Page 25 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire (Kilted Kisses #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

E wan stared at the walls of MacTavish Keep as they rode up. He’d only departed them a few days before, and yet, they seemed to loom somehow, equal parts ominous and welcoming.

Over the past two seasons, the keep had become a home to him, a place he could picture living for many years to come. But he was no longer certain if he would be welcome within the walls for much longer. If Gael MacTavish convinced the Council of Elders to accept his claim, Ewan would be sent back to MacDuff Keep and Alistair. The very thought brought with it a knife-edge of shame and dread.

He’d always hated being in Alistair’s shadow, even when he knew it was the way of things, and that he would likely never be more than a second-in-command, perhaps the heir to another clan if he married a neighboring laird who had only daughters. But even the latter would have been bittersweet, for he would have been beholden to his brother for helping arrange the match, and to the laird who claimed him for accepting him.

He’d been resigned to it, all his life. But now, having had a taste of leadership, of lairdship, he wasn’t sure he could go back to being Alistair’s shadow.

Unfortunately, the choice was not his to make. That honor rested on the shoulders of the Council of Elders, MacTavish men born and bred, to whom he was still something of an outsider, and some of whom were likely to still feel bitter about his hand in the death of the previous laird.

A small hand settled on his shoulder, and he glanced sideways at Grace. She offered him a brief smile before they both dismounted. Ewan took heart from her poise and grace as she fell into step beside him, every inch the noble lady she had been raised to be, and the supportive presence the Council would expect of a woman he was courting.

Malcolm met him at the door of the Keep. “M’laird. The Council is convening, an’ they’ll be gathered within the candle-mark. Time enough for ye an’ the lady tae freshen up an’ have somethin’ tae eat.”

“A wash would be most welcome, but I understand supper is not far off, and we had provisions on the road.” Grace demurred before he could. “Some wine for myself and… I understand Master MacTavish and his wife will be attending?”

“Aye.” Underneath the stoic facade, Ewan saw a glimmer of approval on Malcolm’s weathered features. “Wine for the ladies, mead and whisky fer the laird, guests, and members o’ the Council.”

“And some milk or fruit juice for Master MacTavish’s son.” Grace stepped smoothly into the role of a hostess, as if they were already betrothed and married. Ewan had to admire her poise. He felt as if someone was tying knots in his stomach. He forced himself to maintain the same stoicism that Malcolm seemed to project so effortlessly.

He, Devlin and Grace went to their separate rooms. Ewan splashed some cold water on his face, then washed the grime of travel away and changed into a clean kilt and sash - one in MacDuff colors, one in MacTavish colors.

The outcome of this meeting could determine which colors he would wear for the rest of his life. Ewan took a deep breath and dismissed the thought. This was a battle of words and will, but it was a battle just the same, and he had always been a warrior.

Grace emerged from her rooms moments after Ewan emerged from his, and the two of them made their way to the Council chambers. Ewan opened the door for Grace, then entered himself, scanning the room for the unfamiliar face he knew must be there.

Gael MacTavish was shorter than Ewan by several inches, and built lean, like a messenger. His features were angular, with hooded eyes that reminded Ewan of a wolf, prowling the edge of a sheep herd. Gray eyes matched with dark, slightly wild hair to give him a shadowed appearance that made Ewan’s hackles rise.

The woman with him was small and slender, faded brown hair tucked back in a braid. She kept one hand on the shoulders of a young boy with slightly darker hair and wide brown eyes. MacTavish’s wife and son looked cowed, almost frightened, and it took effort for Ewan to keep his lip from curling in disgust.

He’d be the first to admit that he sometimes wished the women in his life, like Niamh, Catriona, and Grace, were more inclined to listen, but the idea of a placid, subservient lass… that sat poorly with him, and all the more because he suspected she’d been cowed by her husband, rather than being naturally shy. The boy was too quiet as well, silent and still rather than bubbling with the nervous energy that Ewan was used to seeing in lads of that age.

There was a chance he could be wrong, but Ewan trusted his instincts. And his instincts told him that Gael MacTavish was every bit the predator he appeared to be.

Then the man smiled, and Ewan forced his thoughts away from his speculations as Gael came forward to shake his hand. “Master Ewan MacDuff. ‘Tis good tae finally meet ye as well.”

There was an insult there, but rising to it would make him look insecure in his position, or arrogant, depending on how he responded. To his surprise, it was Grace who intervened. “Master MacTavish, surely you know that me betrothed’s title is currently Overseer Ewan MacDuff. Until the Council and the Highland Gathering have made their judgment, of course.”

“Aye.” Gael nodded back, affable enough on the surface, but Ewan sensed he was not amused to be corrected by a lass. “Ye must excuse me, Miss…”

“Grace. Grace Lancaster.” Grace tipped her head and dipped into the shallowest of curtsies.

“Lancaster? An English lass?” Gael’s tone was colored with surprise, but his face showed none. Of course, he would have known the truth long before, if he had any observers in Ewan’s household at all, and Ewan was certain he did. Gael’s timing in calling the Council was too perfect for any other conclusion.

Grace smiled, a cool smile that said she, like Ewan, knew very well what Gael was attempting to do in bringing up her status. “’Tis true, I was fostered by an English uncle from childhood, after a clan raid destroyed my home. I grew up just across the border on the edge of the Lowlands, though I am happy to claim Lady Niamh MacDuff as a dear friend, a sister in all but blood to me.”

Her smile deepened then, just a hint of wry amusement. “Alas, I have not yet spent enough time with Niamh and Ewan to shed the accent I was raised with, I fear. Mayhap ‘twill change, if I am so fortunate.”

Ewan permitted himself a small smile as he guided her to a chair and offered her the seat. Grace made the dance of words and thinly veiled meanings seem easy, and in taking the first sallies, she had given him time to take a measure of his opponent.

Gael MacTavish was cunning and shrewd, but he was not subtle, and he was even less well versed in the games of lairdship and diplomacy than Ewan himself was. He still had his blood, his wits and his family to weigh in his favor, but he was far from the nigh-undefeatable opponent that Ewan had feared he might face.

His son was too young to take a place at the table, and his wife was nowhere near a match for Grace - indeed, she looked as if she would rather be anywhere else. Gael offered her a chair, and she took it, but she was clearly uneasy and uncertain about her place in the Council Chambers, whereas Grace appeared as if she attended such meetings every day.

The rest of the Council took their chairs, and servants brought drinks. Gael took his tankard carelessly, almost gracelessly, and his wife looked almost perplexed to be served instead of serving. The boy made not a sound as he clutched his cup, sitting on a stool away from the table. It was clear he was there as a prop.

Ewan restrained a snort. Everyone knew MacTavish had a son, and it was obvious the boy was too young to appreciate what was happening. Gael would have been better served to ask the castle staff to watch the lad, or perhaps introduce him briefly before guiding him elsewhere.

Finally, they were all settled, and the eldest of the Council, Brion MacClairan, rose from his seat. “Ye all ken why we’re here, tae evaluate the man who would seek Lairdship o’er MacTavish Clan. This meeting is fer ye tae speak and show us what manner o’ men ye be within Council. Ye’ll each stand an’ tell us why ye have the right tae the lairdship, and what ye offer the clan. As the one who called the Council, Gael MacTavish o’ Clan MacTavish may speak first.”

It was only proper, but Gael still sent Ewan a swift look of triumph as he rose to his feet. “Elders o’ Clan MacTavish, I have many reasons fer which I believe I am the laird this clan needs, but even more than that, I am the rightful heir tae the title. It is in me very name, and the manner in which ye call me tae address this table - I am MacTavish blood and bone. As is me son, who would follow after me.”

“Ye arenae the main branch o’ the clan.” One of the other elders spoke up, and Ewan relaxed a little. If they were willing to make a point of that, even at this early determination, then perhaps his chances were better than he had feared.

“But I am still from that line, even if I am but a distant cousin. Master Ewan - yer pardon, Overseer Ewan - cannae make that claim. He is a MacDuff, an’ nae matter what colors he wears or what name he tak’s, his blood is always tae be MacDuff, and I fear that his first loyalty is tae them, an’ nae tae our clan.”

“Blood alone daesnae make a laird.”

“It daes nae.” Gael agreed. “But there are also other things in me favor: I have a wife and son, so the clan need not fear being left without an heir under me leadership. Overseer MacDuff has only the woman he is courting, whom he claims as his betrothed but has set nay date fer a wedding. He has no sons, no daughters who may lead the clan if he falls, or secure alliances on the borders of our lands.”

Muttering ran around the room, but so low and soft that Ewan could not tell which way the currents were shifting. Gael seemed encouraged, and continued on. “This too, I would bring - I have worked all me life tae raise meself up, tae be worthy o’ me name. All I have, I have earned, through careful skill and effort. Can Overseer MacDuff, whose braither conquered our land and gave them over tae him, say the same? Does he understand the requirements o’ the clan, from the position o’ the newest o’ farmers tae the halls of this Keep? I will say that I ken such matters better than he - second son o’ a laird who never fought fer anything he desired, and claims his position now only because his elder braither didnae choose tae tak’ it.”

More muttering, and Ewan saw glances being exchanged. Then one of the elders spoke again. “Ye’ve nay experience with governance or alliances, lad.”

“Nay more did Overseer MacDuff, when first he claimed the position.” Gael responded swiftly. “But I can learn as well as any man. Isnae me petition, and me presence here taeday proof enough o’ that?”

“And what o’ yer wife? A laird’s lady must be prepared tae govern a large household. Is yer Elspeth prepared fer such a task?”

From the look that crossed the young woman’s face, the answer was obviously ‘no’. But Gael straightened his back and smiled his sharp-edged smile. “Me wife has managed me own household for years… she will become accustomed tae the greater responsibilities with time, I am sure. If I am fortunate enough tae claim the title, o’ course.”

“We should like tae hear from the lady, if ye will.”

Elspeth MacTavish raised her eyes, but couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. Ewan felt an unwanted pang of sympathy. She was far beyond her comfort and her skills, practically drowning under her husband’s ambition. Her voice was a mere shadow, barely more than a whisper, as she spoke. “It is as me husband says. I am… capable enough.”

Beside her, the child fidgeted on his stool, until a look from his father made him be still. Ewan felt another pang of sympathy.

Brion spoke again. “Have ye anything else tae say, Master MacTavish?”

“Aye. I believe this clan needs a strong leader, and in these times o’ unrest, we need a laird who can lead us in peace-keeping and in war, even against the English. I have the strength, and though I havenae tested meself against Overseer MacDuff, I am confident that me skills wouldnae be found lacking if such a contest were tae occur. I would have that be considered as well. Fer if he is courting an English lass, can he truly lead us fer our Scottish king?”

That point was well-made and well-delivered, and Ewan could see it hit home like a perfectly aimed arrow. Gael MacTavish had a silver tongue, for all his possible shortcomings.

Gael sat, ceding the floor, and Ewan rose. He considered his answers with care, but in truth, he knew what needed to be said. Each point made must be rebuffed, and his own points made. But he would not argue like a child.

When he was sure of what he would say, he began. “’Tis true, I am nae MacTavish blood. I ken it well enough, and I willnae say I wish otherwise, fer I wouldnae forsake the clan o’ me blood so easily. However, I am willing enough tae tak’ the MacTavish name and colors as me own, if it be the will o’ the Council and the Highland gathering. If the lairdship comes tae me, then me children, and me children’s children, will be considered MacTavish, nae MacDuff. Me braither has his own line tae look after the clan o’ me birth - there is nay reason I cannae make me home and me place here.”

That was the only argument he could make, but it was a solemn pledge, and he knew that, if he took the lairdship, it would be considered a solemn oath, unbreakable without losing his honor. The elders of the clan knew it as well as he, and he could hear the low rumble of what sounded like approval.

His next point then. “’Tis also true I have neither wife nor child, but that doesnae mean I willnae ever have them. However, at this moment, I am free tae marry as I wish - or as the clan needs. ‘Tis true I court Lady Grace Lancaster with hopes tae claim her as me own, but ‘tis also true that the bond may be given over tae another, if marriage is needed tae secure an alliance. Moreover, I am neither laird nor have I been Overseer fer a full turning o’ the seasons. I am not yet beyond the time when ‘tis worrisome that I have nay wife and heir.”

He glanced at Gael. “Master MacTavish has made much o’ mentioning me braither, and I would remind the Council that he wed well, a full year after his ascension tae the lairdship. I dinnae think it unfair tae ask for the same consideration, should the rank come tae me, and especially nae when ye ken that I am already seeking fer a wife.

“There is this as well – ‘tis given, by bonds o’ blood alone, that I secure alliance and peace with our closest neighboring clan. In times o’ strife, as Master Gael said, surely that peace, and the ending of bloodshed on our borders, is worth something? I would ask ye tae consider that. And consider too, if Grace Lancaster becomes me wife, that she will bring an alliance with Clan Cameron o’ the lowlands, through her relationship tae me braither’s wife, and who can say when an English lass might not help our countrymen travel safely, if travel near the borders they must? ‘Tis worth a thought, I believe.”

He hadn’t actually considered that fact until he’d begun traveling with Grace, but it was true. They might raise eyebrows and muttering, but each could provide surety for the other on their own soil. If ever he had cause to return to English lands, a wife who spoke as one of them might be the difference between safe travel and fearing a knife in his back. And who knew what doors the Lancaster name might open, or what shield it might provide?

Of course, that was assuming that Grace actually was his betrothed. He would have to rethink his argument when she went back to her home. But for now, with the ruse in place, it was a valid argument.

He continued. “Master MacTavish says I havenae worked for my bread, an’ he speaks some truth. However, I would argue that I earned me place as Laird MacDuff’s second-in-command, and it wasnae an easy task. I have earned me battle scars as well, and fought on the field o’ honor. I have aided with the governance o’ a clan, and if any o’ ye think I havenae been working, and working tirelessly, in my position as Overseer o’ Clan MacDuff, I would ask ye tae step forward now.”

He paused, but no one, not even Gael MacTavish stood to dispute his claim. “I am nae the most experienced o’ leaders, I ken, but I have learned much, and I will continue tae learn, whether I become Laird MacTavish or nae.”

He stopped to take a sip of his mead. “Master MacTavish says I cannae ken the plight and the needs o’ farmers and the clansmen who bring in our crops and build our walls. I would ask ye tae speak tae the farmers whose homes were burned in the fires less than a fortnight ago. Ask them if I didnae provide fer them, if I didnae care fer them. Ask the servants o’ MacTavish Keep if I am a poor master, or have served them ill. Then make yer own judgment about whether I can care fer the needs o’ the villagers as well as those who occupy this keep.”

One last point to make. He almost hated to do it, for he felt like a bit of a brute, but it had to be done. “An’ as fer the matter o’ the Lady I may or may nae wed… ye can judge fer yerself the quality o’ me current courtship and betrothal, in Lady Grace Lancaster. An’ if, fer some reason, our paths dae part an’ I select another, ye may well ken she will be o’ similar mind and experience and skill, fer I couldnae imagine choosing anyone lesser.”

That earned him a definite murmur of approval, and Ewan was certain he wasn’t the only one to see the poisonous look Gael MacTavish gave his wife, or the way she huddled away from his anger.

There was nothing more to say. Ewan settled back into his seat. Grace reached across to him, and he laced his fingers with hers, grateful for the show of support. He knew the Council saw that as well, and noted the difference between their interactions and those of Gael and his wife.

Drinks were refreshed, and the members of the council continued to talk among themselves. Ewan was content to sit in silence, though he yearned to know what was being said. In this matter, unlike many others, the council had the final say.

Finally, Brion MacClarian rose from his seat. “Both o’ ye speak well, and make excellent points. Ye’ve given this council much tae consider. Fer now, we shall disperse. Taenight, there will be a feast in the Great Hall, tae welcome Master MacTavish and his kin.”

The dinner was another test, Ewan knew. Yes, it was a welcoming feast, but it would also be a measure of how each man prepared for a formal event. Lairds were, after all, expected to host feasts for alliances, marriages, children being born, and of course, Festival Days like Imbloc, Beltane and Samhain, among others.

He knew as well that the Council had planned the dinner, outside his knowledge, to place him on a more equal footing with Gael MacTavish and make it a truer test of their measure in comparison to one another. He wouldn’t be expected to know much of the planned meal, or what entertainment might be made available, or who would be in attendance.

However, they would be watching how he responded. Accordingly, Ewan made a formal dismissal, then sought out Malcolm. “Preparations have been made?”

“Aye, m’laird. Fresh mutton and moorland fowl fer the mains, and the rest o’ it already bein’ prepared. Fortunately, ‘twas baking day taeday.” Malcolm smiled.

“An’ plenty o’ wine, mead and stronger spirits laid in, fer those that want it? An’ beer fer the lower tables?”

“Aye.” Malcolm nodded in satisfaction. “And a jug o’ sweetened elderberry cordial for the lads and lasses o’ the castle that arenae ready fer aught stronger.”

That was well thought of. Ewan considered what else might be needed. “Have we any musicians? This short o’ notice, I wouldnae expect a bard or troubadour tae be in the keep, but the village musicians will do well enough.”

“We’ve a good selection o’ players, all o’ whom have been offered coppers an’ a meal fer their efforts.” Malcolm’s smile widened. “An’ ye’ll be pleased tae ken, half o’ them are from the families whose homes were destroyed, so ye’ll be giving more aid tae those who need it, as well as the folk o’ the village.”

Ewan huffed out a relieved laugh. “Och, I dinnae ken what I’d dae without ye, Malcolm.”

“Ye’d manage, m’laird. Ye an’ young Devlin.” Malcolm hesitated, then stepped closer. “A steward hears many things, m’laird, and while I willnae say more than I ought, I will say this much tae ye: what I heard in the Council chambers while servin’ ale was more in yer favor than Master MacTavish’s.”

Relief swept through Ewan like a clean spring breeze. Beside him, Grace’s hand clenched on his arm, her eyes bright with the same emotion he felt. Ewan took a deep breath, then nodded. “’Tis good tae ken. Fer now though, if ye’re confident ye have the arrangements all in hand, ‘tis best Lady Lancaster and I go tae ready ourselves fer the feasting.”

Malcolm bowed and left. Ewan turned to Grace. “Ye an’ I both need tae go and dress. Wear something…”

“I know what sort of clothing to wear for a feast, welcoming or otherwise.” Grace raised an eyebrow. “I sat through enough of them in my uncle’s home.”

Ewan sighed. “I ken. I’m only…”

“You are fighting for your position. Your reactions are understandable.” Grace smiled at him and caressed his cheek. “Go. Wash. Dress. Then, if you wish, I shall meet you in your study, so that we may go to the feast together.”

Ewan smiled, reassured by her calm manner and easy approach to the whole ordeal. “I’d like that. Very well.” He took her hand, then bent his head and kissed her fingers. “I’ll be awatin’ ye.”

Grace gave him a last smile, then turned and hurried away, toward her rooms. Ewan watched her go, then made his way to his own quarters. Doubtless, Malcolm would have sent servants to fill a tub for the hot bath he desperately needed.

The first engagement was out of the way, and he had done well. He only needed to continue as he had begun. And with Grace at his side, he had no doubt he could weather whatever Gael MacTavish chose to attempt.

With Grace at his side… Ewan frowned as he entered his rooms, where the expected bath awaited.

Grace. For now, she was posing as his betrothed. But all too soon, the facade would have to change, one way or another. He knew how he wished it would change - he’d had plenty of time to consider it after talking with Alistair before leaving MacDuff Castle. However, he had no idea how Grace felt on the matter. She might care for his company and for his skills in bed, but that was a far cry from wishing to be his betrothed in truth.

Besides, there were consequences, if she agreed to betroth him, or to wed him. He had no idea how such an action would affect her relationship with her English kin, but he could not imagine they’d look favorably on the union. Grace spoke of her uncle with evident dislike, but dislike was far different from being willing to risk banishment from her home and her remaining kin - and risk it she would, if they were wed.

It would be easiest to simply ask Grace what she thought, and what she felt, on the matter, but he had no idea how to even broach the conversation. What was he to say? How was he to ask?

Ewan sighed, then turned his attention to his bath. He had a feast to prepare for. Once he was ready for that, then he could go back to considering the matter of Grace.