Margaret huffed softly, a knowing sound, and patted his arm. “Aye, well, that’s nay surprise, Connor,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “It’s been the way of clans for generations, marryin’ power to power and name to name.” She glanced up at him, eyes sharp despite her age. “They expected ye to follow the same path yer faither did.”
Connor scoffed, stopping short and turning to face her fully. “To hell with tradition,” he said, heat rising in his chest. “I willnae choose a wife like she’s a bargainin’ chip or a bit of land to be traded.” His voice lowered, fierce and certain. “Choosin’ a woman from me own village tells me people I see them as equals, nae subjects.”
Margaret studied him for a long moment, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Ye’ve always been as stubborn as granite,” she said at last, though there was pride beneath the teasing. She squeezed his arm again and urged him to walk on. “But daenae mistake tradition for cruelty, lad; it once served a purpose, even if ye’ve chosen a different road.”
They resumed their slow walk, passing rose bushes heavy with bloom and a pair of gardeners bowing as they went by.
Connor exhaled, temper cooling but conviction unshaken. “Eva kens the land, the people, the hard seasons,” he said, more quietly now. “She’ll care for this clan because she’s lived among them all her life.”
Margaret nodded, her steps measured. “That’s a rare strength,” she agreed. “Many a highborn bride never learns the names of the folk she rules, much less their troubles.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “But ye’ll face pushback, Connor, and ye ken it.”
He let out a short laugh, humorless. “I’ve faced worse than sharp words on parchment,” he replied. “If they think a few letters will sway me, they ken little of me.” His shoulders squared asthey neared the archway leading back into the castle. “I’ll nae be bullied into choosin’ a bride for appearances.”
The light dimmed as they entered the corridor, stone walls cool and echoing around them. Margaret’s voice softened, though it carried easily in the narrow space. “Yer faither would’ve argued the same, though he’d have wrapped it in cruel words.” She smiled faintly. “He, too, believed respect must be earned from the ground up.”
“Then maybe I learned somethin’ right from him after all,” he said. He glanced down at his grandmother, gratitude plain in his eyes. “I just wish Michael were here to see me wed and have a life by me side.”
Margaret stopped and turned to him, lifting a hand to his cheek. “He is, in his way,” she said gently. “And he’d be proud ye chose with yer heart and yer conscience, nae fear.” Her lips curved into a small smile. “The clan will follow ye, Connor, even if the other Lairds grumble.”
Connor nodded, resolve settling like iron in his bones as they continued down the corridor. “Let the other Lairds write their angry letters and complain I dinnae choose their daughters to wed,” he said quietly. “I’ll build a future that belongs to us, nae one borrowed from old expectations.” His stride grew firmer with each step.
Later that day, Connor walked toward the training grounds, the morning sun casting long shadows across the courtyard.
Suddenly, the sharp call of the guards at the gate rang out.
“Riders approach!” Connor’s brow furrowed as he hurried toward the gate, his pulse quickening.
As he drew closer, he saw David, his man-at-arms, flanked by scouts, returning from their mission.
Connor strode up to him, his voice sharp. “David! What news? Speak quickly, what did ye find?”
David took a deep, steadying breath, his chest rising and falling with effort. “I… I think we saw Michael, Laird… he’s alive.”
Connor felt his knees give way beneath him, a sudden weakness stealing his balance. He stumbled, grasping the edge of the gate for support, and had to drop onto a nearby bench.
David’s eyes widened in concern. “Laird, ye all right? Sit yerself, take a moment, ye look near to faintin’.”
Connor gritted his teeth and steadied himself, refusing to let panic rule him.
“Aye… I… I’m here. Tell me, David, tell me exactly what ye mean. Daenae spare me a single detail.”
David nodded solemnly. “We were on the road to McKay lands, stopped at an inn at the crossroads. There, a young man, aye,fifteen years of age by me reckonin’, bore the birthmark ye described, on the left side of his neck. He was surrounded by McKay guards, and we heard them call him Michael.”
Connor’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with shock.
“Ye… ye say his name was Michael?” His voice trembled, disbelief and hope tangled together.
David nodded, his tone firm. “Aye, Laird. It’s him, or by all signs it must be. I watched him, studied him, the mark… It’s the very same. He obeyed the guards, but they called him Michael plain as day.”
Connor’s mind spun, thoughts crashing over him like a storm. “This… this cannae be… after all these years, after all we’ve mourned… Michael… alive?”
David moved closer, lowering his voice, steadying Connor with his presence. “I ken, Laird, it’s a shock, but I swear by the saints, what we saw is true. I wouldnae bring such news lightly, nae after all these years. I cannae be for certain it is him, however.”
Connor clenched his fists, pacing in a small circle, fury and disbelief warring with hope. “If he lives… then why is he with McKay guards? And why has nay one spoken of him before? Somethin’ is foul in all this.”
His eyes darted down the road as if the answer might suddenly appear on the horizon. “David… I thought I buried him in me heart, thought I mourned him fully.”
David stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I ken, Laird. I wouldnae risk misleadin’ ye over this, nae for all the lands of Scotland.”
