Page 2 of The Laird’s Unwanted Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #5)

I f the Laird of MacLiddel wished to remain in his study, he would have done so quite easily. It was clean, organized, a space he had complete control over, unlike the madness that had recently arrived at his doorstep.

The last few days had felt straight out of a nightmare, one Gerald felt himself unable to awaken from.

The news of Marcus’ death had spread quickly between the greater clans, and though he had taken the news heavily, it was the expected fate for any laird amidst the Highlands.

No, what had shaken him to his very core was the reason cited for Marcus’ death.

‘Traitor.’ Even now, the word felt like ash against Gerald’s tongue. It couldn’t be believed at first—it wouldn’t be, without him seeing it for himself. But as the greater clan lairds met, and the evidence lay bare for all to see, he could no longer close his eyes to the truth.

Marcus Hughes, the man who seemed to possess an endless spirit and determination to better the Highlands for all, had been plotting everyone’s downfall from the start. And though he could deny it no longer, Gerald could not delay the inevitable rippling effect Marcus’ death would cause.

And thus, his stay in his study stretched on for days. At least, until his man-at-arms finally broke his isolation.

It had begun on the fourth morning of his self-imposed isolation.

Gerald had fallen asleep at his desk, waking to the sight of correspondence scattered across it.

Many were from the other major lairds, inquiring about his opinion on dividing up what remained of MacGunn territory.

Interwoven between talks of land were notes of concern, a recognition of the powerful bond he and Marcus had shared.

Gerald could only roll his green-hued eyes and curse beneath his breath at the weakness he was showing to the others.

“This has gone on long enough,” he hissed, running a hand through long, dark curls of hair unnaturally kept down during his period of mourning. And yet, he had no desire to leave his chair.

That’s when the knock came at his door, followed quickly after by its opening. A sigh escaped Gerald as he glanced up, knowing full well there was only one man in the whole of MacLiddel keep who’d have the gall to burst in on their laird without waiting for permission.

And there he stood, beneath said door’s frame, a young buck whose horns had barely grown in through his curly-russet hair, yet he held himself with the confidence and charm of a stag well into his years.

Rory Tavish was a man-at-arms for a reason, but there were moments when Gerald wondered why he’d picked such a rakish braggart.

“Ah! So ye’re still in here, then!” Rory admonished, crossing the room with little care for the mess of papers strewn across the ground. “Staff was startin’ to think ye’d grown roots and grown into yer desk.”

Gerald’s expression remained neutral, glancing down at the letters as if he were deciding how to respond. In truth, he was doing everything he could to not strangle Rory there and then.

“A lot of whisperin’, ye ken,” Rory continued. “All about the keep, that our laird is hidin’ away from the problems at hand.”

Gerald pushed the letters aside, reaching into his desk to obtain a slip of parchment for a fairly hefty stack.

“Laird MacLiddel.”

“‘Laird’ indeed,” Gerald interrupted, his voice cold and cutting. “Ye often throw the word around as if it bears nay weight at all.”

Rory was uncharacteristically silent, his shoulders visibly stiffening as his expression grew tense. Good. Perhaps the lad was finally growing out of his childish mannerisms.

“If ye’re only here to wind me up, then ye can take yerself out of me study,” Gerald continued. “I daenae what caused ye to think it were appropriate to approach me in such a manner, but I nay have the time for yer antics.”

He reached for his ink and quill, his eyes flickering up to see Rory having not moved from his place. Gerald exhaled loudly through his nose, sitting upright in his chair as his hands folded tightly against his desk.

“Do ye have anything of actual value to share with me, then? Or do ye think it appropriate to speak to yer laird as if he were a foolish wee bairn havin’ a fit?”

Rory’s expression softened slightly. Gerald felt something inside him weaken. “I’m sorry, me Laird. I just thought?—”

“Aye, ye hardly do,” Gerald snapped. “It’s a wonder ye still hold the rank of man-at-arms.” He turned back down to his desk, grasping his quill as he began to write …

something. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was meant to pen down.

It just had to look as if he were busy. Hopefully, Rory would get the hint and go away.

“I was taken aback too, me Laird.”

Gerald paused, the quill pressed into the paper as an ink blot began to seep across.

“When I first heard about it all … it didnae seem real. Like I was stuck in a dream I couldnae wake up from.” Rory glanced out the window, a somber tone seeping into his voice.

“Marcus was … I feel daft for thinkin’ it, I ken, but he was like a brither to me.

And, ye ken yerself how much weight that word holds for me. ”

Gerald did indeed.

“And to think, he wanted us all dead. After everything ye’d done with him, after everything I’d said to—” Rory chuckled bitterly, wiping his face before turning back to his laird.

“And, I ken the pair of ye were close, and when ye didnae show yer face …” Again, Rory stopped, wiping his face a bit more frantically.

“Oh, nay; do ye ever dust in here? Me eyes are wellin’ up somethin’ awful. ”

A far softer sigh slipped out from Gerald this time, and he leaned back in his chair, paper and quill abandoned. He looked at Rory—through Rory—and found himself drifting toward a long-distant memory of his youth.

Of practicing with his father just outside MacLiddel’s keep, of the scouts coming back with a handful of folks who looked fragile enough to break in half by the slightest breeze.

Of red and irritated welts across their wrists and ankles, of long scars and terrible bruises, with callouses and mud caked on their feet.

But most of all, Gerald remembered a young, red-haired boy, whose bandaged face continued to bleed through regardless of how many times the wound was cleaned and changed. Who was barely old enough to walk on his own, and who was completely, utterly alone.

Even as the memory flickered past, he watched as Rory absentmindedly scratched at the noticeable scar running from the base of his chin through the top of his lip.

“Suppose it were nae to be, though,” Rory added almost to himself. “Havin’ a brither just isnae meant to be for me.”

Gerald scoffed loudly. “There ye go again, insulting yer laird straight to his face.”

His man-at-arms snapped back to attention, looking somewhat taken aback.

“I may nae be yer first choice,” Gerald went on gruffly. “But I’m the only choice ye have, now. Marcus werenae the man to put yer trust in, but ye havenae lost yer brither, and I’m insulted ye’d even think in such a way.”

Rory blinked, a genuine smile spreading back across his face. “Aye, me Laird. Suppose I’ll have to settle with havin’ only ye.”

“Suppose ye do,” Gerald agreed curtly. “And daenae forget it.”

Rory had been right about one thing: the Laird of MacLiddel could no longer hide away from the problem at hand. As soon as he’d sent his correspondence to the other lairds, Gerald assembled a small group of warriors to travel with him to MacGunn Castle.

News of chaos and fires had been noted by the other greater clans, and with them handling their own troubles started by Marcus, it fell onto the shoulders of the laird who was closest to clan MacGunn’s main keep.

And with MacCulloh well-drenched in chaos for the last month or so, the responsibility fell on Gerald.

Bundled in furs and long cloaks, he led his small entourage out the gates of his keep, cutting through a small flurry that had begun not long after their departure. But that was expected, having territory set the farthest north of all the major lairds.

Clan MacLiddel was born and raised amidst the cold and cutting, and if they were to grace another’s doorstep, a winter’s storm was to follow soon after. And Gerald ensured to shape himself after just that; by this point in his life, he had fully earned the nickname of the Beast of Braeriach.

It took a mere few days’ ride before the frigid landscape melted away into thick, verdant forestry. Though as Gerald led his men closer to MacGunn’s keep, the scent of smoke became as ever-present as the sharp tang of pine needles.

As expected, MacGunn’s was in complete chaos, with much of the outer walls destroyed and the tips of orange flames flickering high above the skyline.

No guard stood outside the main gates—then again, there really was no main gate to stand guard at— and Gerald quite easily maneuvered himself and his entourage within.

“I’m surprised nay other clan or roaming group has tried their hand at taking this place,” Rory marveled under his breath.

Gerald glanced amidst the chaos, watching mobs of grimy-faced kinsfolk tear both home and hearths apart.

Their clothes were torn and soot smeared, wrestling in the muck for whatever scraps had not been picked clean during the initial riots.

“I wouldnae touch this place if ye promised me a king’s sum,” he replied in disgust. “Desperate folk are just as dangerous as a well-trained warrior.”

“In what way?”

Gerald continued to ride slowly through the main square, the clang of swords and screaming causing his man-at-arms to jump.

“Warriors follow a code, even if it’s one born out of selfishness.

But desperation is unpredictable. It’s pure instinct.

” It was chaotic, uncontrollable; something he wanted nothing to do with.