Page 1 of The Cruel Highlander's Bride
1
Thank God for whiskey.
Magnus brought the amber liquid to his lips for a large sip.
He placed the glass down and rubbed his temples, desperate to quell the tension between his eyes. The familiar ache was squeezing his forehead. He never expected to be here, slouched in a chair in front of a council—hiscouncil—but here he was.
It was the same nearly every time he sat in front of them. Everyone had a grievance, but their petty squabbles and power grabs were grating on his nerves. Was this what it meant to be a Laird? With each passing day, he regretted accepting this role more and more.
Magnus had reluctantly accepted the position of Laird when his stepmother, Elspeth, sought him out about a year ago. He didn’t want the role then, and he still didn’t, but the clan was floundering without a laird. The people who had been at the mercy of his father’s whims for years needed help. It stood to reason that not everyone in the clan was like his father…
Besides, as soon as Elspeth pleaded with him to help, he was as good as sold. If she was askinghim, then things were very dire, indeed.
He had wanted to make a difference in the lives of his clansfolk. It seemed noble at the time to take up the mantle and turn it around, to be someone the people could count on. So far, though, it felt like all he’d done was listen to grown men bicker like children.
“The Gordons are encroaching on me land again,” spat one of his councilmen. His face was reddening even more as he spoke. “Just this week, I caught one of the little brutes huntin’ beyond the line.”
He was glaring daggers at one of the men across the table. Magnus knew he wasn’t a Gordon, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the connection.
After a tense stare-off, the not-Gordon man finally spoke.
“I have no control over me wife’s family, Duncan,” he said through gritted teeth.
Right, not-Gordon is married to a Gordon.
God, Magnus couldn’t keep it all straight. He tried at the beginning, but with this type of dispute as the norm, he couldn’t force himself to care.
“Are ye strugglin’ for food?” Magnus asked the portly, red-faced man.
“Nay…” the man replied slowly.
Magnus was hoping his point was clear, but the councilman just stared back at him. He heaved a sigh before downing the rest of the whiskey in one gulp.
“Does it matter, then?” Magnus prodded.
The man sputtered, his head rearing back. “Of course! If it’s on me land, it’s mine. Those are the rules!”
To Magnus, it seemed like a very childish way of thinking. Besides, it was allhisland, really, if they wanted to get technical about it. It was only by the grace of their Laird that they had any land at all, and the more he knew about some of these men, the more he considered taking it all away.
“Does anyone have anythin’ of consequence to discuss?” Magnus interrupted the portly councilman before he could continue his tirade. He pointedly wiped off a drop of spit that had landed on his hand from the other man’s mouth.
A long pause ensued. The not-Gordon shot the portly, red-faced councilman a smug smile. Magnus simply motioned for the servant in the room to refill his glass—he was clearly going to need another one.
“I received word that there was a skirmish with Clan Gunn at the western border last night, and we lost another squadron of men,” one of the quieter men at the table chimed in.
From what Magnus had noticed, he was one of the most useful men on his council. James Campbell, he thought his name was.
“That’s the third time this fortnight that we’ve lost men on that border,” James added.
Magnus straightened up in his chair and set his whiskey glass back on the table. He dropped his hand from his temple and surveyed the men sitting around him.
James had a concerned furrow between his eyebrows, but the other councilmen seemed, at the very least, not surprised by the news. In fact, they looked borderline irritated.
The fury that had always simmered beneath the surface rose inside Magnus with a vengeance. That was far too many men dead, men he was responsible for, men whose families depended on them. And the councilmen surrounding him, men who were meant to be his advisors, did not appear to be concerned enough about that fact.
“Why have there been so many attacks at that border?” he asked harshly.
James’s eyes darted around the room. The man was unused to his ire. He coughed but did not respond.
