Page 80 of Laird of Wrath

With that, she turned away and walked off, her shoes clicking against the stone floor.

Callum watched her leave, his breath catching in his throat. He imagined being the one leaving. He imagined Rhea watching him as he rode out of the castle with his men, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she would think in that moment, when their gazes would meet for what could be the last time.

She had made her feelings on the matter clear. She had asked him time and again not to leave. She hadn’t begged—she wasn’t the type to do so—but she hadn’t been far from it. And yet he wondered if, when he left, she would have more hatred in her heart for him than sadness.

She understands. She kens that I have to leave. She told me so herself.

But what good was understanding, what good was logic, when faced with such strong emotions? For all he knew, Rhea would end up despising him, and they would never be the same.

Shaking these thoughts out of his mind, Callum continued on with his rounds.

Excitement rippled through the castle, everyone eager for the night. Beyond the walls, the celebrations had already begun. Up in the hills, people were completing the first games of the day, with many more to come. Men raced down the hills, threw the caber and the hammers, and competed until they had no strength left—only to regain some by drinking copious amounts of ale after, sitting together around the fire.

In the villages, the feeing and marriage markets would be in full swing, and young people would gather in the squares for a chance to meet their true love. And deep in the forests, the villagers would roam, searching for the Holy Wells to pray and leave their offerings—wine and bread and grain.

Sometimes, Callum imagined a life as simple as that, one where he would take his wife and child to these celebrations and compete with other villagers in the caber toss. There would be no war, no blood staining his hands. His child would be just that—a child, not an heir, not someone he would have to train relentlessly to take over the clan one day.

But this was not who he was. He could imagine it all he wanted, but in the end, he was Callum Muir, the Laird of Clan McMahon. He could not have the privilege of a quiet, peaceful life.

His features set into a mask of determination as he continued his rounds. He passed by the curtain walls, greeting his men. He swept the entire castle with his gaze, making sure all the weak spots were covered.

In the end, he retreated to his chambers to don his ceremonial clothes—a deep red outfit, old yet exquisitely crafted, bound to set him apart from everyone else. And when he stared at his reflection in the polished mirror, he looked every part the Laird.

27

Chaos dominated the courtyard, spilling into the rest of the castle. The posterior wings were spared from it, quiet save for the footsteps of the patrolling guards, but the rest of the place was filled with celebrating clansmen and women who had come to visit forLughnasadh.

The courtyard smelled of roasting meat and the warm scent of burning logs. The same band who had played at the feast was back, their music filling the courtyard and prompting people to dance.

The evening was a swirl of colors as dancing couples flew past Rhea, the women’s petticoats and the men’s jackets turning her surroundings into an endless kaleidoscope.

Next to her, Mabel sat with a watered-down cup of wine, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink as she stared at the people with a smile on her lips. Quiet as she was, this was the equivalent of cheering or dancing with abandon for her, but Rhea hoped shecould get her to open up a little more that evening, just as she had at the feast.

This time, neither Callum nor Hudson was there. Rhea didn’t quite trust anyone else with her sister. It was bad enough that she had trusted Hudson with her.

“I wonder if they’re still doin’ their rounds,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

“Who? Callum?”

“Aye, Callum and his men,” she said. “Hudson isnae here either, and neither are the councilmen.”

The only one she could spot was Reggie, passing by the far curtain walls that very moment.

If there was anyone this ordeal had affected, it was Reggie. Even now, in the middle of the cèilidh, surrounded by so many people, he kept glancing repeatedly over his shoulder, as if he half-expected someone to be following him.

I’ve never seen a man so scared. Why is he so frightened? It’s nae as if he has to go to war.

Rhea didn’t even know if Reggie could wield a dagger, let alone a sword. She could only imagine that a man like him, who had sat on the council for so long, had once been formidable in someway—either in brawn or brains. But now he was older, frailer, though not quite so old as to excuse his behavior.

Some men are simply nae made for war.

“I’m sure they’ll be done any minute now,” Mabel said with a small shrug. “I cannae imagine that the Laird will be absent from the cèilidh.”

“It’s nice, though, is it nae?” Rhea asked, staring at the people who were dancing around the bonfires. “It’s been a long while since I’ve been to a cèilidh like this. First, it was Father, and then the war… I cannae remember the last time we hosted a cèilidh forLughnasadh.”

“I can,” Mabel chirped. “It was three years ago.”

“Ye keep count?”