Page 15 of Tempted By a Highland Beast
The words hit Constantine like a physical blow, though he kept his expression neutral.What I need ye tae become.Not what a father might want for his son, but what a laird required of a tool. He thought of his mother, dying alone in their hovel when he was barely thirteen, her last words a whispered apology for the life she had given him. He thought of the nights he’d gone hungry so she could eat what little they had, of watching her waste away from a sickness that proper care could have cured.
“She loved ye, ye ken,” Niall continued, as if reading his thoughts.
Constantine’s hands clenched involuntarily. His mother had been many things: proud, stubborn, fierce in her love for him, but she had also been broken by the man sitting across from him. Broken by loving someone who only saw in her a pleasurable time. The rage was a living thing now, clawing at his ribs.
“Dinnae,” he said, the word coming out sharper than he intended. “Dinnae speak of her as if ye kent her.”
“I kent her better than ye reckon.” Niall drew a slow breath, the length of the conversation clearly wearing on him now. When he finally spoke again, his voice had lost some of its earlier force.
“She was the finest healer I ever kent, and the only woman who ever told me exactly what she thought without fear. ‘Tis why I couldnae keep her here, Constantine. She was the healer, she could never be the noblewoman the clan expected me tae marry.”
“So ye cast her out.” The bitterness in Constantine’s voice was decades old, polished smooth by years of carrying it. “Left her tae raise yer son alone.”
“I gave her gold?—”
“Ye exiled her.” Constantine stood abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked the courtyard below. Even now, servants bustled about their evening duties. “She died in want, Niall. Alone, with naethin’ but a thirteen-year-old boy who couldnae save her.”
Constantine stared at him, chest heaving with the effort of keeping his rage in check. The casual dismissal of years of struggle, of his mother’s suffering, of everything she’d endured. But beneath the fury was the cold calculation that had kept him alive all these years. He’d come back not out of love or duty, but because Niall’s messenger had found him and offered him something he’d craved his entire life: legitimacy. Power that couldn’t be taken away by stronger men or sharper blades. A name that meant something beyond the reach of his sword.
He hated his father. But he wanted what Niall could give him more than he treasured that hate.
Constantine turned back to his father, seeing the calculation in his eyes. “I dinnae need a wife tae prove meself tae the clan.”
“Aye.” Niall nodded firmly. “But ye need noble blood tae steady yer claim. An heir tae seal it. Since ye’ve already managed tae capture the MacKenzie lass, she fits both.”
Constantine thought of Rowena, of the way her gaze had met his across the table that night. There’d been wariness in it, but something else, too. Something he didn’t wish to dwell on. “I didnae bring her here as me hostage.”
“Aye, but we can leverage her presence all the same.” Niall’s smile was sharp. “So ye believe she’s MacKenzie born?”
“Aye.” Constantine saw no point in pretending otherwise. His father had his own network of informants and his own methods for verifying information. “The laird’s only daughter, if I’m nae wrong.”
“Even better.” Niall’s eyes gleamed, sharp with satisfaction. “An heiress brings power, land, alliance, blood that speaks loud. All ye need tae quiet the talk of yer bastardy.”
The whispers. Constantine had heard them all his life: bastard, pretender, usurper. They had followed him through his years as a mercenary, through his return to Duart, and now, through his claim to the lairdship. A prestigious marriage would quiet them, perhaps permanently.
“And if I refuse?”
Niall paused, a cup of ale hovering near his lips. “Then I’ll see tae it meself. There are many respectable lasses in age of marriage. The Campbell lass, maybe, or one of the Gordon girls. They are all great options.”
The threat hung between them like a drawn blade. Constantine had known it would come to this. But knowing and facing were not the same.
“I need time,” he said finally.
“And that is something we dinnae have, Constantine.” Niall’s voice was hard. “The clan chiefs will expect tae see progress soon. They’ve accepted ye as heir, but ’tis nae a permanent acceptance. Nae yet. Give them reason tae doubt ye, and they’ll find another tae follow.”
Constantine nodded curtly, understanding the dismissal. “I’ll consider what ye’ve said.”
“See that ye dae.” Niall had already turned back to his papers, effectively ending the conversation. “And Constantine? Dinnae wait too long. Opportunity has a way of slipping through yer fingers if ye dally.”
Constantine left the study with his father’s words echoing in his mind. His position was precarious enough without adding the complications of a forced marriage.
He’d spent years earning respect through strength and cunning, and on the streets, he was feared. Alegendeven. But here he was still seen as the bastard son who’d been dragged back out of necessity. Every decision would be scrutinized, every move questioned by men who held onto the belief he was nothing more than a rumor and a scandal.
Taking a wife of Niall’s choosing would only reinforce that he was still dancing to his father’s tune, still the tool rather than the master. The clan needed to see him as a leader in his own right, not as Niall’s puppet who couldn’t even choose his own bride.
And yet... there had been something about the MacKenzie lass. Interesting, perhaps. But interesting enough to bind himself to her for life? To accept yet another chain in service to his father’s plans?
Constantine’s jaw tightened as he made his way down the corridor. Power always came with a price, but he’d be damned if he’d pay it without knowing exactly what he was buying.
