Chapter 7

7

" B rother," Scarlett called out, her voice cutting through the distance, laced with a bluntness that often caught courtiers off-guard.

Magnus released a heavy sigh. Arriving home should bring him the usual sense of relief, but this time it felt different. He wasn't ready to release Erin from his lap and face the burden of responsibility that lay ahead of him.

Erin was warm now and sitting peacefully, but he didn't dare loosen his hands from her hips, he wasn't ready to lose the closeness of her presence now he had it.

He was never one for patience. It was a trait honed through years of defending his title and land. But this woman, this fiercely independent lass, tested him beyond measure. She was slowly driving him mad with her sharp tongue and piercing blue eyes that saw too much. To be bound to her in marriage... It was a convenience he required, but intimacy was a vulnerability he could not afford.

"Scarlett," Magnus acknowledged with a curt nod, his tone betraying none of the turmoil that brewed within him. The familiarity of home did little to ease the weight of leadership that rested upon his broad shoulders.

He climbed down from the carriage, landing with the assured grace of a predator. He was skilled when it came to hiding how much his body pained him at times. His gaze lingered on Erin for a moment too long, her own steely gaze challenging him. It was a dance as old as time, the push and pull of two forces destined to collide. Aye, she tested him, but there was no denying the strange pull she had over him—an allure that was as intoxicating as it was dangerous.

"Welcome to yer new home, Lady Gibson," Scarlett said, extending a hand to help Erin climb out behind Magnus without losing the plaid she held wrapped around her.

"Thank ye, Miss Black," Erin replied, her voice carrying a note of sarcasm that Magnus couldn't miss. "It is as grand as I imagined."

The words hung between them, fraught with an unspoken tension that Magnus knew all too well. It was the sound of a looming storm, the quiet before the thunder. He needed to get away from her, to clear his head of the steamy thoughts that threatened to consume him.

Magnus watched with a guarded expression as Scarlett enveloped Erin in a warm embrace, their reunion a stark contrast to the cold stone walls of the ancient castle. The sound of their laughter danced in the drafty hall, and he found himself begrudgingly pleased that the two women were getting along.

"Ye must be weary from the journey," Scarlett said, her fiery hair catching the flicker of torchlight. "Let me show ye around our home, Erin."

"Home," Erin echoed, a hint of irony in her voice as she glanced Magnus's way. "Aye, a tour would be most... enlightening."

"Scarlett," Magnus interjected, his tone brooking no argument, "I've matters to attend to." He turned slightly toward Erin, catching the glimmer of challenge in her blue eyes. "More important than playing the gracious host. I trust ye will find Scarlett a suitable replacement for me company"

"Of course," Erin retorted with an infuriating and enticing curl of her lip, "ye wouldn't want to neglect yer duties for mere pleasantries."

His resolve wavered under the intensity of her gaze, but it was the sight of her still-dampened clothes clinging to her curves that undid him. With an inward curse at his lack of control, he addressed Scarlett, his voice more gruff than intended. "See to it that she changes into dry garments first. She'll catch her death in this chill."

Erin's cheeks flushed a deep shade of rose, and Magnus felt a peculiar twist in his gut at the sight. Averting his gaze, he wrestled with the unfamiliar sensation clawing at him—concern, perhaps, or something far more dangerous?

"Come, lass," Scarlett urged, oblivious to the silent battle between Erin and her brother. "We'll find ye something fitting for the future lady of this keep."

"Future lady," Erin muttered under her breath as she allowed Scarlett to lead her away, the words hanging in the air like an unspoken vow.

"Scarlett, see to it that the lass is comfortable, yer lady's maid can tend to her needs until we can find someone suitable to tend to Erin," he commanded, turning on his heel without waiting for a response. His boots echoed hollowly against the cobblestones as he strode away, leaving the two women behind.

With every step he took toward the council chamber, he felt the taut string of control fraying. The upcoming council meeting loomed in his mind, but so did the image of Erin, with her defiant spirit and the curve of her lips.

No, he chided himself, shaking off the unwelcome intrusion. There were more important matters at hand. He must focus on the destroyed bridge, the lifeline of their trade, and the implications of his impending nuptials. His future with Erin was a strategic move, nothing more; he would do well to remember that.

But as Magnus approached the council chamber, where decisions of war and peace were made, he knew deep down that his greatest battle wasn't against coups or dissension within his ranks—it was against the desire for the woman who was now part of his destiny.

And as the heavy doors of the chamber closed behind him with a resounding thud, sealing him in with his fate, he could not shake the feeling that Erin Gibson was a storm he might never weather.

"Me laird, ye have returned with a lady. How was yer travels?" Caelan hurried to his side, an eager look on his face.

"Nae as excitin' as yer imagine." Magnus sighed. "I need to speak with the council."

"Yes, me laird. I'll summon them at once."

When Caelan said he would do something at once, he always delivered. By the time Magnus had freshened himself up and had a proper dressing placed over his shoulder wound, the first councilmen were arriving at his gates. Turning on his heel, he made for the council chamber, each step heavy with the weight of his thoughts. Yet even as he sought to distance himself from her, he could not escape the image of Erin—fierce and independent—nor the feeling that whatever storm she brought with her might just be worth enduring.

Magnus strode through the dimly lit corridor, his boots echoing off the stone walls, a reminder of the fortress that had withstood countless sieges. His mind, however, betrayed him, besieged by thoughts unbecoming of a laird. Images of Erin, her gown clinging to her curves like morning dew on heather, tormented his senses. He could almost feel the warmth of her skin against his roughened hands, the softness of her hair tangled between his fingers.

"Get a hold of yerself, man," he muttered, shaking his head as if to dispel the visions that threatened to undo him. It was not lust that gnawed at him, but something deeper—a connection he couldn't afford to explore. Not yet.

The council chamber awaited, the air thick with the scent of peat and the mustiness of old parchment. Around the long oak table, his trusted advisers would expect a leader, not a lovestruck fool. The matters at hand were crucial—the safety of his people, the prosperity of his lands. No distractions could be permitted.

"Ye're the Laird of McCormack, Magnus Black," he reminded himself, his voice a low growl lost in the shadows. "Act like it."

His hand reached for the door, the heavy wood carved with the legends of his ancestors, battles fought and alliances forged. With a deep breath, he pushed it open, stepping into the candlelit room where the future of his clan would be decided.

"Let's begin," he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. But even as he took his seat at the head of the table, ready to command, the image of Erin, fierce and defiant, lingered in his mind, a silent challenge to the walls he had built around his heart.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he greeted, eyes scanning over the faces of his councilmen, all clad in their clan tartan. They nodded and murmured their respects, but there was a tightness in the air, a sense of anticipation that had nothing to do with pleasantries.

"Let us waste no time," Magnus began, clasping his hands behind his back as he paced before the hearth where logs crackled fiercely. "Our bridge to the north has fallen. 'Tis no small matter, for trade routes have been severed, and our coffers will feel its absence."

Murmurs rose around the table, the men exchanging worried glances. It was not only a bridge of stone and wood that had collapsed but also a lifeline that connected them to the other clans and to prosperity.

"Plans must be laid for reconstruction," he continued, "and swiftly. Winter's breath is upon us, and we cannot afford isolation when the snows come."

"Indeed, Laird McCormack," one elder councilman agreed, his voice grave with the weight of their shared concern.

"However," Magnus added, pausing to let his gaze linger on each man, ensuring he had their full attention, "there is another matter. I am to wed Erin O'Kane."

For a moment, the chamber was still, as if the very stones held their breath. Then, like the warm rush of spring thawing frozen earth, smiles broke across the faces of his councilmen.

"Congratulations, Laird McCormack! That is most welcome news," another exclaimed, and several voices echoed the sentiment. Erin O'Kane, by name alone conjured images of strengthened alliances and tighter ties between clans.

"Thank ye," Magnus replied, inclining his head. He could almost feel Erin's presence beside him, her independence like a beacon that outshone the dim candlelight. The thought of her, stubborn and unwavering, shouldered its way into his mind, stirring a mix of admiration and exasperation within him.

"Her kinship ties are valuable," an astute councilman noted, the corners of his eyes crinkling with approval. "The O'Kanes are well-regarded, and their daughters married to powerful lairds."

"True," Magnus conceded, a flicker of pride swelling in his chest at the strategic match, "but more than that, she is..." Strong. Defiant. More than a mere pawn in a game of alliances. He swallowed down the words, knowing they were thoughts for him alone.

"Will there be a feast, me laird?" asked a younger member, ever eager for celebration.

"Aye," Magnus answered curtly, his tone brooking no further discussion. "But first, we rebuild. For without strength at home, what good are alliances abroad?"

Nods of agreement rippled around the table, the matter settled for now. Yet, as Magnus watched his councilmen turn their minds to logistics and labor, a sliver of unease lodged in his throat. The bridge would be mended, but the chasm that lay between him and his betrothed—could such a thing ever truly be bridged?

"Meeting adjourned," he declared, his voice echoing off the high stone walls.

"Before we go, we must speak of the coup." Reggie Hogg's voice cut through the silence that had fallen after the other councilmen had expressed their support. His sharp eyes, like flint striking steel, sparked with disapproval.

"There is no coup, Mr. Hogg, I assure ye."

"Ye cannae dismiss the signs, Laird McCormack"

Magnus turned slowly to face him, his expression as stoic as the ancient walls surrounding them, yet a storm was brewing inside. "And what signs would those be, Councilman?" he asked, his voice a low rumble of forced calm.

"First the fire in yer food store, and now the bridge washed away." Reggie leaned forward, his gnarled hands planted firmly on the oak table. "The same ill omens we saw before the coup against yer faither."

A murmur of assent rippled among the remaining council members, the superstitious undercurrent of their culture as ever-present as the mist upon the moors.

"Times are different," Magnus replied curtly, though his mind raced with the unwanted memories of bloodshed and betrayal that had marked his youth.

"Are they?" Reggie pressed on, emboldened. "Now we hear ye intend to wed the English lass. Erin O'Kane may have Scottish blood, but her ties to England could bring more distress to our people."

Magnus felt the weight of Reggie's words like a gauntlet thrown at his feet. The O'Kane alliance was strategic and necessary, but the councilman's pointed reminder of Erin's English connections was a barb that found its mark.

"Erin Gibson is no English lass," Magnus bit back, the image of her defiant gaze flashing before his eyes. "She is strong, capable?—"

"Capable of stirring unrest," Reggie interrupted, his tone dripping with disdain.

"Erin Gibson will become me wife," Magnus continued, his voice steady and authoritative, "and she will stand by me side as we strengthen these lands and protect our people."

Magnus stood, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow across the stone floor of the council chamber. His jaw clenched as he glowered at Reggie, the fire from the torches flickering in his deep brown eyes. The air was thick with tension, each man's breath held as if bracing for the clash of swords.

"Ye seem to forget," Magnus's voice boomed, cutting through the silence like a blade, "the alliances forged with the O'Kane lass are nae small matter. Her kin are wed to some of the mightiest Lairds across these lands."

The councilmen around the table nodded their agreement, their faces etched with concern but also understanding. They knew the weight of such connections. All save for one.

"Even so," Reggie persisted, his tone dripping with disdain, "bringing an English-tied lass into our midst could stir unrest among the clans. Have ye considered?—"

"Considered?" Magnus interrupted, his laconic reply sharp as a whip. "I've done more than consider, Reggie. I've decided. And me word is law here."

Reggie's mouth snapped shut, his eyes narrowing further, if that were possible. But Magnus was undeterred. The memory of Erin's defiant gaze flashed before him, her spirit as untamed as the windswept moors, and it steeled his resolve. "But-"

"Enough," Magnus commanded, slamming his fist onto the table, making the heavy wood shudder. He would not allow fearmongering to dictate his decisions nor let this cantankerous old man cast doubt upon his judgment.

The room fell silent, all eyes on their laird as the echoes of his declaration faded against the stone. Reggie's mouth twisted into a bitter line, but he held his tongue, knowing he had pushed the boundaries of his station.

The finality in his tone left no room for further argument. With a curt nod, he dismissed the council, leaving no doubt that the matter was closed. As the men filed out, each lost in their own thoughts, Reggie lingered, his eyes narrowed in contemplation—or perhaps calculation.

The room fell silent, the other men sensing the finality in their Laird's words. Reggie looked as though he had swallowed sour ale, his lips pressed into a thin line. But it was clear the argument was over.

"Are we clear on this matter?" Magnus demanded, his presence commanding attention.

One by one, heads bowed, murmurs of assent filled the chamber. All except Reggie, whose pride seemed to grapple with the need to yield. Finally, with a curt nod, even he conceded.

"Good." Magnus's tone left no room for further debate. He turned on his heel, his mind already racing with the preparations needed for the impending nuptials.

As he strode out of the chamber, the echo of his footsteps mingled with whispers of ancient traditions and the upcoming wedding ceremony. Would the Highland spirits bless this union, or would old grudges lead to new battles?

In his private quarters, Magnus poured himself a dram of whisky, the peaty aroma a brief comfort. He thought of Erin again, her hair as fiery as her temperament. Their chemistry was undeniable, even in their banter and bickering, there was a pull he could not ignore.

"Damn it all," he muttered to himself. "How can a woman I barely know consume me thoughts?"

He took a long swig, letting the warmth spread through him, chasing away the chill of the drafty castle. Tomorrow, he would have to face Reggie again, as well as the challenges that come with leading a clan on the brink of change.

But tonight, it was Erin who haunted him—the beauty he was bound to by necessity, yet who felt like both the most considerable risk and the greatest reward of his life.

Magnus set down the empty glass, his thoughts a mix of desire and duty. He had vowed to protect his clan at any cost, but protecting himself from Erin O'Kane might prove to be the greater battle if he could not keep his promise to remain hands-off. He had vowed not to touch the lass, and that was a promise he was going to keep.