Page 2 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

He had thus returned, years after the King’s decree, years after the marriage accord bound her name to his while she was still young enough to believe that politics was an affliction that only men suffered in council chambers, and years after war carried him away and brought her brother home upon a bier.

Roy MacIver returned to claim what the Crown promised him.

Her.

The whispering sharpened.

“MacIver.”

“He has the boldness tae come here?”

“Lachlan left with him.”

“And didnae return with him.”

Donaldina heard every word. She wished she had not. Since the first report of Lachlan’s death, suspicion had been circulating around Dun Ard. It began quietly and gradually grew louder, much like water finding crevices in stone. Men who had never witnessed the battle spoke as though they were right in the middle of it. Men who feared Lachlan in life now conveniently loved him in death. And always, always, the same name passed between them.

Roy MacIver.

He walked across the hall, several of his men following suit, but they halted when he raised one gloved hand. He continued alone. Donaldina felt, against her will, the full impact of his approach. He moved as one accustomed to arriving where he was unwanted and surviving the welcome. The hall appeared to shrink when he stopped before her.

“Lady Donaldina,” he greeted. His voice was low, gruff by a life fraught with travel, battle, and command. It did not bend prettily around her name.

“Laird MacIver,” she replied, her voice firm despite the overbearing presence of the man.

He glanced back at Lachlan for a moment. "After the war, the King relieved us of our duties. I rode for Black Craig and then came here to honor the marriage accord.”

“As soon as word reached ye,” she sneered. “The roads from war must be remarkably long then.”

A flicker crossed his eyes. “They were,” he said plainly, offering neither defense nor apology.

Before she could answer, Cormac stepped forward.

“It is a strange courtesy, Laird MacIver,” Cormac cut in before she could answer, “tae arrive armed at a funeral.”

Laird MacIver glared at him. The two men regarded one another intently, the charged air between them thick, almost palpable.

“I travel armed,” he declared. “The Highlands havenae grown gentler in me absence.”

“Nae,” Cormac retorted. “They have grown wiser.”

A few men muttered in agreement. Donaldina gave them a stern look, and they fell silent, albeit not out of obedience.

“Ye come beneath royal decree, I presume,” said Cormac, taking a step forward.

Laird MacIver’s face remained impassive. “I come under a marriage accord sealed before the King’s council.”

“Me lady’s brother is dead.”

“I see that.”

Donaldina was struck by something in the calmness of these words. Instead of indifference, there was a weight that vanished almost immediately.

“Then ye see also that the agreement has changed,” Cormac cut it once more. “Lachlan MacNicol was laird when that paper was signed. He is now lying beneath his own plaid, returned from a war he should never have entered. The clan is leaderless, grieving, and under threat. This is nae hour for a stranger tae press a claim.”

A stranger.

The word echoed with approval down the hall. Donaldina clenched her jaw, feeling anger rise from within her. Not in defense of Laird MacIver, but at the insult hidden beneath Cormac’s concern. He talked as though she were a door that needed to be watched over and a plot of land that men would argue over while she was standing next to them.