Page 3 of The Rightful Highland King (The Last Celtic King #4)

He spoke so softly, so calmly, that it was the first time that Ansel truly felt scared.

The prince swallowed, clenching his hand to stop it from shaking.

Very little could terrify him—in fact, nothing at all.

Nothing, that was, except for the man in front of him now.

Before his father's cold gaze, he felt like a four-year-old boy again, lost and alone, punished over and over for not being everything a prince should be.

The boy had soon learned, but it seemed the man he had become still had lessons ahead.

Mind racing, Ansel bowed his head again. "Of course. But Father, we must speak. May we go somewhere in private, perhaps, and?—"

"Nonsense!" the king exclaimed. "I wouldnae deprive me guests. They've all been waitin' for ye, after all. As, of course, has our bonny lass here."

Ansel finally looked back at the girl again, studying her more closely. She looked pale with dark circles under her eyes, but she stood tall and proud. When she caught him looking, she sank into a curtsey, lowering her eyes so as not to meet his direct gaze.

It hit him in an instant. He had recognized this girl, but he had last seen her in person many years ago.

More recently, just a few days before, in fact, he'd seen her sister.

"Nessa O'Sullivan," he breathed, trying not to let any of his surprise or confusion sound in his voice.

"Welcome, miss. Or, should I say, welcome, Lady O'Sullivan. "

"It's an honor, Yer Highness," Nessa whispered.

"That's right! As ye had so wisely suggested, Nessa here took control of her father's lands until such time as we can find her a husband," Edric said affably.

"But what a burden such a thing is upon the shoulders of a young, bonny woman!

Hark, though—I have found a solution to her issue and a way to reward ye for yer actions as well. "

A shiver crept across Ansel's skin. He did not speak.

Edric smiled. "A feast!" he exclaimed, raising his cup. "A betrothal feast for me son and Nessa O'Sullivan!"

The crowd cheered. Ansel stared at Nessa, who would not meet his eyes.

So this was it, then—this was how he was to be punished.

He was to be wed to the traitor's daughter, shamed before the entire country, and used as a pawn to help his father's grip tighten upon the land, all in one masterful stroke.

Nessa would not be a willing wife; he could tell that from her posture, but she would be a dutiful one.

Though Ansel had turned down many marriage offers over the years, he knew that would not be an option now.

He and Nessa were both to be vehicles to carry on the Ashkirk name, and neither had any choice left to them.

Edric smiled coldly at him. "Are ye nae pleased, son? All of this is for ye."

Ansel swallowed. "Of course I am pleased, Father," he replied. "It's an honor. But may I speak with ye?—"

"What ye may do, lad, is go and clean yerself up. Ye look a mess. Be back soon, though; I willnae have ye unpresentable at yer own betrothal feast." Edric waved a hand dismissively. "Go now."

Ansel wanted to argue. He wanted to protest and explain why this would never work.

He wanted to insist that his father speak with him now and discuss their next steps.

And more than that, he wanted to let this pale, grieving girl go home.

He, personally, had slaughtered Nessa O'Sullivan's father in this very castle.

He was the reason she was now Lady of the O'Sullivan clan—and, inadvertently, now the reason that the O'Sullivan lands would be entirely absorbed under the Ashkirk name.

He bowed again, lower and more subservient than before. "As ye say, Yer Majesty. May I be excused?"

His father dismissed him, and Ansel hurried out of a side door, racing for his rooms. He was not interrupted as he rushed through the halls, and when he reached his rooms and slammed the door behind him, he had the sudden urge to stay hidden there forever.

But instead, after taking a long, shaky breath, he moved to the washroom. Someone had already drawn him a hot bath. He longed to sink into it, but instead he washed himself quickly, then moved to his wardrobe to pick out clean clothes.

He stopped still as he passed the center of his room.

His chessboard sat there, the pieces still laid out as they had been the night before he left for McNair Castle.

He could see her shaking hand reaching for the pieces, hear her cautious but confident voice explaining her moves, see the surprise in her eyes when he had beaten her—but only just.

Ansel groaned and shook his head, banishing Neala from his thoughts.

She did not belong there. With any luck, he would never see her again.

If Cailean McNair was as smart as he seemed, he would send his sister away across the sea until this was all over.

Ansel fervently prayed that this would be so.

He changed, then, with a deep breath, made his way out of his rooms and back down to the feast.

When Ansel reentered the room, the tables had been pushed to the side and dancing had begun. The music faltered when Ansel walked in, but Edric immediately spoke.

"The prince has returned!" the king announced. "Now that he is ready, let us drink! Let us dance! And let us celebrate." Edric raised his cup in Ansel's direction. "To the future of the Ashkirk legacy! To the future of our country!"

A cheer went up, and Ansel caught Nessa's eye from across the room. The girl quickly ducked her head, but not before Ansel saw it there.

The dread.

The fear.

The hopelessness.

He would know it anywhere. After all, it had followed him his whole life.