Lastly, Farlan stood at Moira’s side. He did so quietly, seeking to draw no attention to himself. It did not matter. The man had a presence, and anyway, he offended these others merely by existing.
It was he who engaged Rhian’s gaze when she went in. He had a fine pair of brown eyes, did Farlan, and she could tell what he was thinking.Say somewhat to aid your sister. No question that Farlan loved Moira. He had given up everything for her.
Too bad he had not loved her enough to keep away.
Chapter Eight
Farlan had quitwearing the MacLeod tartan. Indeed, were the stories to be believed, he no longer had a right to wear it. He had no right to wear the MacBeith tartan either. No one would tolerate that. So he stood clad mostly in gray and white, as the wool had come from the sheep.
Gray, white, and blood red. He too had come straight from battle, his first since he’d healed up after the beating given him by these very clansmen.
He now wore a sword and a knife Moira had doubtless given him, and stood with his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Listening, listening to the venom being spat at the woman he loved.
Ewan stood at the forefront of the council. He’d also been on the battlefield.
“Ye had to ken this would come, Mistress Moira,” he shouted as Rhian came in. “We canna let ye stand at our head wi’ that—thattraitorat yer side.”
Moira flinched visibly. Rhian could have told these men they might push her sister, but only so far. “This is no’ time for a change o’ leadership,” Moira whipped back. “We are in the midst o’ a spate o’ battles. And in case ye ha’ overlooked it”—she pointed at the door—“we are winning those battles!”
“For now,” Ewan shouted back. “Rory MacLeod may only be getting started. Why no’ ask that great lump at yer side?”
“Rory is just getting started,” Farlan confirmed quietly. “That does no’ mean we canna win.”
“We?” screeched another of the council members, outraged. “Who iswe, then? The MacBeiths or the MacLeods?”
“MacBeith,” Moira snapped. “Farlan stands wi’ me now. Wi’ us.”
They all sneered.
An older man spoke up. “We ha’ heard, Mistress Moira, ye mean to wed wi’ this man.”
Moira’s hand crept out and clasped Farlan’s, which hung at his side. A telling gesture. “I do.”
“Then how, tell me,” Ewan said, “can we leave ye in the place o’ chief? Ye’ll soon be birthing MacLeod bairns.”
Moira flushed. “Any bairn I birth will be born o’ the chief’s house—”
“And MacLeod’s.”
“’Tis an outrage,” yet another elder, Brechan, chimed in. “’Tis bad enough ye maun keep him by ye. But for us to stand and watch a MacLeod lead this clan at yer side—”
Saerla stepped forward. “I, for one, support my sister. She already has the place o’ chief and has led us well in it. She has a firm hand, and I see my father’s strength in her.”
That knocked them silent. No one there disrespected Saerla’s ability as a Seer. They exchanged glances.
“Alasdair?” Saerla appealed to the big man.
Alasdair’s expression betrayed that he did not want to speak. His feelings for Moira and his animosity toward Farlan must sorely tangle with his loyalty to the clan.
He had stepped out and defended Farlan, though, when Farlan defected and came to Moira’s side. Did that mean he’d do the same now?
He scowled. “I no more like a MacLeod lodged in the chief’s house than ye do. But—”
Moira began hotly now, “He is no’—”
“He sleeps in Chief Iain’s verra bed wi’ ye!” another council member howled. “D’ye think we do no’ know that?”
Moira lit up in defense of her lover. “And where would ye ha’ me lodge him? Back in his own quarters, so ye lot can beat him near to death once again?”
