He was not going to give up Raelynd for another day, let alone a year. If Craig really desired leadership, then he would have to seek another way to attain it. And if his brother did so, then he would also have to learn how to make decisions that did not involve a battle plan and weapons. Though he would never say it aloud, Crevan knew he would be a far better chieftain than his brother. Cyric, on the other hand, was another matter.
Before Crevan left Caireoch, he had spoken to a handful of men whose opinions he trusted and all of them had the same things to say. Cyric was a Lowlander and it was obvious, but he was also smart and brilliant with a sword. They did not know about him as a leader of the clan, but Cyric had proven himself capable of dealing with and gaining the respect of other clan leaders. Would they follow him? None of them could answer the question. But the fact that they didn’t outright refuse said enough. With sufficient time, Crevan suspected they would. After all, Cyric was a Schellden.
But what did Cyric want? What had driven him to confront them last night and demand his rights? Why not a month ago? Pride? A sudden desire for power? And what were his plans once the year was complete?
The only way to learn the answers was to confront the one who had them.
Crevan stopped at the only door that was closed on the second floor and rapped hard three times on the wooden planks. He did not have to wait long before it swung open.
Golden eyes held Crevan’s blue ones for several moments before Cyric stepped back. “Come in.”
Though raised in the Lowlands, Cyric was unmistakably a Highlander. His height was almost that of Crevan’s and his chest was slightly bulkier. His hair and facial structure were nearly identical to Rae’s, but his eyes must have come from his mother’s side. Surprisingly, the golden orbs held not the arrogant countenance of a man who felt victorious.
A deep crease was notched in the space between Cyric’s brows and the set of his shoulders was tight. Stress lines bracketed his mouth. If anything, the man looked like he was preparing to sacrifice himself by assuming a heavy burden.
“W-w-we need to talk.”
Cyric raked his hand through his hair and nodded. He then waved to one of the several folding chairs leaning against the wall as he sat down on one that was already open. “You want me to walk away, but you must know that I cannot do that.”
Crevan grimaced and grabbed the uncomfortable item and popped it open. His grandfather had hated the folding chairs with a passion, stating that sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall was more comfortable. He had been ridiculed commissioning one of the local carpenters to build him several chairs like those he had seen used by royals with arm rests and high back supports. The result was twenty oversized, bulky chairs made from bog wood, which his grandfather placed in the Great Hall.
It was his father’s idea to make them comfortable by padding them. Conor had been the first to steal one from the Great Hall and by the next night three more disappeared. Only then did his father notice the change in the Hall decor. Crevan could still remember his father’s flushed face as he was about to threaten all those who had procured chairs without permission. He was stilled by his mother’s gentle hand upon his arm. His older brothers,
Cole and Colin, had followed Conor’s lead and taken the second and third chairs, but it was their mother who had taken the fourth.
After that nothing was said and he and Craig refused to be left out and stole one chair for each of their rooms. Within the first week after being padded, only seven chairs remained in the Hall and his father made it clear that none of them had better come up missing. In the end, each brother had at least one chair in their rooms, with Cole and Conor having two. His mother had somehow managed to get another into her dayroom without anyone noticing and it wasn’t until their father’s death did they discover where the other two had been hiding—his solar.
“Something wrong?” Cyric asked, seeing Crevan’s hesitation.
“No,” Crevan answered, and sat down on the stretched leather. “I just f-f-forgot that these chairs w-were stored here.”
Cyric produced a half smile, half grimace. “I asked my uncle about his padded chairs and he blamed your father for the idea. Said it was too expensive but his vanity required it.”
“Sounds like Rae,” Crevan said, leaning his elbows on his knees. “W-w-we have a problem.”
Cyric drew in a deep breath. “Well, at least you said ‘we.’ That gives me the impression that you don’t have a desire to meet in the courtyard.”
Crevan found himself smiling at the man’s humor. “W-w-we could. But know that I’ve seen you f-fight. I’m better, but I’m tired of letting things and people decide my f-fate.”
The simple honesty behind the comment caused Cyric to laugh and the infectious sound made Crevan join him. The tension that had filled the room moments before had been lifted. But the situation remained unchanged.
“I cannot let you marry Raelynd. She’s mine and I w-w-won’t let you have her.”
The statement could have been construed as a challenge or even as a threat, but Cyric’s instincts said that either interpretation would have been wrong. Crevan had simply intended to communicate where he stood on the subject and was giving Cyric the opportunity to counter. “Do you not believe that a Schellden should be the next laird of the clan?”
“I think Rae Schellden is going to live many years and has no intention of releasing his authority any time soon. W-whoever marries Raelynd w-w-will not have a pulpit to prove themselves on f-for many years.”
The point was valid and one that Cyric had not considered before. It added to the reasons he did not want to be the Schellden chieftain, but unfortunately, it did not negate any of the reasons he still sought the role. “Do you understand why I cannot just walk away?”
“And w-w-what about Row-wena?”
“Rowena?” Cyric scoffed and stood up, grimacing. The abrupt reaction to the question prevented him from disavowing his feelings, but neither did he feel the need to open up and discuss them either. “What about her?”
Crevan assessed the man in front of him. He had assumed Cyric craved the role of chieftain for other reasons than that of preserving his honor. But he could find nothing—not passion, eagerness, not even desire for power or prestige—to substantiate that assumption. “You don’t actually w-w-want to become a laird, do you?”
Cyric’s brows rose a fraction in surprise. His first instinct was to lie and swear that he did, but at the last second he refrained. The blunt question was not intended to insult, but was meant to uncover the truth. A tactic Cyric often applied during negotiations.
Like him, Crevan was also patient, disturbingly insightful, and incredibly candid, all of which made him stand apart from his clansmen. And yet something about Crevan made him unquestionably a Highlander. It was that indefinable quality that Cyric feared he would always be missing. “You are not anything I assumed you to be.”
“And that w-was?”
Cyric sat down and decided to be just as open and honest. “I was told that you avoid conversations, but that’s not true, is it?”
The accurate assessment caught Crevan by surprise, rendering him momentarily speechless. Even his brothers could not see Crevan as he was, only as they believed him to be. “People assume many things about me that are w-w-wrong. In truth, I just prefer to listen bef-fore I speak.”
Understanding flashed in Cyric’s eyes. “I sympathize. People decided long ago what I was and have never expended the effort to see who I really am. And before you ask, I will tell you because strangely, I think you might understand.
“I am a man without a home. I always have been. I’m a Highlander. I look like one and in the Lowlands I am told that I act like one, but as you are aware, in just the few minutes we have spoken, I am not a Highlander. At least not in the traditional sense. The only place I have ever felt comfortable was at court. There clansmen come from all over Scotland and because I belong in no one particular world I can relate t
o them all, without letting emotional ties sway my opinion.”
“So w-w-why don’t you go to court? Be an advisor? Too f-few have that ability and King Robert needs such men, especially w-w-with his plans for England.”
The question was legitimate and Cyric was keenly aware of Crevan’s scrutiny. “I want to prove to my father that I am a Schellden worthy of his respect,” he spoke truthfully.
Crevan got up and went to the small window. It was dirty. The chambermaids had obviously not cleaned the room in a while. Then again, company had not been expected.
When he had walked into the room, he had no idea how to resolve the situation of Cyric marrying Raelynd without entering into physical combat. Crevan certainly had not expected to end up liking Cyric. Who would have thought he had more in common with this Lowlander, this supposed enemy, than he did with most of his own brothers?
Crevan had never bonded and developed lifelong friendships like his brothers had. His unique relationship with Craig was due to their being twins more than personality driven. Essentially, Crevan had always felt alone, mostly because people never saw him for who he was. It had not occurred to him that Cyric could be facing a similar problem. And if he was, then Crevan already knew the solution. The problem lay in that it was not a solution one could just tell someone. It had to be identified by the person themself.
“Do you know w-why I didn’t say something last night and w-w-waited until today?”
Cyric shook his head and waited for the answer.
“Because it w-w-wasn’t until today that I realized I have been a f-fool. For w-weeks, hell, f-for years, I let my brothers and other people dictate the direction of my life. To f-f-fight their misconceptions about me w-would have taken enormous effort and honestly, I didn’t think it mattered. But I realized this morning that letting others decide my f-fate w-w-was about to cost me everything.”
“And you tell me this because you think there are similarities in our situations?” Cyric asked, his voice defensive as he rose to his feet once again. “My father did not ask me to become a laird.”
Crevan turned and looked the man directly in the eye. They were nearly the same height and of similar build. Physically, neither could intimidate the other. “And yet, he is still the reason you seek the title. Or did I misunderstand? Explain to me again w-w-why you are not marrying the w-w-woman you love. Isn’t it so you can assume a lifelong responsibility you don’t want in hopes of pleasing someone w-w-who isn’t even here?”
White knuckles appeared on Cyric’s tightening right hand and Crevan didn’t even duck as the fist smashed into his jaw. Insults like the one he had just issued were not ones men walked away from unhurt. But Crevan did not have time for Cyric to come to the same realization he had come to only that morning. Brutal honesty was painful, but it was fast.
Crevan propped himself up on his elbow and stared up for what he was about to say would only cause him to be knocked back down again. “That might make you f-feel better and I don’t deny that it was justified, but you and I both know it doesn’t change the truth.”
“Which is?”
“I w-want to be a laird. The next Schellden laird. I w-w-want to marry Raelynd and spend the rest of my life ensuring the Schellden clan continues f-for many generations. But not a single person thinks I can because of how I speak.”
Cyric reached down and clasped Crevan’s arm, helping him up. Anger still lurked in the golden depths, but Crevan could see that the man was at least considering what he had to say.
“And how are you going to prove to everyone they are wrong?” Cyric asked.
“By simply doing the job. It w-w-won’t happen the day Raelynd and I marry, but in time, people w-will realize the truth. That I can be a good chieftain and a respected ally, even if I do not speak as w-w-well or as smoothly as everyo-o-one else.”
“I’m supposed to believe it is that easy, am I?” Cyric scoffed. “Becoming an advisor to the king is far more complicated, not to mention highly unlikely.”
“Convincing Rae that I—the last person he considered—should be the next Schellden laird is not going to be easy. May not even be possible. But only if I don’t try, w-w-will I have f-f-failed.”
Cyric’s mouth formed a firm, unyielding line. “We have another problem.”
“Row-wena,” Crevan exhaled.
A muscle on Cyric’s jaw flicked. “Aye. I guess I’m pretty pathetic and easy to read.”
Crevan rubbed his aching jaw, recalling her constant chatter about Cyric and how he didn’t deserve someone to love him. “No, she is. W-w-what I don’t understand is w-why you don’t want to marry her.”
“I did. I do. She made it clear, however, I was not to ask her.”
Crevan chuckled, clearly incredulous. “W-well, after spending a day riding w-w-with her, I’m pretty sure she has changed her mind.”
“So what are you suggesting?
“I’m thinking you are about to be right by my side getting married, my f-f-friend.”
Cyric grinned. He couldn’t believe it. An hour ago he was in a state of deep misery over his fate. Now he was practically eager to live his life. “I believe your priest was expecting to marry two couples today, was he not? It would be a shame to disappoint him.”
Before Crevan could respond a loud thump came from the other side of the door. Grabbing the handle, he yanked the door open and two boys fell into a room for the second time that day.
“W-what . . . Braeden . . . Gideon?”
Braeden jumped to his feet and, true to his personality, he pretended he did nothing wrong. “Mama told us to come see you.”
Crevan looked at the two boys with skepticism. Neither of them flinched. Gideon wrinkled his nose as he examined a bloody scrape on his elbow. With a shrug, he dropped his arm and said, “I don’t think those girls are going to agree to marry either of you.”
Crevan pursed his lips to stifle a grin. “You don’t?”
Gideon had known all the McTiernays since he was born. His father was the commander of the elite guard, his mother often spent time with Lady McTiernay, and Braeden was his best friend. That he shouldn’t speak so bluntly to a member of a very powerful family did not even occur to him.
Braeden bobbed his head, backing his friend’s assessment. “That’s what we were supposed to tell you. They are really mad at you right now. I think they might stay in that tower forever.”
Crevan leaned down as if he was going to divulge a secret. “Do you w-w-want to know o-one of the best things about being a man?” Seeing both heads nod vigorously, he answered, “W-we get to be strong enough to carry the w-w-women w-we love to w-where they need to be.”
Cyric laughed in agreement and clapped Crevan on the back. “That’s right. Maybe we should show them what we mean.”
Braeden grimaced as he watched his uncle and the other man walk out of the room and head for the tower stairwell. “Being strong never works for Papa,” he whispered to his friend, recalling the one time he had seen his father carry his mother into the Great Hall.
Gideon sighed. “Uh-huh. I don’t think your uncle understands how mean girls can get when you try that kind of stuff. Remember when I dropped Brenna in the laundry barrel?” Braeden faked a huge shudder. His sister could not pick them up, but she could put dirt in their food, hide thistle thorns in their clothes, and dump fire ash on them when they weren’t expecting. “I guess they never had sisters.”
Epilogue
Cyric whirled Rowena around, entranced by her laughter. The Great Hall was filled with McTiernay soldiers and clansmen congratulating Crevan on his marriage. Hardly a soul knew Cyric and only a few more recognized Rowena—a fact that could not make Cyric happier. Crevan and Raelynd were at the center of attention and from what Cyric could see, they had little opportunity to enjoy their new status of husband and wife.
“Thank you, my love,” he whispered in Rowena’s ear.
“For what?”
“For agreeing to marry me. I’m not sur
e I could have handled knowing you might decide to disavow me in a year.”
Rowena playfully punched his arm. “If you had asked me to handfast with you, you would not have had to wait a year. I would have disavowed you this afternoon!”
“You tried. It didn’t work,” Cyric reminded her.
“Well, you burst into the room and threw me over your shoulder. How was I supposed to react? Grateful?”
“Aye, my love. Otherwise I couldn’t do this right now.” Cyric captured her mouth in a deep kiss that left them both breathless.
“You know who should really be grateful—Raelynd and Crevan. If it wasn’t for us, I doubt they would be married right now.”
Cyric rested his forehead against hers and smiled. “Aye. You are right. Raelynd was most stubborn until we helped Father Lanaghly convince her otherwise.”
Rowena pulled back and with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, said, “Well, maybe later tonight I can show you just how grateful I am that you did burst into that room.”
Cyric swallowed and decided he could stand no more. He grabbed her hand and no one saw them again until late the next morning.
“I told you it would work,” Rae said, his voice full of self-satisfaction.
“I must admit, you were correct . . . this time,” Conor agreed grudgingly.
“I was right about your wife too. A month under her guidance and both my daughters have turned into women their mother would be proud of. I don’t know how to thank her and you for letting them stay here. I know at times it had to be trying.”
“You don’t need to,” Conor countered, offering a mug of ale to his friend. “What you did for Crevan is more than enough repayment. Not many would recognize the leadership qualities in Crevan with his brother around. You did.”
Rae took the mug and watched the young man across the room. He was beaming and each time his eyes connected with Raelynd’s his smile only grew. The days would not always be as blissful as they were now, but what the two of them had would form a foundation that would get them through anything.
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