Page 2 of The Rightful Highland King (The Last Celtic King #4)

Chapter One

The storm grew worse, and the men grew more and more discontented.

Ansel knew that he should make haste back to Blackthorn Castle, but he also refused to put his people more at risk than he had to.

And, if he were honest, he was in no rush to get back and face his father.

He still hadn't thought of precisely what to tell him.

They spent four days in a nearby occupied village, sheltering while the worst of the storm made its way past. Its people gave up their space without question when they saw the Ashkirk banners, some even offering their own homes and beds.

Ansel turned this down where he could, but he did not protest when his men insisted.

They were still at war, and he was still the prince, and he would not show any more weakness than he already had.

As he expected, the men descended upon him with questions about their retreat from the stronghold. He was brusque with the truth: that the leader of the rebellion had outplayed them, and that there was no way that they could have survived the attack. It had been a tactical retreat.

"But how," one man, Tam, asked, "Did some rebel upstart outsmart ye ? How did he find a way intae the stronghold?"

The truth there came a little less easily.

The truth was simple: the rebel leader had won because he genuinely was Cailean McNair, and the king's men, Ansel's men, had been occupying Cailean's home.

Even with all of Ansel's careful planning, the rebels had possessed the advantage the entire time.

If he'd been free, Ansel might have been able to keep the course and find a way to overwhelm the attack, even despite that, but Neala had put a stop to that the second she'd locked them both in that room.

That was the truth. But it was not what he answered his men.

"They had a spy in our midst," he replied.

"The maid. She must have gotten word of our plans out tae them before the attack.

I caught her in the library amongst our plans and architectural drawin's.

It's why I captured her and brought her away from them; I needed tae ensure there was nae way she could escape or tell them more. "

The men muttered amongst themselves. Tam said, "So ye killed her?"

"I did. I hid the body amongst the bushes. If they follow, they'll find her, and they'll have our message," Ansel replied. "And I hope I'm given the chance tae make up me folly tae me father."

Only after the rest of the men had retreated for the night did Baldric approach, a mug of ale in one hand. He held it out, and Ansel accepted it.

"He'll ken what happened by now," Baldric told him, clinking their mugs together. "It's nae gonnae be an easy one for ye."

Ansel grunted and didn't answer, instead drinking deeply.

"I must ask ye somethin', cousin," Baldric went on after a moment of silence. "The maid. The spy. Why did ye bring her with us in the first place?"

The ale stuck in Ansel's throat. He coughed hard, spluttering, and Baldric smacked him on the back until the air entered his lungs again. Breathing heavily, Ansel took a moment to collect himself, then just said, "I… I'm a prince. It's nae surprisin' I'd want a personal maid."

Baldric peered at him with a little too much understanding. "She caught yer eye, eh? Well, she was a bonny thing. It's a pity ye had tae dispose of her."

Ansel responded with nothing but a slight noncommittal sound. Baldric's sad smile was too knowing, but he didn't press anymore. Instead, Baldric patted Ansel's shoulder again.

"Finish yer beer and get some rest," Baldric said. "Ye'll need it. The storm's almost over. We'll be back home in a few days—and me uncle will have a lot tae say."

Though the storm was over and the sun was peering through the cautiously blue sky, it still felt like a heavy grey cloud was following Ansel's men as they completed their journey back to Blackthorn Castle.

Morale had never been lower after such a spectacular defeat and retreat, and while Ansel would usually commit himself to raising it, he found himself at a loss.

He did not know how to motivate his men when he couldn't even fully comprehend what had happened himself.

He wondered how much it would shatter them all if they knew the truth of what he had done.

Fear flooded them all. Though Ansel knew he would bear the brunt of the king's rage, he also knew he could not prevent some of it from being taken out on the men.

They had failed as well—his father would take their retreat as nothing but cowardice.

Ansel would do everything he could to ensure that the blame lay firmly on his shoulders, but he could not stop the men from being scared.

After all, his father was not the kind of man who was crossed or failed lightly, even by those closest to his service.

Ansel himself had been the weapon to show James O'Sullivan that not so long ago.

Ansel led the men up the hill to Blackthorn Castle, images of darkness and silent judgment in his mind.

To his surprise, though, as they entered through the gates of his father's home, the whole courtyard was buzzing with activity.

Servants were running back and forth, carrying huge baskets of food and decorations; well-dressed guests were milling around, talking and laughing, many of whom Ansel did not recognize.

There was an air of excitement, even celebration, which seemed drastically at odds with what should be happening.

Ansel frowned, leaving his horse with the stablemaster and instructing Baldric to sort out the men while he went ahead to face his father. He entered the main building of the castle, expecting to head straight to the king's private chambers. However, a servant caught him just as he stepped inside.

"Yer Highness!" the servant gasped. "At last! Yer father was hopin' ye'd arrive in time."

"In time?" Ansel asked, caught off guard. "In time for what?"

"The feast!" the servant explained, sounding amazed that Ansel would even be asking. "They're already in the great hall, Yer Highness—ye better hurry."

Before Ansel could question him more, the servant darted off to carry out whatever duty had been placed upon him.

Ansel watched him go, nonplussed. A feast?

Why would his father be throwing a feast ?

Had he somehow misunderstood the news that had reached them from McNair Castle?

It seemed unlikely, but what other reason could there be to celebrate?

All Ansel wanted to do was go to his rooms, sink into a hot bath, and then sleep. Instead, though, he turned and started toward the great hall. It seemed there was more to do before this long journey was over.

He reached the massive metal doors of the great hall, which were so out of place compared to the wooden carvings that decorated most other castles.

His father was paranoid, though perhaps rightly so.

Even through those doors, he could hear muffled chatter and ribaldry from inside.

Even more confused, Ansel pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

A blanket of noise and the scent of cooked meat overwhelmed him.

A huge feast was laid out in front of him, tables full of representatives from almost every clan that had not yet defected to the rebels' cause.

Ansel noted many among them that he knew, including Murtagh McKenzie, who looked haggard and tired.

His daughter, Sorcha, was nowhere to be seen, which seemed strange—McKenzie usually never let the girl out of his sight.

"Ah, me son returns," a voice boomed.

Silence fell over the hall, the words carrying the weight of a hammer over all of their heads. All eyes turned to the door through which Ansel had just walked. Ansel's own gaze snapped to the table at the head of the hall, where his father sat in the center, crown glinting on his head.

Ansel instantly swept into a deep bow. "Yer Majesty. I have returned with me men. Forgive me for interruptin' yer feast."

Edric beckoned, and Ansel stood straight, moving forward between the tables until he stood before the king.

Edric was usually accompanied at the top table during his feasts; he would sit with his advisors and whatever woman or women he had taken to his bed for the week if he felt like spoiling them.

Today, though, he sat there almost alone with only one other person at his side.

She was a young woman with dark hair and eyes and a pinched expression on a face that would otherwise have been very pretty.

Her dress was entirely black. Something about her itched at Ansel's mind—he felt like he had seen her very recently.

"Ye are nae interruptin', of course," Edric told him. "And it is nae me feast. It is yers."

Warning bells clanged in Ansel's mind. He fought to keep his expression blank, not betraying any of the turbulent emotion fighting to overwhelm him, and his body stiffened, his back straight, drawing himself to his full height.

"Father, I… have ye nae heard the news of what occurred at McNair Castle? "

Edric's expression was completely unreadable. "At the Sloe Stronghold, ye mean."

"Nay. It isnae that anymore, sire. Forgive me.

" Ansel was conscious that every eye in the room was upon him, and he could feel their stares burning into his back.

He ignored them, keeping his focus only on his father, working hard to keep his voice neutral.

"The rebels were waitin' for us. They had been made aware—they were prepared.

I had nae choice but tae flee and save our men. "

If Edric had raged, Ansel would have been prepared for it. If he had taken his heavy goblet and thrown it at Ansel's face, Ansel would have been ready.

But instead, Edric gave a brief, calm nod and spoke in a voice that wasn't shaken at all. "The events and our loss have been reported tae me. This isnae the time tae discuss it."