Michael sighed. “I do. It’s the only home I have known.”
Connor’s expression softened, his tone measured. “I understand that, Michael. But ye were taken against yer will from yer true family. It was nay choice of yours.”
Michael leaned back, his gaze dropping to the worn wood of the table. “I cannae stay mad at Jack for what he did,” he admitted, voice tinged with conflicted emotion. “He may have kidnapped me, but he also raised me with love. He’s the only faither I remember.”
Connor’s hand brushed over the parchment between them, steadying himself.
“It’s yer choice whether to stay mad or nae,” Connor said, his voice quiet but firm. “It was yer life that was completely changed after all. I cannae take back what happened, but I can try to guide ye now.” He paused, eyes meeting Michael’s. “I apologize again for killin' the man ye saw as a faither.”
Michael shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I was never mad with ye for killin’ Jack,” he said softly. “I understood that ye had nay other choice. I saw it with meown eyes. It was necessary, and I can respect that.”
Connor let out a slow breath, feeling the tension in his chest ease a fraction. The weight of family, vengeance, and lost years settled between them, heavy but shared.
Michael leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “Ye’ve brought me home, ye’ve given me a choice, and ye’ve shown me the truth,” he said.
Connor nodded. “That’s all I could ever hope for, brother. We cannae change the past, but we can face the future together.”
Michael’s gaze softened. Connor felt a quiet pride swell within him, knowing that despite the years of loss, they were building something real and lasting.
The two sat in companionable silence for a moment, surrounded by the weight of their ancestors in the countless volumes lining the walls.
“We have much to learn about each other’s past,” Connor said at last. “But we also have the power to shape the days ahead.”
Michael nodded, a determined glint in his eyes. “Aye, brother. We will do that together.”
Connor heard the soft rap at the library door and turned to see Eva standing there.
“Come in, lass,” he said, stepping aside to let her enter. She smiled briefly, brushing back a strand of hair from her face as she stepped inside.
Michael looked up from the manuscripts scattered across the table and offered her a warm, welcoming nod.
“Eva, it’s good to see ye,” Michael said kindly, his youthful face softening with the familiar warmth of friendship.
“Good day, Michael,” she said.
“What is it? I ken that look of worry,” Connor asked, seeing her brow furrowed in a familiar way.
Eva nodded, her expression serious. “There’s a messenger at the gate,” she said, her voice tight with a mixture of curiosity and worry, “from the McKay clan.”
Connor stiffened, his hands resting on the back of a chair. “Aye,” he said slowly, “that could be good news, or bad.”
“Bad? Ye think they want battle after all?” she asked.
Michael placed a reassuring hand on Eva’s shoulder. “Daenae worry,” he said gently. “The council is fair and wise. They would nae want war with the McLaren clan after all that’s happened. Nae to mention that the McLaren clan is larger and greater in numbers in comparison.”
Connor nodded, still tense, and motioned for them to follow him. “Let us go. When we get to the gate, stay back,” he said as the three of them walked from the library into the bright courtyard.
Connor’s stride was purposeful as he approached the gate. His eyes scanned the horizon, alert for any sign of ambush, though he knew none would come.
The messenger, a young man in plain brown attire, bowed as Connor neared.
“I come in peace, Laird McLaren,” he said quickly, raising his hands. “I only bring a letter from the McKay council. Tis for young Michael.”
Connor relaxed slightly but kept his guard up. “Then we accept this letter with peace,” he said, reaching for the parchment.
The messenger handed it over and departed without another word, leaving Connor holding the folded letter stamped closed in a wax seal.
He turned, walking swiftly back to Michael. “Lad, it’s for ye,” he said, handing him the letter.
