Ailsa. His mother. He wanted to be anywhere else but here in his father’s chambers. No, nothis father. The few times Finley had discussed any matters with him had ended in Rory storming away or raising his sword. When he was younger, he’d picked fights with Paiden just to release the anger and frustration. The unending feeling of unworthiness.
Now he knew Finley wasn’t his father. Hamish was. The irony of it all was if Hamish’s blood ran through his veins, he truly was unworthy.
‘Why am I here?’ Rory asked. ‘You have never invited me before.’
Finley walked further into the room, to the table laden with drink and even more food. ‘You’ve changed much in the days you’ve been away.’
‘There was much to change me.’
Finley lifted the flagon, smelled it, set it down. ‘I didn’t expect it, your marrying a McCrieff.’
He didn’t want to talk of his marriage with this man who had always found fault. Ailsa didn’t deserve his scrutiny. ‘I was talking more of the fact that Paiden was poisoned.’
‘Did you ever discover by whom?’
Since he had full expectation that he and Frederick would address the division in McCrieff clan, Rory intended to keep his silence regarding Mary and Hamish. ‘There is still time.’
Finley lifted the other flagon and poured it. ‘I would never have sent you there if I’d known. It caused your mother much worry.’
If Hamish was his father...ah, and that was why his mother questioned Ailsa regarding her height. ‘There was no need for her concern.’
Finley shot him a sharp look. ‘Then why marry? Did they hold a sword to your back? Your missive was without detail.’
‘You’ve met Ailsa and the McCrieff clansmen who travelled with us—do you think them so vile as to force a marriage?’ To various degrees, McCrieff hatred ran through every vein of a true Lochmore. His father, however, had remained diplomatic, despite his hatred of them. He tended to administer justice when necessary or negotiate with King Edward when the opportunity presented itself.
Finley held his goblet in both hands and peered into its depths. ‘I sent you there to secure Lochmore’s claim to the borderlands. You were there to fight, win, subdue.’
His father wasn’t looking at him, and he sounded almost...concerned. ‘What would it matter if I married her instead of raising my sword? In the end, I did secure the lands for the Clan.’
Finley’s head whipped up at that. ‘I wouldn’t want it at the expense of my son.’
Rory took a step back and another. His father had been acting differently all through the evening. Nothing untoward and nothing he could say with certainty, but Finley wasn’t as he had been before Rory had left that fateful day.
Or maybe he was acquiring his wife’s observational skills and this was how his father had always been. A little worn, his shoulders stooping, his face carrying deep grooves and his eyes a little less clear. It wasn’t only his physical appearance, but his mannerisms, too, that were softened.
Flummoxed at these observations, Rory couldn’t make sense of the invitation or his father’s statement. So he listened to the tone of the words; he watched Finley’s almost imploring look. Then he answered the truth. ‘I would not have married her if there wasn’t some possibility of compatibility.’
Finley’s wondering gaze fixed then and he took a swift drink. Rory had seen this expression on his father many times when he faced a merchant, a representative of the King...when clansmen lied at court.
It didn’t affect Rory. He had quaked before his father since he was a child and, after facingthe McCrieffs and almost losing his friend, he was past attempting to gain this man’s approval.
‘There is something you’re not telling me,’ Finley asked.
There was much he wasn’t telling this man, but the tone of Finley’s voice still wasn’t one of command. So he answered another truth. ‘There were no swords, but Ailsa did have shears.’
Finley let out a startled laugh and swept his arm to indicate the laden table behind him. ‘Come now, then, a drink for celebration!’
His mother pinning the brooches, now this. His father never celebrated anything. Not a birth or a death. In turn, he didn’t know how to celebrate with this man. First because of the conflict of the past and now with the discovery of his true parentage.
‘I’ll wait on that drink.’
‘Still?’ Finley said. ‘Even after today spent in the crypt and then in the outer village?’
Long used to people and their gossip regarding the Chief’s son, Rory didn’t question his father’s knowledge of his whereabouts.
Finley took another drink, then lowered the goblet only to become quiet. For once, Rory didn’t say anything to fill that silence. Instead, he merely observed. He might not be this man’s son, but he recognised that he took most of hismannerisms from him, including the quirk to his lips, the tilting of his head. The direct look.
Finley looked away first. ‘I want you to know, I’ve had a good marriage. Arranged, like your own, but out of everything in this life, I never regretted being wedded to your mother.’
