Margaret stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Mind this, lad, a laird is measured by the strength of his clan and the heart of his bride. Ye’ve found someone who can stand beside ye, and I ken ye’ll nae fail her.”
Connor allowed himself a rare moment of softness, nodding as he looked over the garden paths, the fountains, and the castle walls. “I will make sure she is cared for, Grandmaither, and that our family honors her as she deserves.”
Margaret’s smile deepened, and she straightened, brushing her hands lightly over the lavender. “Aye, I ken ye will, lad. Ye have a good heart, though ye are oft stubborn as a bull.”
Connor chuckled despite himself. “Aye, that I am.”
Margaret’s expression shifted into one of approval. “And ye mustnae be too harsh on her when she makes small mistakes; she is new to these things, aye?”
Connor’s brow furrowed with thought, then he smiled faintly. “Aye, I will remember that. She’s learnin’, and I must learn to be patient… as she does.”
“Connor, ye must also take time to enjoy her company, nae just the plannin’ and the duties. A weddin’ is as much about the joy as it is the ceremony.”
Connor looked down at her, a rare warmth blooming in his chest. “Aye, Grandmaither… I will try.”
Margaret gave him a satisfied nod. “Good, lad. Now, let us return to the hall. Ye’ve been pacing these gardens long enough, and it is near midday. Best we take some refreshment before ye take council.”
Connor followed her slowly, his mind still divided between his duties and the persistent thoughts of Eva.
As they approached the stone steps of the castle, Margaret leaned in slightly. “Remember this, Connor: strength and honor daenae only come from battles and ledger books. They come from protectin’ those ye love and standing by them when it matters most.”
Connor walked beside her up the steps, heart heavy with duties yet lightened by her counsel. Though the shadow of Jack Welsh lingered at the edge of his thoughts, he felt renewed resolve.
After taking tea with Margaret, Connor strode purposefully through the corridors of Castle McLaren, his mind still tangled with the thoughts of Jack Welsh and the McKay lands. He found Fergus, the senior councilman, in the small chamber where ledgers and maps were kept, hunched over accounts of clan expenditures.
“Fergus,” Connor began, his voice clipped with urgency, “I need to ken what ye recall of Jack Welsh and any ties he may have had to our clan. Me faither… he visited the McKay lands often, then stopped suddenly, and I need to understand why.”
Fergus straightened, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Aye, Laird, I remember yer faither’s journeys well enough. He would go to the McKay lands each summer, as ye say, and then… he stopped abruptly. Beyond that, I daenae ken much, for he kept his reasons to himself.”
“So, nothin' more? Nay disputes, nay incidents? Nothin’ that might explain why the McKay and McLaren clans fell out of contact?”
Fergus shook his head. “Nay, Laird. Yer faither was a private man, and I never pressed. If ye wish to delve deeper, I’d advise ye to check the old records in the library. Perhaps ye’ll find somethin’ written there, though I make nay promises.”
Connor gave a curt nod and left Fergus to his ledgers, the weight of anticipation settling heavy upon his shoulders. The library was dim when he arrived, the setting sun filtering through narrow windows and casting long shadows over shelves stacked with dusty volumes and scrolls. He moved from shelf to shelf, unrolling scrolls, scanning entries, and checking annals for any mention of Jack Welsh or McKay lands, but each page seemed as silent as the grave.
Hours passed as he meticulously examined the records. Names and dates blurred together under the flickering candlelight,the scent of aged parchment filling the quiet room. He found references to trade, levies, and land grants, but nothing that hinted at treachery or betrayal, nothing that connected Jack Welsh to the tragedy that had claimed his family.
Connor leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, frustration coiling tight in his chest. The silence of the library pressed upon him, thick and suffocating, as if the walls themselves were hiding the secrets he sought.
“Damn ye, Jack Welsh… what have ye done, and why?”
Rising finally, he collected the scattered records, stacking them with precise care despite the frustration coiling in his chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Eva woke that morning with a lightness in her chest she could not quite explain. Sun streamed through the narrow window, and she dressed with a hum on her lips, feeling for once unburdened. She found Amelie just beyond the servants’ stairs and clasped her hands eagerly.
“Amelie, I was thinkin’,” Eva said brightly, “I’d like to ken how the kitchens truly run.”
Amelie blinked, then broke into a grin. “The kitchens, Miss?” she laughed. “Ye’ll be ruined for fine manners if Cook Pauline gets her hands on ye.”
Eva waved the concern away. “If I’m to be Lady here, I cannae be afraid of flour and heat.”
“Well then,” Amelie said, linking arms with her, “best come prepared to laugh and get messy.”
The kitchens were alive with warmth and sound, pots clanging and voices calling over one another. Eva’s eyes widened at the long tables dusted in flour and the great hearth roaring along the wall. Pauline, broad-shouldered and red-cheeked, turned at their approach.
“And what’s this?” she boomed, eyes twinkling. “The future Lady wanderin’ into me domain?”
