Page 9 of Tempted by a Highland Beast (Tales of Love and Lust in the Murray Castle #9)
CHAPTER FIVE
C onstantine found his father exactly where he expected: hunched over maps and ledgers in the study. The room smelled of leather and parchment, and the lantern’s light cast a soft glow over it. The fact that he was ill, and needed to rest wasn’t a thought that Laird Niall MacLean accepted.
Niall looked up as Constantine entered, gray streaking his once-dark hair, and lines etching deeply around his eyes.
Constantine studied his father’s weathered features with the detached assessment of a man evaluating a stranger.
There was no denying Niall’s commanding presence, the authority that radiated from him even in the quiet of his private chambers.
But Constantine felt no pull of filial affection, no echo of childhood memories to soften the edges of their more than strained relationship.
He’d grown up without this man’s guidance, forged his own path and his own principles, and now they faced each other more as equals than as father and son.
The man before him was laird first, father a distant second.
Constantine had learned long ago to navigate that reality with cool pragmatism rather than disappointment.
“Ye took yer time,” Niall said without preamble, setting down his quill. “I expected ye an hour ago.”
“I had matters tae attend tae.” Constantine settled into the chair across from his father, noting how the man’s gaze sharpened at his tone. Even now, after everything, Niall expected deference. Some habits died hard.
“More important matters than seeing me?” Niall’s tone was dry, but Constantine knew not to take the bait of provocation.
“I brought a guest back. I was helping her tae get settled.”
Niall toyed with a wooden figure, letting the silence between them grow uncomfortable before he finally spoke. “A woman then. Where did ye meet her?”
“At me loch. She was in trouble and I rescued her. She needed a place tae stay, so I offered her abode here till she gets back on her feet. Now, why did ye call me over?”
Niall laughed and Constantine found himself bristling. “Nae so fast, lad. Ye bring a woman tae me home and that’s all ye want tae give me? Who is she? Where did she come from, and what type of trouble was she in that ye felt it necessary tae bring her here?”
Constantine stared at Niall. He could lie about Rowena, tell him that she was but a woman of no importance, but if he did that and word got back to Niall about her background, things wouldn’t end well.
“She’s of the MacKenzie clan. Rowena MacKenzie. She was running when she found me and asked for help. That’s all there is tae it.”
“A MacKenzie, eh? Intresting.”
Constantine saw the shrewd calculation running across Niall’s face and felt the need to put a halt to it.
“She is a guest,” Constantine said slowly. “ Me guest.”
“Is she now?” Niall leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “And here I thought ye’d grown some sense at last. Ye’ve been heir a couple of months, Constantine. The clan needs tae see a firm hand. They need tae ken the MacLean line will carry on with a man comparable tae me.”
The familiar weight of expectation settled on Constantine’s shoulders. He had walked into this castle as a bastard and had found himself trapped in a web of obligations he had never wanted. “The clan is stable. Our borders are secure, our people are fed.”
“For now.” Niall’s voice hardened. “But ye ken as well as I, claiming a title takes more than swinging steel. Ye need a wife, Constantine. An heir. And ye have nay time tae waste.”
Constantine felt his jaw tighten. They’d circled this matter for weeks, ever since Niall had made it plain that claiming the lairdship came with certain expectations. “I willnae be rushed intae marriage.”
“Will ye nae?” Niall’s brow lifted. “Seemed tae me that was part o’ the bargain. I gave ye the name, the title, everything after Fergus…” He fell silent, the name of Constantine’s half-brother hanging in the air between them like a blade.
After Fergus died , Constantine finished silently.
The legitimate heir had fallen in battle a little over a month before, and with Niall sick, it had left his father with no choice but to turn to the son he had cast out thirty-three years ago.
The son he had never claimed, never acknowledged, until necessity had forced his hand.
Fate is a humorous bastard sometimes.
“Ye gave me naethin’,” Constantine said quietly, but his voice carried the weight of years of rejection. “Ye made me earn every scrap of recognition I’ve received.”
“Aye, and ye did.” There was something almost like pride in Niall’s voice, though it was buried beneath layers of pragmatism. “And now ye’re here tae continue me line. Ye need tae become exactly what I need ye tae.”
The words hit Constantine like a physical blow, though he kept his expression neutral.
What I need ye tae become. Not what a father might want for his son, but what a laird required of a tool.
He thought of his mother, dying alone in their hovel when he was barely thirteen, her last words a whispered apology for the life she had given him.
He thought of the nights he’d gone hungry so she could eat what little they had, of watching her waste away from a sickness that proper care could have cured.
“She loved ye, ye ken,” Niall continued, as if reading his thoughts.
Constantine’s hands clenched involuntarily.
His mother had been many things: proud, stubborn, fierce in her love for him, but she had also been broken by the man sitting across from him.
Broken by loving someone who only saw in her a pleasurable time.
The rage was a living thing now, clawing at his ribs.
“Dinnae,” he said, the word coming out sharper than he intended. “Dinnae speak of her as if ye kent her.”
“I kent her better than ye reckon.” Niall drew a slow breath, the length of the conversation clearly wearing on him now. When he finally spoke again, his voice had lost some of its earlier force.
“She was the finest healer I ever kent, and the only woman who ever told me exactly what she thought without fear. ‘Tis why I couldnae keep her here, Constantine. She was the healer, she could never be the noblewoman the clan expected me tae marry.”
“So ye cast her out.” The bitterness in Constantine’s voice was decades old, polished smooth by years of carrying it. “Left her tae raise yer son alone.”
“I gave her gold?—”
“Ye exiled her.” Constantine stood abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked the courtyard below. Even now, servants bustled about their evening duties. “She died in want, Niall. Alone, with naethin’ but a thirteen-year-old boy who couldnae save her.”
Constantine stared at him, chest heaving with the effort of keeping his rage in check.
The casual dismissal of years of struggle, of his mother’s suffering, of everything she’d endured.
But beneath the fury was the cold calculation that had kept him alive all these years.
He’d come back not out of love or duty, but because Niall’s messenger had found him and offered him something he’d craved his entire life: legitimacy.
Power that couldn’t be taken away by stronger men or sharper blades.
A name that meant something beyond the reach of his sword.
He hated his father. But he wanted what Niall could give him more than he treasured that hate.
Constantine turned back to his father, seeing the calculation in his eyes. “I dinnae need a wife tae prove meself tae the clan.”
“Aye.” Niall nodded firmly. “But ye need noble blood tae steady yer claim. An heir tae seal it. Since ye’ve already managed tae capture the MacKenzie lass, she fits both.”
Constantine thought of Rowena, of the way her gaze had met his across the table that night. There’d been wariness in it, but something else, too. Something he didn’t wish to dwell on. “I didnae bring her here as me hostage.”
“Aye, but we can leverage her presence all the same.” Niall’s smile was sharp. “So ye believe she’s MacKenzie born?”
“Aye.” Constantine saw no point in pretending otherwise. His father had his own network of informants and his own methods for verifying information. “The laird’s only daughter, if I’m nae wrong.”
“Even better.” Niall’s eyes gleamed, sharp with satisfaction. “An heiress brings power, land, alliance, blood that speaks loud. All ye need tae quiet the talk of yer bastardy.”
The whispers. Constantine had heard them all his life: bastard, pretender, usurper. They had followed him through his years as a mercenary, through his return to Duart, and now, through his claim to the lairdship. A prestigious marriage would quiet them, perhaps permanently.
“And if I refuse?”
Niall paused, a cup of ale hovering near his lips. “Then I’ll see tae it meself. There are many respectable lasses in age of marriage. The Campbell lass, maybe, or one of the Gordon girls. They are all great options.”
The threat hung between them like a drawn blade. Constantine had known it would come to this. But knowing and facing were not the same.
“I need time,” he said finally.
“And that is something we dinnae have, Constantine.” Niall’s voice was hard. “The clan chiefs will expect tae see progress soon. They’ve accepted ye as heir, but ’tis nae a permanent acceptance. Nae yet. Give them reason tae doubt ye, and they’ll find another tae follow.”
Constantine nodded curtly, understanding the dismissal. “I’ll consider what ye’ve said.”
“See that ye dae.” Niall had already turned back to his papers, effectively ending the conversation. “And Constantine? Dinnae wait too long. Opportunity has a way of slipping through yer fingers if ye dally.”
Constantine left the study with his father’s words echoing in his mind. His position was precarious enough without adding the complications of a forced marriage.