Page 115 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

Roy traced the northern road upon the map. “He needs the minor clans tae believe they will lose land and influence if MacIver and MacNicol become one house. He needs our council tae fear unrest. He needs Donaldina’s people tae question whether accepting me means surrendering their name.”

“And once they are divided?” Malcolm asked.

Roy looked toward the window. Beyond the glass, Dun Ard’s walls rose against a colorless sky. Gulls wheeled above the cliffs. Far below, the sea struck the rocks in slow, heavy blows.

“Then he moves.”

Not with six frightened men in a forest, but with chiefs, banners, and claims dressed as law.

A coordinated challenge could force Dun Ard’s allies to hesitate before offering men. It could make every order Roy issued appear foreign and every decision Donaldina made appear corrupted by affection. Cormac would weaken their authority first and strike only when defending the castle risked proving him right.

For the first time, Roy understood that the next battle would begin long before any man drew a sword.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The great hall smelled of roasted venison, peat smoke and wet wool carried in from the evening rain. MacIver and MacNicol leaders occupied the long tables beneath the mingled banners of both clans. Conversation remained careful, each exchange measured beneath the knowledge that before the meal ended, the council intended to announce the formal completion of the marriage accord.

Roy was seated beside Donaldina at the high table. Her sleeve brushed his whenever she reached for her cup. Neither acknowledged it. Yet each accidental touch seemed to contain the memory of honey upon their hands and the startling word she had spoken in the garden.

Together.

Roy stood up as the conversation gradually died down, and all faces in the hall turned toward him. MacIver and MacNicol leaders watched from their banners, some showing approval while others hesitated, still contemplating the potential cost of the union.

Roy rested one hand upon the edge of the table. “Lady Donaldina and I have agreed that the marriage between our clans will proceed,” he announced. His gaze moved briefly to her before returning to the hall. “The ceremony will be held here at Dun Ard.”

A murmur stirred through the gathered clans. Donaldina lifted her chin, meeting the attention without retreat. Beneath the table, her fingers brushed Roy’s hand.

“The arrangements will begin at once,” Roy continued. “And when the vows are spoken, they will be spoken by choice, nae merely by royal command.”

This time, the silence that followed felt different. The council elder had scarcely risen when the doors opened, and cold air swept through the hall. A rider stood upon the threshold in the King’s colors, with rain streaming from his cloak. A leather case hung against his side, sealed with dark wax.

“I bear a report from the Crown,” he announced. “Concerning the death of Laird Lachlan MacNicol.”

The hall fell silent. Roy felt Donaldina become still beside him. The messenger approached the high table and surrendered the document to Father Maol. Beneath the royal seal lay the testimony of a surviving officer from the final campaign.

The priest broke the royal seal and unfolded the report. His gaze moved slowly across the page before he began.

“During the final retreat, the Crown commander ordered the forces divided. Laird Lachlan MacNicol and his company were sent west, while Laird Roy MacIver’s men were directed toward the river crossing.”

The hall had grown so quiet that the soft crackle of the hearth seemed unnaturally loud.

“Laird MacIver wasnae present when Laird MacNicol fell,” Father Maol continued. “Upon learning that part of the force had been separated and lost, he attempted to regroup the scattered men and return for those left behind.”

The priest paused, his expression heavy as he read the final line.

“He didnae reach Laird MacNicol in time.”

The words entered the hall without mercy. Roy kept his hands flat upon the table. For years, he carried the truth alone, knowing any defense spoken by the surviving man would sound like cowardice before the dead. He watched suspicion grow in Donaldina’s eyes and accepted it because grief required somewhere to place its blade.

Now the Crown’s record spoke for him. He did not look toward the elders who once accused him. He looked only at Donaldina.

She sat without movement, her face pale beneath the firelight. Her gaze remained fixed upon Father Maol as the final testimony was read. Then her eyes closed. When they opened again, the last shadow of doubt was gone. Roy felt its absence like the easing of a weight he had grown accustomed to carrying.

One of the elder MacNicols rose slowly.

“Laird MacIver,” he announced in a voice rough with discomfort, “the accusation made against ye was false.”

Others lowered their heads. Roy gave them no absolution and offered no rebuke.