Page 49 of The Highlander's Illicit Bride
“And what will ye tell them? Yer Council?” she asked.
“I’m nae sure yet.”
He reached out and tucked a lock of her still damp hair behind her ear, favoring her with a smile that radiated warmth. His gesture was tender. Loving even. It was what she saw in his eyes though, that stole her breath away. There was a depth of care she saw in them she hadn’t expected. It was as if he was communicating with her without using words and what she took it to mean was that he cared for her. It made Isolde’s heartquiver because in that moment, she knew she returned those feelings a hundredfold.
“Can I ask ye somethin’?” he asked, his voice soft as a whisper.
“Of course.”
“If ye could stay here, would ye?”
“Stay here? Fer how long?”
“Fer good?”
She considered the implications of his question. Not because she didn’t want that. She did. It was what her continued presence in Achnacarry meant for the people around her that worried her.
“I… I fear what it might mean fer yer clan,” she said. “Me faither and Laird MacPherson… they would be furious. I’d nae want yer people tae be hurt on me account.”
Struan withdrew his hand, and it was like a curtain descended over his face. Gone was the emotion she’d just seen and in its place was a carefully crafted mask of neutrality. There was nothing in his eyes and nothing in his expression. It was like he’d gone completely blank. She’d hurt him. She could see it. Isolde wanted to take her words back, but Struan gave her a curt nod, closing the door on it.
“I should go,” he said. “Me Council is gatherin’.”
Before she could say anything further, Struan turned and strode from the chamber, closing the door behind him softly. Isolde pressed her back to the door and slid down to her backside, burying her face in her hands as waves of regret washed over her. She grimaced as if in pain and silently scolded herself, sure that she had just ruined the best thing that had ever happened to her in a life, a life that had been devoid of anything good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The guards closed the doors behind him as Struan strode into the council chambers. He took his seat at the head of the table with Ewan to his right, while the rest of the council men, nine of them in all, peered back at him. Some of them seemed relieved to see him, others curious, and a couple looked downright disappointed that he had returned from captivity.
“Thank ye fer comin’ so quickly,” Struan said.
“We’re all very glad ye’ve returned, me laird. Very relieved tae see that ye are safe,” said Owen, who sounded anything but glad or relieved.
Owen had been one of his father’s councilors and out of respect for the man, and tradition, Struan had let him keep his seat at the table. But the man had long been a thorn in his side, believing his age and experience lent him a wisdom he didn’t think Struan had. Owen had long coveted Struan’s seat and fromtime to time made rumblings about a new vision being needed for the clan.
For the most part, Struan ignored him. He gave good advice from now and then—his age and experience did in fact, lend him a certain wisdom—but he too often let his own ambitions and disdain for Struan overshadow the needs of the clan.
Struan never had such an ambition. In everything he did and everything he thought as a laird, and as a person, he always put the needs of his people first, as he had been taught by his father.
Struan gave Owen a polite nod. “I thank ye. I am glad tae be back among ye. Back among our people,” he said. “But I’m afraid I come with dark tidings.”
A low murmur rippled around the long table and Struan cast a glance at Ewan whose face was tight and his expression dark. He knew his best friend and closest advisor did not necessarily like Struan’s plan, but Ewan was always pragmatic. He knew their options were limited and would not contradict him in front of the council.
“I’ve learned that Laird Dougal MacPherson is holdin’ Finlay at Cluny House,” he intoned.
His words sent another ripped of murmurs around the table and Struan could see the faces of the older men growing tight. They knew all too well how dangerous MacPherson was, how ruthless. And his unexpected presence in this whole drama sent a wave of fear through the room.
“’Twas bad enough when ‘twas just Laird Mackintosh we had tae suffer,” called one of the men at the table. “But tae have tae suffer Laird MacPherson too?”
“We should negotiate Finlay’s release,” said another. “’Tis the only way through this mess that I can see. We should offer terms.”
Struan thought briefly of telling them of Mackintosh’s offer to exchange Finlay for the southern lands. But he knew half the councilors would jump at it. They would demand he make the deal to avoid conflict.
Struan was not stupid. He knew Mackintosh, with MacPherson, was leading him into a trap. They would not be satisfied with the strip of land in the south. They would not be happy until Clan Cameron ceased to be.
At any cost. First and foremost, that of me life.
This was something the men gathered around the table would not or could not, understand. There was no end with those two men. Not until they had everything they desired. And he knew that agreeing to their exchange was folly, so he did not mention it.
