Page 43 of Tempted by a Highland Beast (Tales of Love and Lust in the Murray Castle #9)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
T he transformation of Duart’s courtyard was nothing short of miraculous.
What had always been a place of stark functionality where warriors trained, horses were groomed, and business was conducted had been softened into something almost ethereal.
The stone walkways had been swept until they gleamed, and tartan banners in the MacLean colors hung from every post and archway, their deep blues and greens rippling in the Highland breeze.
Village women had worked through the night weaving garlands of heather and winter roses, draping them along the benches that had been arranged in careful rows. The scent of the purple blooms mingled with the crisp morning air, creating an atmosphere that was both solemn and celebratory.
Candles flickered in glass lanterns despite the daylight, their warm glow adding to the sense that that moment existed outside of ordinary time.
The guests were an eclectic gathering, MacLean clansmen stood alongside representatives from allied clans, their formal dress and serious expressions lending gravity to the proceedings.
Near the front, in a specially arranged chair that allowed him to participate despite his failing health, sat Niall MacLean. The man who had once commanded absolute authority over Duart now appeared fragile and hollow, yet his eyes were alert, fixed on his son.
Constantine stood at the makeshift altar that had been erected at the courtyard’s center, his posture rigid with control.
He wore his finest clothes; a doublet of deep blue velvet over a crisp white shirt, his clan colors displayed prominently across his broad shoulders.
His dark hair had been tied back with precision, and his jaw was set in the kind of determined line that suggested he was prepared to face whatever challenges the day might bring.
‘Tis finally time.
A hush fell over the assembled crowd as movement stirred at the castle’s entrance. Then Rowena appeared, and the very air seemed to still in reverence.
She moved forward with measured grace. The cream silk of her wedding gown caught the morning light like liquid gold, the delicate embroidery along the neckline and sleeves glinting with each step.
Her red hair had been arranged in an elegant style that left her face unframed, allowing her natural beauty to shine without artifice. But it was her expression that truly commanded attention. Serene, determined, and utterly without doubt.
Saints preserve me, there’s naethin’ more beautiful in this world.
Constantine felt his breath catch as she approached, his carefully maintained composure threatening to crack in the face of her radiant confidence. She was beautiful, yes, but more than that, she was his.
When she reached him, they stood facing each other in the morning light, surrounded by witnesses but somehow existing in a space that belonged only to them.
The priest began the ceremony with words that were both ancient and immediate, speaking of duty and love, of commitment that would endure beyond the troubles of the present moment.
“Dae ye, Constantine MacLean, take this woman, Rowena MacKenzie, afore God and these witnesses, tae be yer wife?”
“I dae. I pledge tae keep and protect her, tae share me hearth and me name, tae be true tae her in all things, and tae stand at her side till me last breath.”
“And dae ye, Rowena MacKenzie, take this man, Constantine MacLean, afore God and these witnesses, tae be yer husband?”
“I dae. I pledge tae honor him, tae keep his trust, tae walk beside him in hardship and in plenty till me life’s end.”
The priest bound their hands with a length of MacLean tartan, the silk smooth and warm against their skin.
Their kiss, when it came, was neither hesitant nor performative.
Constantine cupped Rowena’s face in his hands and kissed her with firm certainty.
It was a seal upon their vows, a declaration to everyone present that this union was real, chosen, and unbreakable.
The crowd erupted into applause, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard in a symphony of approval and celebration.
Three days later, the celebration had settled into memory, and life at Duart had begun to adjust to its new rhythms. With the wedding behind them, Constantine’s claim on Rowena, and on the alliance she brought, was secured.
The doubled patrols now stretched across MacLean lands, watchful and steady, and for the first time in days he felt a grim certainty that whatever threat Alpin schemed, they were ready to meet it head-on.
It was in the midst of this fragile confidence that a maid found him, her face pale as she told him his father’s condition had worsened since morning.
By afternoon his steps carried him to Niall’s chambers, where the once-mighty laird lay diminished, his bones sharp beneath thinning skin.
Sleepless, fever-ridden nights had stripped him of strength, leaving only the shadow of the man who had ruled before.
“Constantine,” Niall said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Niall,” Constantine replied, taking a seat in the chair beside the bed. The word felt strange on his tongue, formal acknowledgment of a relationship that had been defined more by absence than presence.
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, two men who shared blood but had never truly known each other. Then Niall lifted one trembling hand, the gesture requiring obvious effort.
“I’m proud ye ken,” he said, the words coming out rough and unsteady but unmistakably sincere. “Of what ye’ve become.”
Constantine had waited to hear those words for a long time, and yet they seemed insignificant now that they had finally been spoken.
“Are ye?” Constantine asked, his voice carefully neutral. “Proud of the bastard ye cast out? Proud of the son ye never acknowledged until ye had nay other choice?”
“The truth,” Constantine repeated, feeling something crack open in his chest; not gratitude or forgiveness, but a kind of raw honesty that he had never been able to express before.
“Dae ye want tae know another truth? Dae ye want tae ken what it felt like tae grow up carryin’ nay name?
Tae watch me maither die kennin’ that nay message would come from Duart, that nay one would come fer me? ”
Niall’s breathing grew more labored and his eyes closed briefly, pain flickering across his features.
“Everything I built,” Constantine continued, his voice gaining strength as years of buried pain found their voice.
“Every reputation, every alliance, every scrap of control I clawed together was carved out of necessity. Nae choice. I became what I am because I had tae survive in a world that told me I was worth naethin’. ”
“I ken,” Niall whispered, the words carrying the weight of genuine remorse. “I ken what I did tae ye. What I failed tae dae.”
Constantine leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into his father’s failing gaze. “It is what it is,” he said quietly, the words heavy but without cruelty.
Inside, though, the storm churned. For years he had imagined this moment, convinced that seeing his father powerless and dying would bring him satisfaction, justice at last. Yet as he sat there, he found no triumph, no release.
Only the dull ache of wounds too old and deep for revenge to mend, and an emptiness that felt like a hollow victory.
Niall didn’t try to defend himself, didn’t offer excuses or justifications. He simply listened, accepting his son’s words with the resignation of a man who knew he was beyond redemption.
As the afternoon wore on, Constantine remained in the chamber, watching as his father’s breathing grew increasingly shallow. He called for the healer, but the woman could only shake her head sadly—there was nothing more to be done.
When death finally came, it was quiet and almost anticlimactic. Niall’s breathing simply grew fainter and fainter until it stopped altogether, his features relaxing into a peace he had rarely found in life.
Constantine sat in the sudden silence for a long moment, then reached forward and closed his father’s eyes with gentle fingers. There should have been triumph in this moment, he thought. Victory. Justice served after decades of neglect and abandonment. Yet none of those feelings came.
Hours later, after Niall’s death had been formally announced and the initial arrangements had been made, Constantine found himself standing outside the room he now shared with his wife.
Rowena must have heard his footsteps, because her voice came through the heavy wood before he could announce himself.
“Constantine?” she called softly. “Is that ye?”
“Aye,” he replied, his voice rougher than usual.
The door opened immediately, revealing Rowena in a simple evening gown, her hair loose around her shoulders and her face soft with concern. She took one look at his expression and stepped aside to admit him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, closing the door behind him and moving to where he stood in the center of the room, seemingly lost.
Constantine struggled to find words for something he didn’t fully understand himself. “Me faither is dead,” he said finally, the statement falling between them like a stone dropped into still water.
Rowena’s face softened with sympathy, but she waited for him to continue, sensing that there was more he needed to say.
“Fer most of me life,” Constantine admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, “I imagined that watchin’ him die would feel like justice fer me maither and me childhood. Like all the years of exile and abandonment would finally be balanced by seein’ him powerless and afraid.”
He moved to the window, staring out at the darkening landscape beyond the castle walls. “But when it happened... when he actually drew his last breath... there was naethin’.”
Rowena approached him slowly, her feet silent on the stone floor. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice carrying genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry fer what ye lost. And I’m sorry fer the faither ye never had.”
“He said he was proud,” Constantine said, still staring out at the night. “At the end. He said he was proud of what I’d become.”
“And how did that make ye feel?”
Constantine considered the question seriously.
“Like it was too late. Like words spoken on a deathbed cannae replace a lifetime of absence.” He turned to face her, his dark eyes reflecting a pain that went deeper than mere anger.
“But also... I dinnae ken. Sad, maybe. Fer what we both lost by never findin’ a way tae bridge that gap. ”
Rowena moved to the bed, settling against the pillows and lifting the covers in silent invitation.
Constantine joined her beneath the warm furs, and she settled against his side with natural ease, her head resting on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her.
They lay together in comfortable silence, drawing strength from each other’s presence.
When she looked up at him, Constantine kissed her with gentle tenderness, and she kissed him back with the same gentle care, offering what comfort she could through touch and presence.
“Ye’re nae alone anymore,” she whispered against his lips. “Whatever comes next.”
Constantine tightened his arms around her, holding her close as the night deepened around them.
Outside, Duart Castle stood strong against the Highland darkness, but inside that chamber, wrapped in his wife’s arms, Constantine finally allowed himself to grieve not just for the father he had lost, but for everything that had been denied him.