CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“ T ell me, Marcus,” he said, voice low. “How do the walls hold? Any weaknesses I should ken about if we’re put to siege?” Nicholas kept his gaze forward, jaw clenched, the wind catching the edge of his plaid.
Marcus blinked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Siege, me laird? Are we expectin’ attack?” His voice held a nervous chuckle, clearly hoping it was a jest. But one look at Nicholas’ stony face wiped the humor away.
Their boots struck the worn path along the inner wall, the clink of their swords filling the silence between them.
Nicholas halted and turned toward him, eyes sharp and voice clipped. “I’m the laird. It’s me duty to ken the state of me walls, siege or nae.” He said nothing more, just stared at the man until the color drained from Marcus’s face. The silence stretched, thick and cold as the northern wind.
“Aye, me laird. Beg pardon,” Marcus said quickly, his back straightening. “I dinnae mean to question ye.” He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the stonework beside them. “The main gate’s still the strongest point—double barred, reinforced last season with iron bands.”
Nicholas nodded once, though the muscle in his jaw ticked.
He walked forward again, slow and steady, his hands behind his back. “And the curtain wall? How’s it holdin’?” he asked, though his tone left no room for comfort.
“Northwest corner takes the worst of the storms,” Marcus answered, hurrying to match his pace.
“That patch has some erosion at the base—nothin’ urgent, but it should be reinforced soon.
The southern wall is sound, though the walkin’ path’s narrow from wear.
” He glanced at Nicholas, then looked away again quickly.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes toward the horizon. The land stretched wide and empty beyond the stone, but his thoughts were filled with other dangers.
“Get the masons on that northwest patch before the week’s end,” he muttered. “I’ll nae have it crackin’ if any clan decides to play bold.”
Marcus stiffened, “Understood, me laird. I’ll send word to the foreman before mid-day.”
Nicholas gave a curt nod, but his mind was elsewhere.
He could still feel the ghost of Alexandra’s lips on his, the warmth of her pressed against him.
And now the thought of Rankin—vile bastard—layin’ claim to her stirred rage deep in his gut.
He needed every wall in place, every gate secure, for what might come.
The wind howled across the battlements, tugging at his cloak like the claws of old ghosts. He looked down over the edge of the wall, watching the fields beyond the outer bailey stretch into the hills.
“And the watchmen?” he asked without looking. “Are they keepin’ eyes westward, as I ordered?”
“Aye,” Marcus answered, his voice steadier now. “Rotations changed last night. We doubled the evenin’ watch—Connor leads the second shift. Nay word of movement near the borders.”
“Good,” Nicholas said flatly. His fists tightened behind his back.
Marcus only nodded, lips pressed tight.
Nicholas stopped once more at the far end of the wall walk, looking back at the length they’d covered. Stone, solid and high, strong as the men who bled to build it—but still not enough.
“Reinforce the supplies as well,” he added. “If a clan should lay siege, we’ll nae be starved into submission.”
“Aye, me laird,” Marcus murmured, bowing his head. “I’ll see to it all.”
Behind his sharp orders and clipped words burned something else. Not just anger. Not just duty. It was fear—not for himself, but for the dark-haired lass who haunted his mind like fire in the snow.
The courtyard below him bustled with soft chatter and the steady rhythm of boots on stone, but Nicholas’s eyes found only one thing—his son, Charles, darting about under the watchful eye of the nursemaid.
The boy’s laughter rose like birdsong, chasing away the heaviness in Nicholas’s chest. Without a word, he strode down the stairs and across the yard, and Charles turned at the sound of his boots, beaming. “Faither!” the lad cried, arms wide.
Nicholas scooped him up with a smirk, hoisting him onto his broad shoulders.
“There ye are, me wee hawk,” he said, raising him up high as Charles giggled above him. “High enough to see the whole kingdom now, aye?”
Charles nodded eagerly, dark curls bouncing in the sun.
Marcus approached from the corner, brow still furrowed. “About the guard shift on the east rampart?—”
Nicholas raised a hand, stopping him gently, then put Charles on his shoulders. “We’re walkin’ the walls, lad. Listen close. One day, this’ll all be yers to guard.”
Charles’s small hands held onto his father’s head as they moved, his eyes wide. “I’ll remember, faither,” he said solemnly, voice high but steady. “I’ll protect it all, like ye do.”
Nicholas felt the boy’s words sink into his chest like a warm blade, deep and fierce.
“Aye, good lad,” Nicholas said, smiling to himself as they stepped onto the stone path and back up the stairs to the top of the walls. Marcus fell in beside them. “Reinforcements —ten men, trained well. We’ll position them on the inner gatehouse come sundown.”
Nicholas nodded, half listening, half focused on Charles’s curious gaze sweeping over the battlements. “See there?” he pointed. “That’s where the archers stand, rain or snow. And that corner yonder—’tis always the first to take the wind.”
Charles leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Why the wind, faither?” Nicholas chuckled, glancing up at him. “Because the north never sleeps, lad. It’s the side the worst trouble comes from.”
They reached the edge of the wall walk, where the land spread out in fields and forest, all painted gold by the low sun. Nicholas turned slowly, letting Charles take it all in. “This is yers to love and defend. Nae with pride alone, but with honor.”
Charles whispered, “Aye… with honor.” His small voice was quiet, but fierce with meaning. Nicholas closed his eyes for a beat, the weight of hope and legacy resting on his shoulders—his son’s hands clinging gently just above.
After walking the walls, he took Charlie to the small pond in the gardens.
Nicholas walked up with a slow smile. “Ye’ll need a flat stone for skippin’, lad.”
Then he flicked a stone across the water. Charles lit up with delight.
Charlie looked up, bright-eyed. “I’ll find a better one, Faither. I want to make it bounce like ye showed me.”
Nicholas knelt beside him, rummaging through the stones at his feet. He picked a smooth, flat one and held it up. “Try this. Give it a flick of the wrist—nay heavy throwin’.”
Charlie took it with solemn care and tried again, this time getting one neat skip before it vanished. His face lit with victory. Nicholas laughed, full and warm, and ruffled his hair.
Behind them, soft footsteps approached. Nicholas turned his head and found Alexandra coming across the courtyard, skirts lifted slightly above her boots.
Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and the wind played with the strands.
There was something softer in her face today, and he wickedly thought he had something to do with it from the night before.
“Looks like a proper lesson in stone-throwin’,” she said with a teasing lift of her brow, but her face flushed pink, and Nicholas understood that she was embarrassed about her previous wanton behavior.
Charlie spun around. “Mistress Alexandra! Did ye see? I made it skip!”
“I did,” she said with a smile, kneeling beside him. “That was a fine throw.”
Nicholas stood, offering her a nod. “He’s takin’ it serious. Says he wants to skip stones like a proper Highlander.”
Charlie puffed his chest. “And be laird one day.”
“Aye,” Nicholas added, hoisting him up onto his shoulders. “Best start young. This castle will be yers, lad. Learn how to guard it, how to love it, and how to keep yer folk safe.”
“I will, Faither,” Charlie said, holding tight to Nicholas’s hair like reins.
Alexandra walked beside them, keeping pace with Nicholas’s steps. “He’s got yer spirit,” she said quietly. “Stubborn and bold.”
Nicholas glanced down at her. “Ye sound like that’s a curse.”
“Nae always,” she replied, lips twitching.
They reached the stables, and Nicholas lifted Charlie down. The lad rushed to the chestnut mare he favored, and Nicholas grabbed a brush from the wall. “Go on, gently now. Show her kindness and she’ll trust ye.”
Charlie began brushing with focused care, humming to himself.
Alexandra stepped closer to Nicholas. “He’s a good lad.”
“He is,” Nicholas said, watching him. “I want a better world for him. One where he doesnae have to fight the same battles I did.”
She nodded, folding her arms. “Then ye’ll have to be careful. The world doesnae forgive bold men who forget when to hold back.”
His gaze flicked to her. “And yet, I’ve never been good at holdin’ back.”
She looked away, a blush blooming on her cheeks. But she stayed beside him, close enough for their hands to brush.
Charlie turned toward them, still brushing the mare. “Will I get to teach me own bairn this one day?”
Nicholas smiled. “Aye, lad. That’s how ye pass on the good things.”
Charlie continued to play in the stables. Nicholas watched from afar as he stood beside Alexandra.
"How did she pass? Charlie's maither?" she asked.
"The same cursed way me own maither passed. In childbirth," he said.
"Oh, Nicholas I'm so sorry. I dinnae ken that," she said.
"We were paired together by the council. I cared for her but it was nae a true love. But like anythin’ I care for, it is taken from me," he said.
Nicholas swallowed hard, realizing he had said more aloud than he had ever done so before.
He stirred as he locked eyes with Alexandra and saw the compassion pooling in them.
"Look, Da! Look!" Charles ran to him with a toad in his hand, interrupting the moment, but it was too late. Nicholas had revealed much, and he regretted it.
Later that day, the corridor was quiet save for the soft tap of Nicholas’s boots against the stone.
The late afternoon light slanted through the high windows, casting golden lines across the walls.
His thoughts were knotted, tangled between Alexandra’s flushed face in his arms and the weight of decisions yet to come.
As he neared the door to his study, an old voice cleared behind him.
“Laird O'Donnell, a word if ye will,” came Alan’s familiar rasp.
Nicholas turned and found the elder councilman waiting, hands clasped, eyes lined with concern. He gave a brief nod and opened the heavy door, gesturing for the man to enter.
“This way, then.”
Alan stepped through, his gait slow but sure, as if even his bones understood the burden of council. Nicholas shut the door behind them and crossed to the hearth. He stood with his back to the flames, watching the older man with a sharp, unreadable gaze.
“Well?” he asked. “Spit it out.”
Alan hesitated a beat, then folded his arms. “What is to be done with the lass? The men now ken who she is. The sister of Laird Caelan Sinclair. It willnae be long before he comes lookin’.”
Nicholas groaned and raked a hand through his hair. He turned and leaned a forearm on the mantel, staring into the flickering fire.
“I’ll take care of Caelan.”
Alan’s brows rose. “Aye? And how do ye mean to do that, then?”
Nicholas’s head snapped up, eyes glinting with warning. “I daenae need to explain me choices to ye, Alan. I’m the laird. Ye’d do well to remember that.”
The older man stiffened, but his voice stayed calm. “Aye, and I serve on yer council, which makes it me duty to speak when the clan’s safety is at risk. War’s nae a thing to be provoked lightly.”
Nicholas’s jaw clenched. The firelight threw his expression in shadow and flame, the anger etched plain across his face.
“I’ll nae be told how to run me own land,” he growled.
Alan took a slow breath, bowing his head slightly. “I mean nay disrespect, lad. But I’ve seen blood spill over less. If ye think Caelan’ll turn a blind eye to his sister vanishin’, ye’re daft.”
Nicholas turned away from him, muscles taut with fury and something else—guilt, perhaps. His fists curled at his sides, and for a moment, the study held only the soft hiss of the fire.
Alan stepped back. “I said me piece. What ye do with it is yers to bear.” He moved toward the door, pausing just a moment. “I only ask ye think on it… before steel finds our gates.”
With that, the old man left, closing the door softly behind him.
Nicholas stood still, staring at the flames until the ache in his jaw eased. His pulse still beat too fast, blood hot with anger—but Alan’s words echoed all the same. He knew the man was right.
He was playing a dangerous game. Keeping Alexandra here, letting his feelings tangle with duty—none of it could end clean. Not when Leo Rankin was known for his wrath, and certainly not when the clans already danced close to the edge of war.
Nicholas let out a long breath and leaned both hands on the edge of the mantel.
He was the laird. He was meant to lead with strength, not let a woman turn his mind to ash. And yet… her face burned behind his eyes, soft and fierce all at once.
He closed his eyes.
War or nae, I cannae let her go..