Page 1 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
BONUS PROLOGUE
Two months earlier
“Are ye absolutely certain this is fer me?”
Ian Wallace stared at the royal messenger as if the man might suddenly sprout wings and fly away, taking with him the ornate parchment that bore the unmistakable seal of King Charles II. The golden-red wax caught the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the small tavern’s grimy windows, casting smudged reflections on the rough wooden table.
“Aye, me laird.” The messenger replied with the weary patience of a man who’d ridden hard for days. “Ian Wallace, grandson of Ian Wallace, son of Bryan Wallace. That would be ye, would it nae?”
Me laird.
The words made him sick. He’d never expected to hear them applied to himself, least of all in connection with Clan Wallace – the same clan that had cast out his grandfather decades ago.
“I think there’s been some sort of mistake,” Ian said carefully, though his fingers itched to break the seal and read the contents of the parchment. “I’m a soldier, naething more. Clan Wallace surely has far better candidates fer–”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, me laird, but His Majesty daesnae make mistakes in such matters.” The messenger’s tone suggested he’d had this conversation before. “The genealogy was researched most extensively. Ye are the closest livin’ male relative tae the late Douglas Wallace.”
Ian’s throat tightened. Douglas, whom he’d never met, the same man who’d died in a battle just weeks ago caused by a feud between the Clans Wallace and MacAlpin. A man whose reputation for cruelty and political scheming had reached even that wretched remote village.
And now they want me tae step intae his bloodstained boots?
“The clan Council has been informed of His Majesty’s decision,” the messenger continued. “They await yer arrival at Castle Wallace tae formally accept the position.”
Ian almost laughed at the bitter irony. Castle Wallace – the same castle his grandfather had described in countless stories, the home that should have been theirs by right, now being offered to him like some sort of consolation prize.
“I’ll need time tae consider this,” Ian said finally.
“Of course, me laird. Though I should warn that His Majesty expects an answer within a fortnight.” The man rose from his seat, shouldering his satchel. “The Highlands require strong leadership, and instability in Clan Wallace affects the entire region.”
Ian nodded numbly, barely registering the man’s departure. He sat alone at the small table, staring at the unopened scroll as if it might burst into flames.
Would that it could.
Around him, the tavern’s afternoon customers went about their business – farmers discussing crops, merchants haggling over prices, soldiers sharing tales of distant battles. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by the weight of royal expectations.
What would grandfaither make of this?
The old man had spent his final years regaling Ian with stories of Wallace lands, of the castle and the people who’d once been their family. But always with the sour reality that they were outsiders now, unwelcome in the very place that should have welcomed them.
With trembling fingers, Ian broke the seal.
Tae Ian Wallace, grandson of Ian Wallace, son of Bryan Wallace, Greetings,
By the Grace of God almighty and in recognition of yer rightful claim through blood and birth, I dae hereby appoint ye Laird of Clan Wallace, with all rights, responsibilities and privileges there untae belonging following the death of Laird Douglas Wallace. As his closest next of kin I trust ye will take this responsibility with the utmost care.
The formal words seemed to blur before Ian’s eyes. Rights and responsibilities. Privileges. All the things his grandfather hadlost for choosing happiness over politics, now being handed back to the next generation like a poisoned bannock.
Ian’s jaw tightened with such force he thought his teeth might shatter as he kept reading. He set the letter down, his hands shaking. Justice and welfare of the people – noble words, but what did they truly mean when applied to a clan that had spent decades following despicable leaders like Douglas? How could he possibly bridge the gap between what the Wallace name had become and what it should represent?
Ian stared out of the small window of the tavern at the countryside beyond. Somewhere to the north of there lay Castle Wallace – the home that should have been theirs, but with a legacy of the stronghold of a clan that had rejected their family when honor conflicted with convenience.
How can I lead people who would have spat on our grandfaither’s grace?How can I represent a clan built on the same twisted priorities that drove them tae exile our blood?
Then, another thought crossed his mind, soft as a lover’s whisper.
What if I could change all of that? What if I could make the clan intae somethin’ better than what Douglas had left behind?Would grandfaither want me tae accept this – take on the responsibility fer a clan that hurt him so deeply?
Ian closed his eyes, remembering his grandfather’s weathered face, his gentle voice telling tales beside the fire. The old man had carried bitterness, certainly, but never hatred. Even when speaking of his exile, there had always been sorrow for what was lost rather than anger at those who’d taken it.
