Hours later, the gates of McLaren Castle rose before them, stone walls pale beneath the moon, banners stirring high above in the night wind.
Connor saw Michael slow his horse, staring upward as the thistle-marked standards snapped and curled.
“Are those McLaren banners flyin’?” he asked, voice tight with unease.
Connor nodded once and said, “Aye, they are, lad, ye’re at Castle McLaren, and I am Connor Davies, Laird McLaren, and there’s somethin’ I must show ye inside the castle.”
They dismounted in the courtyard, the echo of hooves fading as servants hurried forward and guards bowed low.
Connor knew that Michael was tense as he glanced around, wary, his hand never far from his side as if expecting chains instead of welcome.
“If this is some jest, I daenae see the humor in it,” he muttered.
Connor met his gaze steadily and replied, “There’s nae jest here, Michael, only truth I should’ve kent years ago. I promise ye on me maither's grave that ye are in nay danger. I am a friend.”
Connor led him through the heavy doors and down long corridors warmed by torchlight and tapestries. Michael’s boots slowed as the castle swallowed them whole, every step sounding final.
“Ye’ve nae told me why I’m here, nae as much as a suggestion of it,” Michael said, suspicion sharpening his tone.
Connor answered quietly, “I ken, and I will, but first ye must see this with yer own eyes.”
They entered the gallery hall, its vaulted ceiling arching over rows of portraits with faces staring down from centuries past. Candlelight glimmered over gilded frames and solemn eyes, warriors and ladies alike frozen in time. Michael looked from one portrait to the next, unease deepening. Connor walked with purpose until he stopped before a single painting near the center wall.
He lifted his hand and said, “Michael, this is yer maither.”
The portrait showed a dark-haired woman with gentle eyes and a familiar curve to her mouth.
Connor swallowed hard and added, “Lady McLaren, and I am yer brother, Connor.”
He watched Michael go stiff as if struck, breath catching sharp in his chest.
Michael stepped forward slowly, his gaze locked on the painting as if it might speak.
“She… she looks like me,” he whispered, fingers trembling as they hovered near the frame. He shook his head once and said, “This cannae be real, ye’re mistaken, surely.”
Connor replied softly, “I wish I were, but I’ve known this truth in me bones since the moment I saw ye.”
He then walked to another painting, this one a family portrait. Connor with his mother and father, and little Michael at three years of age, with the birthmark on his neck.
“This is ye, lad. Same mark on yer neck,” Connor said.
Michael looked at the painting, and his knees went weak. Connor was at his side, helping him.
Connor drew a breath and continued, “When ye were three, our parents were murdered in an ambush on the road.” His voice darkened as memory pressed close. “By the time I arrived, we thought ye’d died with them, lost and taken by those that took their lives. We only found yer bloody wee tunic and nothin’more.” He looked at Michael and said, “But now here ye stand, alive, and I thank God for it.”
Michael turned on him sharply and said, “That’s nae possible.” His voice rose as confusion edged toward anger. “I’ve nay memories before I was five or six, none at all, and Jack Welsh raised me as his own.”
Connor answered firmly, “Jack? So he is the one who took ye and hid ye away and lied all these years. I daenae ken why.”
“Jack is me faither, I ken that in me heart.” Michael paced once, running a hand through his hair. “Ye expect me to believe a story spun from paintings and words?”
Connor stepped closer and said, “I expect ye to feel it, lad, same as I did when I saw yer face.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with doubt and old grief.
Michael finally stopped pacing and looked at Connor with wary eyes. “I daenae believe ye.”
“Stay two days.” Connor let out a breath and added, “That is all I ask. Give me leave to show ye that ye are of Clan McLaren. Ye are Michael Davies, me lost brother.”
