She swept into the room like a storm, dressed in wool and stubbornness. At seventy years old, she stood small in stature but fierce in presence, her silver hair pinned in an elaborate twist that proclaimed authority more loudly than any crown.
“What is it now, Grandmaither?” Connor groaned.
“I wish to speak to ye on a very important matter,” Margaret declared, not even pausing for courtesy.
Her sharp blue eyes took in everything at once, missing nothing, judging everything, and softening only when she looked at her grandson, though even then, mischief lurked beneath the wrinkles. She had a way of wielding guilt like a weapon and affection like bait, all in the name of seeing her bloodline thrive before she took her last breath.
Connor rubbed a hand across his face. “About what, Grandmaither? I can only imagine whatever trouble ye’ve stirred.”
Margaret huffed and lifted her chin. “We’re havin’ a ceilidh tonight.”
Connor stared at her as if she’d announced the sky had turned purple. His shoulders stiffened, frustration carving itself into every line of his body.
“A ceilidh? I dinnae approve anything like that.”
Margaret waved a dismissive hand. “Aye, I ken ye dinnae. That’s why I planned it in secret while ye were away.”
David’s eyebrows shot up, and he took an immediate step backward toward the door.
“Well then,” he murmured, bowing slightly, “I think I’ll leave ye both to it.”
Connor shot him a glare, but David was already slipping out, closing the door with the swiftness of a man who refused to get caught in family warfare.
“Grandmaither,” Connor snapped, turning back to her with narrowed eyes. “What possessed ye to organize a ceilidh without me permission?”
Margaret clasped her hands before her, tilting her head in that infuriatingly innocent way she had perfected over her long life.
“Och, Connor, ye ken well what possessed me. It’s time for ye to get a bride.”
“I daenae have time for a wife,” Connor growled. “And ye should cancel this event at once.”
Margaret’s lips began to tremble before Connor even finished the sentence. Tears welled instantly, fast, theatrical, and devastatingly effective.
“Cancel it?” she wailed, lifting a handkerchief to her nose. “After all the work, all the cookin’, all the preparations? Och, me heart cannae bear such cruelty.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “Grandmaither.”
Margaret pressed a fragile hand to her chest, shaking her head as if he’d struck her.
“I’m an old woman, Connor. Seventy years I’ve walked this earth. I may nae live long enough to see ye wed if ye keep refusin’ at every turn.”
“Grandmaither,” he repeated sharply, irritation simmering under every syllable.
She sniffed dramatically, continuing as though she hadn’t heard a word. “The feast has already been made. The musicians are on their way. Invitations have been sent out across the nearby clans.”
Connor pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling very slowly. “When did ye send the invitations?”
Margaret fluttered her handkerchief. “Ten days ago.”
“And how many clans will be expectin’ hospitality tonight?” His voice deepened in that dangerous way that made grown warriors tremble.
“Only a half a dozen,” she said quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Give or take.”
“Give or take?” Connor echoed, incredulous.
Margaret’s tears spilled freely now. “Och, lad, daenae be angry. I only want to see ye settled before I meet me maker. I want to hold yer bairns in me arms. Is that so terrible?”
Connor looked toward the ceiling as if begging some unseen force for patience. “Ye’re relentless.”
