Page 18 of Tempted by a Highland Beast (Tales of Love and Lust in the Murray Castle #9)
CHAPTER TEN
T he following evening, his father had filled the great hall with councilmen, his household, and favored allies. Constantine surveyed the crowded room from his position near the high table.
Years of mercenary work had taught him to read terrain, and tonight the familiar stone walls seemed to press closer, the shadows deeper.
His eyes automatically catalogued exits—the main doors, the servants’ passage, the narrow stair that led to the battlements—old habits from foreign courts where a careless moment could mean death.
“Quite the gathering yer faither’s assembled,” Scott remarked, settling his battle-scarred frame into the chair beside Constantine with a grunt that spoke of old wounds. “Havenae seen the hall this full since Fergus’s funeral feast, rest his soul.”
Constantine’s gaze drifted toward where Rowena stood with Lilias. Even in the crowded hall, he tracked her movements with the precision of a hunter. She looked regal tonight, dressed in a green frock that was cinched around her waist in a manner that drew attention to her chest and hips.
The lass is striking without even trying.
It shouldn’t have made a difference to him. But his gaze kept tracking her all the same.
“Aye,” Constantine replied, his attention split between the conversation and the way candlelight caught the copper threads in Rowena’s hair. He wanted to run a hand over it and see if it was as soft as it looked.
Niall sat in his carved chair twenty paces away. Since their last conversation, the sickness had taken a clear toll on his father. He was worn down by constant headaches, sleepless nights, and little appetite. His eyes, visibly sunken, gave him the look of a man already half in the grave.
And yet, despite his worsening state, he had summoned this gathering, looking rather animated. That alone set Constantine on edge. Whatever his father meant to say that night, it wasn’t something he’d been willing to speak of in private. And that made Constantine wary.
“What purpose would ye suppose we’re gathered fer?” Constantine asked, though he suspected Scott already knew the answer. In his experience, dying men became either saints or devils, and Niall had never shown much inclination toward sainthood.
“Hard tae say. But when a sick man suddenly calls fer celebration…” Scott shrugged, the gesture pulling at the scar that ran from his left shoulder to his elbow. “Best prepare ourselves fer surprises.”
“I’ve had enough surprises tae last a lifetime,” Constantine muttered, thinking of old ambushes in mountainous passes and betrayals in foreign castles. At least there, he’d known his enemies by sight and could meet them with steel. Here, the daggers were hidden behind smiles and family obligations.
Constantine caught sight of Malcolm making his way through the crowd, his warrior’s bearing evident in every step. Constantine’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring in the automatic response he’d learned when facing potential challenges in hostile territories.
“Constantine,” Malcolm nodded. “Quite the celebration. Yer faither seems in fine spirits taenight.”
“Aye, he daes,” Constantine’s replied.
“Any word on when we might expect news from yer scouts?” Malcolm pressed, settling uninvited into the vacant chair next to Scott. “The Council is growing restless fer answers about our... guest.”
“When there’s news worth sharin’, ye’ll hear it,” Constantine replied. “Until then...”
Malcolm’s jaw tightened slightly, a reaction Constantine filed away for future reference. “Of course. Though some might wonder at the wisdom of sheltering potential threats without kennin’ their true nature.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge. But this wasn’t a battlefield, and Malcolm wasn’t truly an enemy.
He’s just a man testing boundaries, trying tae provoke me.
“Some might,” Constantine agreed, his voice deceptively calm as he reached for his ale cup. “But those would be wise tae remember that decisions about Duart’s security rest with me now.”
Malcolm’s color rose slightly, but he nodded. “Aye, they would. I meant nae offense.”
“None taken,” Constantine replied, though his eyes remained cold. “We all want what’s best fer the clan.”
“Indeed we dae.” Malcolm rose from his chair, the movement sharp with barely controlled irritation. “I’ll leave ye tae yer evening, then.”
With Malcolm making his way across the hall, Constantine’s gaze drifted again and found Rowena. She was laughing at something Lilias had said, her face brightening in a way that made his chest tighten. The sound carried across the hall like music.
For a moment, he found himself wondering what it was that amused her. And whether he’d ever be able to draw that same sound from her.
Theo, sitting next to him, seemed to notice. Without looking directly at him and careful to keep his voice low enough that Scott wouldn’t catch it, he leaned in. “Ye’re walking dangerous ground,” he murmured.
Across the hall, Rowena felt the familiar flutter in her stomach as Constantine’s attention settled on her again. The sensation was becoming troublesome in its consistency, keeping her mind away from her main focus, which should have been finding alliances she could leverage against her uncle.
Yet the way her pulse quickened when Constantine entered a room and how her skin seemed to burn wherever he’d accidentally brushed against her, didn’t help her.
“Ye’re distracted again,” Lilias observed, following Rowena’s line of sight with knowing eyes. “And dinnae try tae tell me ye’re just tired. I’ve seen tired, and this isnae it.”
Since the day Lilias had brought her the warm pie, the girl had begun to seek her out more often in those quiet hours around the keep. Rowena found she didn’t mind it. Lilias was sharp, kind without being cloying, and her presence made the place feel a shade less unfamiliar.
Still, Rowena tried to maintain a careful distance. She would not remain there long, and forming attachments would serve no purpose. Whatever bond was beginning to stir between them, it was not reason enough to confess the thoughts she had no business entertaining about her half-brother.
“I dinnae ken what ye mean,” Rowena replied and looked at her, but the protest sounded weak even to her own ears.
“The way ye keep lookin’ at Constantine when ye think nay one’s watchin’,” Lilias said with the brutal honesty of youth.
Heat crept up Rowena’s neck. “That’s ridiculous.”
Hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere, she cast one last glance toward Constantine.
He was sitting with ease, speaking to the man she recalled as Theo.
His posture was composed and his presence impossible to ignore.
For someone who, from what she’d gathered, had not been there for long, he looked as though he belonged.
“Why did he come here?” she asked Lilias.
“When Fergus died, Faither sent word that Constantine was needed at home, that the clan required an heir since Faither has been struggling of late.” Her voice grew bitter. “Though he’s made it clear enough that Constantine’s legitimacy comes with conditions.”
“What kind of conditions?”
Before Lilias could answer, the hall began to quiet. Rowena looked up to see Niall MacLean rising from his chair, one hand gripping his walking stick while the other lifted his ale cup high. The laird’s eyes swept the room with the satisfaction of a man about to spring a carefully laid trap.
“Friends, kinsmen, loyal MacLeans,” Niall’s voice carried across the suddenly hushed hall with surprising strength. “Gather close, fer I have news that will warm yer hearts on this cold winter night.”
Constantine straightened in his chair, every instinct suddenly alert. Something in his father’s tone sent warning bells clanging in his mind. The sensation was familiar, like the moment before an ambush when the very air seemed to hold its breath.
“What’s the old bastard up tae now?” Theo muttered under his breath, moving slightly closer in the unconscious protective formation they’d perfected.
“Naethin’ good,” Constantine replied, his eyes fixed on his father’s face.
Niall savored the attention for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until every eye in the hall was fixed on him. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the theatrical grandeur of a man who understood the power of timing.
“As ye all ken, these have been dark times fer our clan. The loss of me beloved son Fergus left us all wounded, uncertain of what the future might hold.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Even in death, Constantine felt as if the the golden heir’s shadow was still looming over him. The familiar resentment burned in his chest.
“But taenight,” Niall declared, his voice rising with practiced oratory, “taenight I can announce that I have decided tae formally recognize me son Constantine as me legitimate heir and the rightful laird of Duart.”
Α low murmur rippled through the room, noisy in its restraint. Glances passed between Niall and Constantine, who sat on opposite sides of the table, the space between them filled with whispers that moved like wind through dry grass.
“Furthermore,” Niall continued, clearly reveling in the drama he’d orchestrated, “I’m pleased tae announce that Constantine has found himself a noble lass tae wed, worthy of our name!”