Page 8 of The Rightful Highland King (The Last Celtic King #4)

Edric dropped his shirt. "How could ye do it? How could ye lose me stronghold and let them claim it as McNair Castle? It's a symbol tae those idiot masses, dinnae ye understand that, with all yer cleverness? Ye've ruined so much of what I've worked for! Speak!"

"I couldnae have won the fight. If I hadnae conceded the battle, most of our men would have been slaughtered," Ansel told him, not allowing any emotion into his voice. "They kent more than we did. Even I would likely have died?—"

"Then ye should have!" Edric howled. "Ye should have locked the doors and burned the place tae the ground for a second time, with yerself inside if necessary! Yer life should have been forfeit if it meant I could finally extinguish those rebel worms and their pathetic McNair pretender of a leader!"

Ansel lowered his eyes. "Aye, Yer Majesty." He did not want to think of those last moments in McNair Castle. He did not want to think of Cailean McNair. He did not want to think of her. "I failed ye. I will take whatever punishment ye see fit."

The clock ticked its sentence out on the wall.

Finally, Edric scoffed. "The men speak highly of ye. Many are loyal tae ye. It would be a hassle tae be rid of ye now. And ye have rarely failed me before. So listen closely."

Ansel flicked his eyes up again.

Edric leaned in. "Ye are bein' given a second chance, and a final one.

Ye will marry Nessa O'Sullivan and produce sons tae carry on me legacy.

Ye will serve loyally in every action. Ye will be king one day, Ansel Ashkirk, and ye will never concede again.

Ye will win, or ye will die. Either at their hands—or at me own. Are we understood?"

"Aye, Yer Majesty," Ansel replied. "Thank ye, Yer Majesty."

"Out of me sight. Go and remember how tae be me son," Edric replied. He turned his back again and walked to the other side of the study.

Ansel bowed then turned to leave. Just as he'd opened the door, though, his father called out again.

"Ansel?"

"Father?" he asked, turning back, risking the paternal form of address again and hoping it was the right choice to make.

Edric was watching him closely again. "The maid."

The shards of ice returned. "Maid?" Ansel asked, trying his best to keep his composure.

"Aye, the one ye took as yer lover. Abby, was it nae? I kent ye'd like her. I had already picked her out for ye when I met her in the throne room that day," Edric said. "She was a bonny thing."

Ansel did not bother to correct his father's faulty assumption about why he'd taken Neala with him. Edric would not understand how any woman could have any other use.

"The men have been talkin'," Edric went on. "They say she was a spy. Probably one of those despicable Sparrows. Have ye clipped the wee bird's wings, Ansel? Truly? I ken ye have always had a weakness for bonny things."

Heart racing for the first time, fear pulsing in his veins, Ansel replied as truthfully as he could. "Abigail is dead. Ye neednae worry about her returnin'. It's impossible."

It was the truth in its entirety—if not an actual answer to the question the king had asked.

Edric considered him. "Ye killed her?" he asked. "Ye dealt with the traitor?"

Ansel clasped his hands together to stop them from shaking. "Aye. I dealt with the maid—the spy. I acted as I had tae, she got what she deserved."

With a nod and a wave of his hand, the king dismissed him.

Bursting out of that study was like returning to air after too long spent underwater.

Ansel stumbled through the great hall, now almost clean from the hardworking servants who were already tirelessly at work, his mind racing once more.

Too close. He had let things get too close.

He had to get himself back together and remember who he was.

No matter what Neala McNair had done to him, no matter what she had made him feel, no matter how tantalizingly she had dangled freedom before his face, he was Ansel Ashkirk, and he must never forget it.

He rubbed his jaw, tracing his fingers across the deep scar. There was no fighting against the king. It wasn't worth the risk. Should he talk to Baldric? The youthful part of him longed to, but he didn't want to put his cousin in danger. No, he would carry this burden alone.

He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice that he wasn't alone in the corridor until she stepped out of the shadows. He flinched in surprise, his hand flying to his weapon, then relaxed as he recognized her.

"Me Lady," he said quietly. "Did ye get lost? I thought the maid escorted ye tae yer rooms."

Nessa O'Sullivan stared at him with dark, haunted eyes. "I needed tae find ye. Ye avoided talkin' tae me durin' the feast—but if ye are tae be me husband, then we have much tae discuss."

Ansel offered his arm, and Nessa took it. "I'll escort ye back tae yer rooms, Lady O'Sullivan, but dinnae expect much else from me. We've been instructed tae wed, nae tae gossip in the corridors. Ye will do well here if ye learn quickly that it is easier tae simply obey."

Nessa made a slight sound that was almost a scoff, but not quite. "Ye think I havenae learned that lesson long ago?" she asked, something desperately sad coloring her tone. "I, who was me father's only loyal child?"

"And yet yer father couldnae carry that same loyalty forward toward his king," Ansel replied.

The coldness in his voice was harsher than he'd intended, but he did not pull away from it.

He did not want to endear himself to this girl.

She had suffered enough without trying to get close to him.

"It's a wonder ye've survived this long at all. "

Her hand tightened on his arm, but she did not pull away. They paced quietly through the corridors, both lost in their own silence.

"Is it true?" she asked once they reached the top of the staircase that led to her rooms. "Are ye the one who did it?"

"Did what?" Ansel asked.

She gave him a reproachful look. "Ye'll make me ask it outright? Fine, then, if ye wish tae be cruel. Are ye the one who killed me father?"

"I am," Ansel replied. He led her to her door. They stood looking at each other for a moment, and he saw the sadness in her eyes, so powerful that he had to look away. "The last thing he spoke of was ye."

Nessa let out a shaky breath. "I see."

Ansel paused. "How does it feel?" he asked. "To be betrothed tae me—to be weddin' the man who murdered yer father?"

She met his gaze, unwavering now. Coldness settled over her, her expression as stony as the walls around them. "Murder? Nae, Yer Highness. I ken ye killed him upon yer father's command. He was a traitor tae the Crown, and so he died. That's all there is tae it."

Ansel shook his head. "Ye allow yerself tae believe that, then? Ye'll allow yerself tae lie with the man who took his life? Tae mother me bairns? Tae take me name?"

Unsettlingly, she smiled, a cold, empty smile that left her eyes blank. "I'll do as I must. Just like ye. Goodnight, Yer Highness."

Ansel took her hand in his and pressed his lips against it. Her skin was cold. "Goodnight, Lady O'Sullivan," he replied.

Then she turned from him and entered her room, leaving Ansel in the corridor alone.