Page 59 of Tempted By a Highland Beast
Constantine’s mouth curved in the barest hint of a smile. “Plus, I think the people deserve tae see what kind of woman will be standing beside me.”
The village of Kinloch sat in a valley between two rolling hills, its cottages clustered around a central green where a small market was in progress. Smoke rose from chimneys in straight lines against the clear winter sky, and the sound of children’s laughter carried on the crisp air.
As they rode into the village, Constantine could feel the weight of curious eyes upon them. Word of their arrival had clearly spread. People paused in their work to watch them pass, some offering respectful nods, others simply staring with the frank interest of those unused to seeing nobility in their midst.
The village elders were waiting for them at the small stone building that served as both meeting hall and occasional courthouse. Three men of advanced years, weathered by decades of Highland weather, greeted him with the careful deference due his rank while studying Rowena with obvious curiosity.
“Me laird,” the eldest said, bowing stiffly. “I’m James MacConnor, and these are Martin and Authur MacRoss. We’re grateful ye’ve come.”
“Tell me about this dispute,” Constantine said without preamble. The elders exchanged glances before James began to speak. The story that emerged was a familiar one—two families whose lands had been adjacent for generations, with boundaries that had grown unclear over time. A stream had changed course, old markers had been lost or moved, and now both the MacBeths and the Campbells claimed the same fertile strip of ground.
Constantine listened with focused attention, interrupting the narrator to ask questions that ensured he had all the details right. He did not suffer fools, so he made sure his approach was methodical, logical, designed to cut through emotion and establish facts.
Constantine observed with growing entertainment at the growing frustration in the elders’ faces as his questions grew more pointed. These were men of the land, not scholars or lawyers. They dealt in tradition and memory, not written records and legal precedents.
“I’d like tae hear from the families themselves,” Constantine interrupted with a firm voice. The hall quieted so that a dropped pin would have echoed. “Both sides, separately at first, then together. Sometimes the heart of a dispute isn’t in the facts…”
“...but in the feelings behind them?” Rowena said shyly and he turned to see her searching his face for approval at her words. He gave her a slight nod. The smile she gave him in return made it very much worth it.
The elders looked uncertain, but Constantine gestured for them to proceed. Within minutes, they’d assembled both families in the meeting hall—the MacBeths on one side, the Campbells on the other, tension crackling between them like lightning before a storm.
Constantine noticed how Rowena moved among them, listening to each person’s story with patience. She asked what the disputed land meant to each family beyond its mere economic value, as Constantine himself grilled them about harder matters, like if anyone of them had taken the land with blood. To which they both vehemently denied.
An elderly Campbell woman spoke tearfully about her late husband’s promise that their grandson would farm thatparticular field. A young MacBeth man explained how his father had always said the land was their inheritance, their security against hard times. Rowena listened to all of it with the same gentle attention, never interrupting, never dismissing.
“I’ve come take a verdict. Enough has been said about what each family has lost.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
“There is an olive tree standing at the center o’ the disputed ground. That tree will serve as the boundary. The MacBeths, who fish the river, will take the side closest tae the water. The Campbells, who trade most o’ their goods at the village, will take the east side leading toward the road. Each family keeps what best serves their needs, and the boundary willnae be questioned again.”
He let the words hang there, firm and final. Slowly, heads began to nod, relief softening tense faces.
“Aye,” James said finally. “Aye, that could work. That could work well.”
Both families agreed to the arrangement, and Constantine stepped forward to give it the weight of his official authority. But he knew, that the solution had been reached by him and Rowena working together.
As they prepared to leave, several of the village women approached Rowena with shy smiles and small gifts—a loaf of fresh bread, a jar of honey, a small bundle of herbs. She accepted each offering with genuine warmth, and Constantine could see how easily she could fit into that role, how naturally she connected with the people they would serve together.
The sun was setting by the time they finished with the dispute and started walking toward their horses, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. As they prepared to mount their horses for the ride back to Duart, several villagers approached with obvious reluctance to see them go.
“Me laird, me lady,” James said, “‘tis getting late, and the roads can be treacherous in the dark. Would ye consider staying the night? We’d be honored tae offer ye what hospitality we can.”
Constantine opened his mouth to politely decline, they could easily make Duart before full darkness fell, but Rowena spoke first. “That’s very kind,” she said with a smile that lit up her entire face. “We’d be grateful fer yer hospitality.”
Constantine shot her a look that she met with raised eyebrows and a slight challenge in her expression. After a moment, he nodded his agreement, earning beaming smiles from the assembled villagers.
They were led to the village’s single tavern, a low stone building with thick walls and small windows that glowed warmly in the gathering dusk. Inside, the air was thick with the scents ofroasting meat and ale, and every table seemed to overflow with food and conversation.
The tavern keeper, a stout woman with graying hair and kind eyes, bustled forward to greet them. “Me laird, me lady,” she said with a deep curtsy. “We’re honored tae have ye here.”
Neither Constantine nor Rowena corrected the woman that they weren’t in fact already wed, letting the fiction stand, feeling surprisingly natural.
They were seated at the long table near the hearth, surrounded by the warmth of the firelight and the comfortable chatter of people. Platters of food appeared before them; roasted lamb, fresh bread, root vegetables cooked with herbs, and ale that was surprisingly good for such a small village.
Rowena accepted a cup from their hostess and settled back in her chair with contentment and a soft smile on her face. Constantine noticed how Rowena looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her since their first meeting near the loch.
“Ye look different,” Constantine observed, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.
