Before him, every soul in the hall waited for his answer.
Eventually, he turned.
Hestood beneath the archway as if he had wandered into the wrong feast and meant to charm the room into forgiving him for it. He was travel-worn, his coat decent once and poorly kept now, his dark hair disheveled around a face that still held enough beauty to anger Connor.
Lachlan.
For the next minute, Connor couldn’t move. All he could do was study his brother.
Shame had not managed to ruin him, but Connor could tell wine and ale had tried. The result was worse because the old charm remained in pieces, bright enough to catch the eye and broken enough to cut.
His smile moved first to Connor, then to the hall, then back again. His gaze did not settle properly. He seemed to take in the garlands, the tables, the guests, the guards, the cupbearers, and Connor all at once and fail to hold any of it in the right order.
A young footman carrying cups froze near the closest table. One cup tilted until the ale touched the rim. Alex shifted closer to Connor’s right. Quietly. Without drawing attention. Connor felt the movement anyway.
Aiden stood a few paces behind him, silent now. The warning he had given moments ago still hung between them, and now he would see what Connor did with his brother if it came to that.
Connor had imagined meeting Lachlan again with steel between them. He had not imagined wedding garlands over their heads and half the clan waiting for blood.
Lachlan’s smile faltered. Then, before anyone could speak, he dropped to his knees.
Murmurs rippled through the hall and died at once.
“Brother,” Lachlan said, his voice carrying in the torn silence. “I ken I am the last person ye want to see, but I promise, I am nae here for trouble.”
Connor narrowed his eyes.
“Let me stay for a few days,” Lachlan continued. “Only long enough to congratulate ye. I’ll cause no trouble.”
Connor did not answer. Old anger flared so quickly, it felt familiar enough to be welcome.
Lachlan’s mouth, Lachlan’s excuses, Lachlan’s drinking, Lachlan’s exile. Jane dead in England. John asleep in the nursery upstairs because Lachlan had loved badly, fled badly, and probably left the baby at the gate of the castle.
Connor’s mind drifted to the letter he had received from him.
Please be gentler with him than ye were with me.
Connor walked toward him slowly. The hall watched his hand. It remained at his side.
Lachlan looked up when Connor stopped before him. For the first time, the smile was gone. Without it, his face looked younger and more ruined.
“Stand,” Connor ordered.
Lachlan’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “Connor.”
“I’d nae spill blood on me wedding day now, would I?”
The words were dry enough to coax a brittle laugh from somewhere near the tables. No one joined it.
Connor looked toward the young footman. “Bring him some ale.”
The lad’s eyes widened, then he hurried forward.
Alex’s gaze flicked to Connor.
“Onecup,” Connor emphasized.
The footman handed the cup to Lachlan with both hands, then retreated as though the floor might open beneath him.
