Page 3 of The Laird's Unwanted Wife
“A lot of whisperin’, ye ken,” Rory continued. “All about the keep, that our laird is hidin’ away from the problems at hand.”
Gerald pushed the letters aside, reaching into his desk to obtain a slip of parchment for a fairly hefty stack.
“Laird MacLiddel.”
“‘Laird’ indeed,” Gerald interrupted, his voice cold and cutting. “Ye often throw the word around as if it bears nay weight at all.”
Rory was uncharacteristically silent, his shoulders visibly stiffening as his expression grew tense. Good. Perhaps the lad was finally growing out of his childish mannerisms.
“If ye’re only here to wind me up, then ye can take yerself out of me study,” Gerald continued. “I daenae what caused ye to think it were appropriate to approach me in such a manner, but I nay have the time for yer antics.”
He reached for his ink and quill, his eyes flickering up to see Rory having not moved from his place. Gerald exhaled loudly through his nose, sitting upright in his chair as his hands folded tightly against his desk.
“Do ye have anything of actual value to share with me, then? Or do ye think it appropriate to speak to yer laird as if he were a foolish wee bairn havin’ a fit?”
Rory’s expression softened slightly. Gerald felt something inside him weaken. “I’m sorry, me Laird. I just thought?—”
“Aye, ye hardly do,” Gerald snapped. “It’s a wonder ye still hold the rank of man-at-arms.” He turned back down to his desk, grasping his quill as he began to write … something. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was meant to pen down. It just had to look as if he were busy. Hopefully, Rory would get the hint and go away.
“I was taken aback too, me Laird.”
Gerald paused, the quill pressed into the paper as an ink blot began to seep across.
“When I first heard about it all … it didnae seem real. Like I was stuck in a dream I couldnae wake up from.” Rory glanced out the window, a somber tone seeping into his voice. “Marcus was … I feel daft for thinkin’ it, I ken, but he was like a brither to me. And, ye ken yerself how much weightthatword holds for me.”
Gerald did indeed.
“And to think, he wanted us all dead. After everything ye’d done with him, after everything I’d said to—” Rory chuckled bitterly, wiping his face before turning back to his laird. “And, I ken the pair of ye were close, and when ye didnae show yer face …” Again, Rory stopped, wiping his face a bit more frantically. “Oh, nay; do ye ever dust in here? Me eyes are wellin’ up somethin’ awful.”
A far softer sigh slipped out from Gerald this time, and he leaned back in his chair, paper and quill abandoned. He looked at Rory—through Rory—and found himself drifting toward a long-distant memory of his youth.
Of practicing with his father just outside MacLiddel’s keep, of the scouts coming back with a handful of folks who looked fragile enough to break in half by the slightest breeze. Of red and irritated welts across their wrists and ankles, of long scars and terrible bruises, with callouses and mud caked on their feet.
But most of all, Gerald remembered a young, red-haired boy, whose bandaged face continued to bleed through regardless of how many times the wound was cleaned and changed. Who wasbarely old enough to walk on his own, and who was completely, utterly alone.
Even as the memory flickered past, he watched as Rory absentmindedly scratched at the noticeable scar running from the base of his chin through the top of his lip.
“Suppose it were nae to be, though,” Rory added almost to himself. “Havin’ a brither just isnae meant to be for me.”
Gerald scoffed loudly. “There ye go again, insulting yer laird straight to his face.”
His man-at-arms snapped back to attention, looking somewhat taken aback.
“I may nae be yer first choice,” Gerald went on gruffly. “But I’m the only choice ye have, now. Marcus werenae the man to put yer trust in, but ye havenae lost yer brither, and I’m insulted ye’d even think in such a way.”
Rory blinked, a genuine smile spreading back across his face. “Aye, me Laird. Suppose I’ll have to settle with havin’ only ye.”
“Suppose ye do,” Gerald agreed curtly. “And daenae forget it.”
Rory had been right about one thing: the Laird of MacLiddel could no longer hide away from the problem at hand. As soonas he’d sent his correspondence to the other lairds, Gerald assembled a small group of warriors to travel with him to MacGunn Castle.
News of chaos and fires had been noted by the other greater clans, and with them handling their own troubles started by Marcus, it fell onto the shoulders of the laird who was closest to clan MacGunn’s main keep. And with MacCulloh well-drenched in chaos for the last month or so, the responsibility fell on Gerald.
Bundled in furs and long cloaks, he led his small entourage out the gates of his keep, cutting through a small flurry that had begun not long after their departure. But that was expected, having territory set the farthest north of all the major lairds.
Clan MacLiddel was born and raised amidst the cold and cutting, and if they were to grace another’s doorstep, a winter’s storm was to follow soon after. And Gerald ensured to shape himself after just that; by this point in his life, he had fully earned the nickname of the Beast of Braeriach.
It took a mere few days’ ride before the frigid landscape melted away into thick, verdant forestry. Though as Gerald led his men closer to MacGunn’s keep, the scent of smoke became as ever-present as the sharp tang of pine needles.
