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“You fuckin’--” Niall steps forward, his eyes narrowed with rage, but I put up a hand.
“These are valid proceedings, Niall,” I say quietly. “Let it go.”
“I won’t let them kill ya.” Niall’s hand is already twitching towards his gun. “I won’t stand for it.”
“We’re not there yet. Hold your peace.” I glance at him, and Niall steps back, but I can feel the tension coming off of him in waves.
“Who would take the seat then?” Denis speaks up. “One of our sons? Who decides who inherits if a McGregor no longer holds it–”
“I could take the seat.” Graham stands again. “As the former McGregor’s right hand, I suggest that it ought to go to me. My daughter–”
“Can only marry one of our sons. You’re not of an age to take that seat now, as greatly as I know you want it.” Colin looks at Graham. “We choose the son of one of the other families here to marry Saoirse. Execute the traitor son like his treasonous father, and wipe the McGregor name from the lips of the Kings for all eternity.” Colin spits on the floor, looking at me as he does so. “That’s my vote on the matter.”
“It’s a shame the only good McGregor left abandoned this table to his father and brother’s treachery,” Denis says. “The elder son wouldn’t have done such a disgraceful thing.” He looks squarely at me then, and for the first time, I feel cold fear snake down my spine.
Three of the most well-respected Kings at the table have now called for my death. It’s not beyond the realm of rational thought that others might follow. I know Niall will go to his own death trying to stop them, but I’m stunned that it’s gone so far.
Was I a fool not to see it?
“What do you have to say for yourself, lad?” Denis asks, and I clench my teeth, looking around the table at the men I was supposed to lead and who have largely turned on me for the simple crime of not marrying the woman they demanded.
“I ask your forgiveness,” I say simply, and I’m sincere in that as I meet each of their eyes in turn. “From Saoirse, from Graham, from Luca and Viktor, from everyone here at this table, I humbly ask that you forgive me.” I pause, taking a breath as I consider what to say next.
“It was not my intent to besmirch the honor of Saoirse O’Sullivan or that of her father. But I could not in good conscience stand up and make vows to a woman for whom I had no feeling other than respect and duty. I know a good many of you will say that is what makes a marriage for men like us. That love and passion can be found elsewhere, but I tell you now that I intend to be a faithful husband to my wife and always have, regardless of who I chose to marry. I broke my betrothal vow to Saoirse in order to keep from breaking vows after our marriage and to keep the vow I made to the woman I love–to cherish and protect her.
I let that sink in for a moment, speaking with careful intent. “Though we have more equality at this table than most, the Kings have never been a true democracy, to vote on their leaders. For generations, this seat that I hold has been handed down from McGregor to McGregor. But in this,” I say slowly, “I’ll defer to the table, according to the laws of the Kings. I can’t promise you that I will bow to your edict if it is death, but I will go if you choose to oust me. But I remind you this, each and every one of you–when my brother abandoned you and my father nearly ruined you with his treachery, I stayed!” I raise my voice, loud and stern, commanding in the small room. “I have kept the McGregor vow, devote myself to this table, uphold the interests of the Kings, and who I marry won’t affect that. If it is your edict that my heir marry a daughter of this table, I will vow that on his behalf. But I will not easily walk away from what I have fought for. I love my wife, and our child will begin the next generation of McGregors. If my actions have cost my children their legacy, then I’m truly sorry for that, above all else. But here, now, I ask for your forgiveness and that you place your faith in me one more time.”
I look around the table once more, at the impassive faces of the men sitting there, at Graham’s angry expression. “Ní éilíonn mé go nglúine tú, ach iarrfaidh mé ort bogha,”I repeat the words of the Kings that I’ve said to them before when asking for their loyalty. “I do not demand that you kneel, but I do ask that you bow.”
And then, lowering my head, I grip the edges of the table. “I will not kneel for your judgment,” I say quietly. “But I will bow to your decision.”
I keep my head lowered as the vote is taken. It’s disheartening to hear how many of them argue for my death, and it sends cold fear through me. I do believe that if I were killed, Luca would at least see Ana safely back to New York–but I’m not certain that she would survive something else so terrible.She’s been through enough,I think grimly, my knuckles turning white as I grip the edge of the table.I won’t allow them to kill me. Anything but that.
A vote for my death would have to be unanimous. My blood feels like ice in my veins as I stand there, waiting to see who at my table will call for not just my removal, but mydeath. I can feel Niall, tense and as ready to spring as a hungry wolf, but I know that it’s unlikely either of us would leave this room alive if it comes to that. Niall and I are both skilled with a gun and our fists alike, but we’re far outnumbered.
We’d take a few of the shites with us for certain, though.
Graham straightens, his eyes meeting mine with a dark, certain anger as he raises his hand. “Death,” he says coldly, and I see Saoirse flinch the slightest bit next to him, but she remains unmoved.
For a brief moment, I think he’ll be the only one to call for it. But then Colin O’Flaherty stands, glancing at Graham before raising his hand.
“Death,” he says, his voice clear and cold in the small space of the room.
Denis Mahoney is quicker to stand with two men having called for it. “Death,” he says gruffly, adding his voice to the tally. “I’m sorry for it, lad,” he adds, glancing at me. “But it’s clear you’ve got your father’s traitor blood. I’ll not have the Russians running this table.
“Anyone else?” Graham looks around. There’s a beat in which no one moves or speaks, and then Lawrence Monaghan stands, raising his hand.
“Death,” he says, his voice less certain than the others. His glance at Graham gives away his uncertainty, too, and his refusal to meet my eyes.
It’s doubly painful to hear because Lawrence was once one of my father’s closest friends, like Graham.
“Feckin’ traitors, all of ya!” Niall shouts, his Gaelic the thickest I’ve ever heard of it. “It should be you kneeling for a bullet.”
“Quiet!” Graham’s voice rings out. “For death or for removal, it must be unanimous rather than a simple majority. Does anyone else call for the death of the Irish King, Liam McGregor?”
I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, my face paler than I’d like it to be. All I can think of is Ana, back at the penthouse alone, waiting for me–and Graham’s words in the garden of his estate.You’d rather give the girl a corpse to cry over than a breathing man to miss.
I might be a corpse by day’s end. I want to believe Luca will keep her safe, but I don’t know who I can trust anymore–with the exception of Ana herself and Niall. Even Max, who I trust greatly, is under Viktor’s protection. My circle of true allies has become frighteningly small.
