Page 96 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

Aye, so do I.

CHAPTER 22

Magnus said nothing as he led the way down the hallway.

“Ye walk in front of yer Laird now instead of by his side?” Hunter remarked.

Magnus glanced briefly over his shoulder, reddened, and slowed his pace. “Apologies, me Laird.”

“Ye are angry. I assume it has something to do with last night’s announcement. And me vow.”

Magnus’s shoulders tensed at the mention of the vow, and Hunter bit back a sigh.

“Come now, old friend, ye arenae going to turn on me, are ye?”

“Of course nae, me Laird,” Magnus answered instantly. “How long did ye ken about the child?”

“It’s recent, very recent. I was shocked.”

“So, what happens now?”

“I guess we’ll find out after this council meeting,” Hunter muttered grimly. “Best to get it over with.”

They reached the Great Hall. The council chambers were at the very end, beyond a small, discreet door that was half-hidden behind a tapestry.

Some lairds displayed their council chambers proudly, as if they wanted the world to see how many advisors they kept, how many souvenirs and gifts they could display.

Not Hunter. The council chambers were something else entirely. A secret room, a war room, to be kept hidden. The sort of room that wasn’t easy to eavesdrop on. A room where hard decisions were made.

He eyed the door, feeling a rush of anxiety. He wasn’t used to feeling so anxious. After all, the councilmen might be vital stars to light up the sky, but he was the sun they orbited.

“Me Laird?” Magnus prompted. “If ye daenae want to have the meeting today, I can talk to them. We can reschedule.”

Hunter gave a tight smile. “Kind of ye to offer, but nay. Better get this over with, eh?”

Magnus didn’t smile. “Try and look repentant, me Laird. They’ll be looking for that. Repentance.”

What was that supposed to mean?

Hunter thought about questioning his man-at-arms, but decided against it. Like he said, best to get it over with.

Striding toward the door, he squared his shoulders and arranged his face into a neutral expression. His councilmen were good men who had the interests of the clan at heart. But he also knew that they had agendas. All councilmen did.

It was impossible to be a councilman, an advisor of any sort, without having something secret you wanted for yourself, something that you tried to make happen without letting anyone else know.

Good men had half-decent agendas. Bad men had vile ones.

Hunter congratulated himself on appointing mostly good men to his council.

Mostly.

He didn’t stop to knock on the door. That was too deferential, like a penitent coming to ask for something. Or worse, a guilty man. He was the Laird; looks were everything.

Pushing open the door, he strode inside.

The councilmen were all there, arranged around the table in a half-circle, leaning in toward each other and whispering.

The whispering stopped when he stepped into the room.