It was just the kind of cowardly act favored by the MacRuairis. Twice in the last year men had come at night to reive cattle, plunder the crops, and burn the fields. The recent spate of attacks was bad enough. An odd position for a man who knew nothing else-who’d made his name and fortune from it-but his clan deserved peace and he intended to give it to them. The last thing he wanted was to see it all destroyed by war. The clan was once again strong and prosperous. But with hard work and determination he’d brought them back. Twenty years ago, his clan had been on the brink of destruction-first from the massacre that had claimed the lives of many of his clansmen, including his parents, and then from years of famine. With one rash act Torquil was going to start a war, jeopardizing all that Tor had fought to achieve over the past twenty years.
He would rather Torquil use the excuse that Margaret Nicolson was a great heiress-which she was-and that he’d carried her off for the betterment of the clan at least then Tor might attempt to comprehend this egregious lapse in judgment. Of all the most asinine justifications for acting like an idiot. His eyes blared red as rage surged through his veins. “Enough!” Tor’s fist landed with a resounding thud on the arm of the carved wooden throne, in a rare break of temper. “Y-y-your b-brother states that he cannot ab-b-ide the Nicolson chief’s refusal of his daughter’s hand in marriage and has been forced to take matters into his own hands.” The young churchman paused, wiping the sweat beading from his brow with the back of his hand. The clerk managed to find his voice, though it shook as he answered Tor’s question. As he reached down to pick it up, beneath his heel he could just make out the familiar scrawl: Torquil MacLeod, his younger-by-two-minutes twin brother.īarely had the fires died from the recent attack on the village, and now his brother did this? Slowly, he vowed again, crumpling the missive into a tight ball. Tor clomped his foot down on the offending scrap of parchment. The missive flew out of his hand and floated through the smoky air to land on the rush-strewn floor. The clerk startled, emitting what could only be described as a squeak. “He did what?” The dead calm of his voice did nothing to dispel the tension.
In their fierce visages he saw the outrage and shock that he shared but masked beneath a stony façade.Īlone on the dais, Tormod MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, leaned forward in his seat, his gaze piercing the unfortunate man before him. The score of warriors gathered around the great hall of Dunvegan Castle stood stone still, awaiting his response. Lamberton echoed the words in the same resigned tone, translating, “The die has been cast.”Ī sharp hush fell over the hall, like the expectant quiet following a loud crack of thunder, as the clerk finished reading the missive.
0 kommentar(er)
