David looked up from the blade, wiping the grime from his hands on a cloth.
“I’ve sent scouts to every market along the main roads,” he replied, his tone calm but serious. “I’ll have them report to ye as soon as they find aught, me laird.” His gaze met Connor’s, steady and loyal.
Connor’s jaw tightened, and a sharp exhale escaped him. “Aye, but this waitin'… it eats at me, David,” he muttered, pacing a few steps before stopping again. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white against his skin. “Every hour that passes, the memory of Michael’s eyes haunts me, and these attackers hide like cowards.”
David set the sword down with a soft clang and leaned back against the bench.
“We’ll find the merchant, if he still lives. Ye know the world does nae reveal itself to those who storm ahead without thought.” David’s voice carried the weight of experience, a balm meant to temper Connor’s fury.
Connor shook his head, restless, the fire in his black eyes flickering with frustration. “I ken patience, David, but this is nay ordinary wait. This is the life of me brother, and these wretches may yet walk free!” His hands clenched into fists again, nails biting into his palms as he struggled to maintain control.
David stood and placed a hand on Connor’s broad shoulder. “I’ll nae fail ye, Connor. We’ll find the merchant, and we’ll learn thetruth of that day.” His tone was unwavering, carrying the bond forged from years of standing side by side with the Laird. “Ye’ll have vengeance, mark me words, but ye must let the men work.”
Connor exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping a fraction as he rubbed his face with the heel of his hand.
“Aye, I ken,” he admitted, his voice lower, tinged with the weariness of anger unspent. Yet the storm behind his eyes did not fade; it merely lurked beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to strike. “I’ll nae rest until I ken who sent them to kill Michael… who dared strike at me faither and me maither.”
David nodded, understanding both the fury and the pain driving his Laird.
“Then we continue as planned,” he said, straightening and lifting the sword back to the bench. “Scouts will report. We watch the roads. We gather our information, and when the time comes, ye will have your reckonin’.” His words were steady, like the foundation of a fortress, meant to anchor Connor against his own tempest.
Connor’s gaze softened fractionally as he looked at David. The rage still simmered, but he drew a small measure of comfort from his man-at-arms’ loyalty.
“Aye, David, ye’ve always been a good friend and a loyal man,” Connor admitted, the words rough and begrudging, yet sincere. “We’ll find the merchant, and by God, we’ll see justice done for Michael and the faither and maither.”
David clapped him on the shoulder, grinning faintly despite the grim topic. “Aye, Laird. Justice will be had, and we’ll make sure nay man crosses Clan McLaren with impunity.”
Connor nodded, the flicker of resolve settling over his anger like armor. He turned, pacing once more. The barracks seemed quieter now, the low hum of other guards tending their weapons filling the space.
“Send word to the scouts again at first light,” he commanded, voice firm, every word carrying the weight of authority. “I want to ken everythin’, and I want it brought to me fast.”
David bowed slightly, already heading toward the door with a determined stride.
“Aye, Laird,” he said, his tone steady as he disappeared down the corridor.
Connor remained in the barracks a moment longer, staring at the floor, the flicker of torchlight reflecting in his dark eyes. Anger, grief, and the relentless need for justice throbbed within him like a drumbeat that would not cease until the road yielded its secrets.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Iapprove.”
Connor stopped mid-stride as he walked through the castle corridors. He turned to see Margaret standing behind him.
“What do ye mean by that?” he asked.
“I approve of yer choice in bride,” she said.
His dark eyes narrowed as Margaret’s words sank in. “Ye can think whatever ye like, Grandmaither,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “but I told ye to stop meddlin’ in me affairs.”
His jaw was set, the lines of authority clear in every angle of his face. “This lass is me choice, and nay one else’s, do ye ken that?”
Margaret placed her hands on her hips, a stubborn tilt to her head that mirrored the stubbornness Connor knew he’d inherited.
“Aye, I ken, Connor, but I’m yer grandmaither, and it’s me duty to see ye wed rightly.”
Her blue eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and steel. “I’ve lived long enough to ken a good match when I see it, and Eva Whyte… she’s the lass for ye, whether ye see it or nae.”
Connor ran a hand through his hair, frustration curling like a fire in his chest.
