Long ago, generations ago now, a branch of their powerful clan had come to this beautiful place. A brother had broken off from another, so it was told—they’d been headstrong even then. Claimed new land inhabited by members of a smaller clan, here before them.
The MacBeiths.
Thinking on it while struggling into his sark, Rory sneered over the name. Those ancient MacBeiths had been few in number but had been well dug in over across the loch. It should have been easy for the MacLeods, filled with ambition, to chase them out. The work of a single bloody summer, perhaps.
Yet they remained.
Some said they had magic on their side. They did have that circle of stones up behind their keep, atop the rise. But he did not believe in such nonsense.
They’d merely gained strength and numbers during his da’s time as chief. For Da, even though his clan possessed the greater numbers, had refused to launch a campaign that would completely destroy his neighbors.
Och, there had been raids, to be sure. Running battles. Men had died—the MacBeith heir had. That was what warriors did. They fought and died for their cause.
He had argued endlessly with Da about that. Charged him to finish the job those first MacLeods began. Now Da was gone, leaving a hole that felt bigger than the one in his back. And Farlan—Farlan was gone.
He paused in the act of lacing up the front of his sark, his fingers faltering. Farlan had been raised alongside him following the death of the lad’s father in one of those battles. He’d been like a brother to Rory, closer than he could rightly express. The three of them—himself, Farlan, and Rory’s cousin, Leith—had gotten into more mischief growing up than he could likely recall.
And this year…this year, Farlan had betrayed him.
He could barely stand to think about it. Because his best friend, the man he’d thought he could trust in all things, had turned his back on Rory and renounced his birthright as a MacLeod.
For the sake of a woman.
Even now, it made Rory want to spit.
He did not know when he’d experienced such anger. Such hurt. He liked women, aye—when he had the time for them. But this woman, to add insult to injury, was a MacBeith, and, following her father’s death, had set herself up as chief of that clan.
He finished dressing, shrugging away the resultant pain, just as he shoved away the thought of Farlan.
Farlan was gone, living at MacBeith with his woman, having chosen her over his fealty, their friendship, and his name.
And Leith…
His cousin was his heir, being the son of his father’s sister. Rory had no issue. He supposed he would have to fulfill that duty someday, the sooner the better. For just days ago, Leith had returned from captivity at MacBeith, badly injured. And he’d been followed—by a woman. Another of the old Chief MacBeith’s daughters she was, the sister of the very woman who had set herself up as chief after her father. And stolen Farlan.
He crashed from his chamber and strode down the corridor, buckling on his sword as he went. He did not understand it, no he did not. In his estimation, women were for breeding sons—and daughters. They were for being treated gently and protected.
The MacBeiths sent their women to war. The new female chief fought on the field on a regular basis. Indeed, he’d glimpsed her in numerous battles, including the one that had taken the life of her father, the old chief, without realizing she was a woman.
And he’d seen her sister fighting too—not the one Leith had invited in, for there were three of them, but another. He’d even had her in his hands briefly, a captive.
Nay, he did not understand it. How men could allow such women to endanger themselves. It made no sense.
Outside, the sky had just begun to expand with light. It never truly grew dark at this time of year, but now dawn flooded in, contesting with the aged gloaming for dominance.
All quiet last night. His pulse beat in time with the rhythm of this place. He would know if aught went amiss.
Besides, MacBeith seldom attacked. They were a tribe of defenders. He scowled. Except for that war chief of theirs,Alasdair. He was a right bastard. But Alasdair had been badly injured in that last battle—gutted, if Rory was not mistaken. And that could change everything.
He reached the door of a certain dwelling and pounded upon it, smashing his fist against the boards. His impatience and his aggravation sounded in every blow.
It did not take long for Leith to swing the panel wide and blink at him.
His cousin, a big man, stood half-naked, clearly just arisen from his own bed. Leith had height and a broad chest sprinkled with sandy hair, a wild mop of the same color on his head, and an ugly wound high up on his right arm.
That wound had nearly cost Leith the use of his sword arm. Command of it returned to him, but slowly, and he’d not yet regained the dexterity needed to take the field. That would require work and determination.
Accordingly, Rory spat words into his cousin’s face. “I need ye on the practice field. Now.”
