.

“Come, lads … let us warm ourselves by the fire in my hall.”

“Wine?” A serving lass appeared at Iver’s elbow, a ewer in hand.

“Aye, thanks.” He held his cup up for her to fill.

Opposite him, Lennox did the same.

The two brothers sat before the roaring hearth.

As asked, they’d joined Campbell in his hall.

Meanwhile, Bonnie had retired to the chamber she and Iver would share upstairs.

Nearby, Campbell and his steward were standing together, discussing something a few yards away.

Iver ignored the Lord of Glenorchy.

In truth, he was still simmering over the man’s rudeness in the courtyard earlier.

The incident with Sutherland in Doune also remained fresh in his mind.

He wouldn’t tolerate any slur, implied or otherwise, against his wife.

Taking a sip of wine, Iver’s gaze settled upon his brother’s face.

He noted Lennox’s surly expression.

They’d spoken little during the journey north, and it appeared Lennox wasn’t in a talkative mood now either.

He’d been laughing and chatting with Campbell earlier, yet his manner had changed.

Iver exhaled sharply.

It was time to clear the air.

“Things have been strained between us over the past days, Len,” he said, breaking the heavy silence between them.

“Are we going to continue like this?”

Lennox’s mouth pursed.

He then lifted his cup to his lips and took a gulp before shrugging.

“Maybe.”

Iver’s spine stiffened.

“Out with it then,” he muttered.

“If something weighs upon ye, get it off yer chest.”

“Don’t pretend ye don’t know,” Lennox shot back, his fingers tightening around his cup of wine.

Their gazes fused before Iver asked, “Why does my choice of wife bother ye so much?”

A nerve flickered on Lennox’s cheek.

“Ye are a chieftain , Iver,” he ground out.

“And such a role comes with responsibilities.” He paused then, his eyes narrowing.

“Ye seem to have forgotten that these days. Instead, ye leave the running of yer broch and the management of yer lands to others.”

Iver stilled.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that Lennox’s bitterness wasn’t just to do with his hasty marriage to a low-born woman.

It was much deeper rooted.

“Do ye not wish to be my bailiff then?”

Lennox’s mouth thinned.

“I’m the second-born son,” he replied, his voice clipped now.

“And yet ye put Kerr in charge of yer Guard … while my role has made me the most unpopular man on the Kintyre peninsula.”

Iver snorted, even as his pulse started to thud in his ears.

Indeed, he had chosen Kerr over Lennox to lead the Dun Ugadale Guard—and in truth hadn’t thought much about his decision ever since.

It had been the right one, for although Kerr was younger, he had a steadiness, a seriousness, that Lennox lacked.

Iver’s dismissive response made Lennox scowl.

“Of course, ye wouldn’t have noticed.” His mouth twisted.

“For yer head has been too far up yer arse of late.”

Iver clenched his jaw.

Lennox’s sharp tongue would get him into trouble if he didn’t leash it.

Nonetheless, his brother wasn’t yet done.

He leaned forward, his face hardening.

“And now, ye have gone and made a great fool of yerself.”

“Excuse me?” Iver’s voice lowered to a growl.

“Are ye so besotted that ye fail to see what’s around ye?” Lennox leaned forward, his gaze never leaving his brothers.

“All of Stirling Castle was whispering about ye before we departed.”

Iver stared back at him.

His heart now kicked against his ribs, his anger quickening like a flame on dry tinder.

However, oblivious to his rising temper—or perhaps wishing to goad him further—Lennox pressed on, “And everywhere we’ve stopped en route, folk speak of the laird who allowed himself to be led around by his prick. If ye—”

Lennox never finished his sentence.

Iver’s patience snapped, a red curtain falling over his gaze.

He’d had enough of the unasked-for opinions of others.

He was sick of being slighted—especially by a member of his own family.

Wine sprayed everywhere as he launched himself from his seat.

His right fist flew, and he punched his brother hard in the mouth, knocking Lennox backward in his chair.

His brother recovered swiftly, rolling to his feet with a roar, even as blood poured from his split lip.

He launched himself at Iver, and suddenly the pair of them were at each other’s throats.

The tension of the past days—if not months—exploded.

They both lashed out, each seeking to punish the other.

Lennox’s fist connected with Iver’s gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

“Shitweasel,” Iver wheezed as he struck once more.

Fury pulsed through him now—he’d teach his brother to mind his tongue.

This time, his knuckles collided with Lennox’s cheek.

His brother snarled an answering insult and slugged him in the jaw.

“That’s enough, lads,” Campbell’s voice boomed in Iver’s ear.

Strong hands then grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him back.

Meanwhile, Athol MacNab gripped Lennox by the arm.

Although he was getting on in years, and thin, the steward was stronger than he looked.

Rubbing his throbbing jaw and panting to recover his breath, Iver twisted free of Campbell’s hold.

He then cast a baleful look in his brother’s direction.

Lennox wiped his bloody mouth with the back of his arm, his own gaze smoldering.

“I don’t care what ye were quarreling over.” Campbell was scowling as he met Iver’s eye.

“But there will be no brawling in my hall, Mackay … is that clear?”

“Aye, Campbell,” Iver grunted, even as rage still pulsed in his gut like a stoked ember. “Very.”