Chapter 7

E meric watched Anna as she followed Maisie up the stairs. Was she really here? It all felt like a surreal dream. He stood there for a moment longer, trying to quell the strange pulsing in his chest.

"Emeric?"

He blinked, then turned to smile at his mother. She had aged in the time he'd been away, her hair grayer, the lines around her eyes deeper, but she still carried herself with the strength he remembered so well.

She reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his face. "It's so good to see ye, my son," she said, her lips curling into a warm smile. "Even if the circumstances of yer arrival are a little...unorthodox."

Unorthodox? Aye, that was an appropriate way to describe his day.

He pushed thoughts of Anna Webster, Irene MacAskill, and everything else out of his mind and tried to concentrate on the present.

"How are things here, mother?" he asked. "How are ye?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, fine, fine. Ye know how things are. The usual challenges to deal with but naught we canna handle. "

Something in his mother's tone set him on edge. "What challenges?"

But she only shook her head. "Naught ye need concern yerself with. After all, ye are here for a happy occasion are ye not?"

Even as she said the words, the air was shattered by an excited squeal.

"Emeric!"

He turned just as a body cannoned into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Thin arms went around his waist and the familiar scent of honeysuckle enveloped him.

"About time! I thought ye were never going to arrive!"

Emeric laughed and wrapped his arms around the slight figure. "What are ye doing up at this hour, Aislinn? Surely ye need yer beauty sleep?"

His sister, younger by two years, pushed him to arm's length, looking him up and down just like his mother had done. Her long curly hair, far darker than his own, was tousled, as though she'd just dragged herself out of bed. "Beauty sleep?" she said with a scowl, green eyes fixing on him. "I'm plenty beautiful enough already, ye scoundrel!"

Emeric grinned at his sister's outraged expression. "Of course! I wouldnae dare suggest otherwise."

"I should think not." She wrinkled her nose. "What is that smell? Ye stink like a bog!"

"That's because I've just been in a bog." His little sister had grown into a woman while he'd been away, it seemed. She still had that spattering of freckles across her nose and that defiant tilt to her chin that he remembered so well, but she was taller, and had filled out. "So. Ye have finally gotten some pour soul to agree to marry ye, eh? Brodie Murray is a brave man indeed."

Aislinn poked him hard in the chest. "I will pretend I didnae hear that," she said. "On account of the fact that ye've been away so long ye've obviously forgotten yer manners. And if ye promise to tell me everything ye've been up to."

"Agreed. It will have to wait until the morning, though. There are things I need to attend to first." He glanced at his mother. "Is the laird still up?"

Hildie's expression tightened slightly. "Of course. He doesnae sleep much these days. Ye'll find him in his study."

Emeric nodded, then took his leave of his mother and sister, promising to catch up with them again tomorrow. He strode down the passage and deeper into Dun Achmore. The castle hallways were dim, lit intermittently by the dim glow of candlelight. The tapestries hanging on the high walls and the ancient portraits of past lairds seemed to gaze at him with stern and hollow eyes as he passed.

It was strange to be back. His home, yet not his home.

Ahead, at the end of the corridor, a flickering light spilled from underneath the heavy oaken door of the laird's study. Emeric hesitated, feeling the reassuring weight of the purse tied to his belt. He raised his hand and knocked softly.

"Enter," came the gruff voice from inside.

Emeric took a deep breath and pressed down on the iron handle, pushing open the door. The room was just as he remembered: cluttered with old tomes, crumpled maps and worn parchment scattered across the massive oak desk, framed by towering bookshelves that reached up to the high ceiling where cobwebs danced out of reach of even the most industrious maid.

Laird Douglas Mackintosh sat at the desk, poring over a document that was laid out in front of him. He held a pair of lenses up to his eyes to help him read—one of the many inventions he'd brought back from his trips to Italy—and a frown furrowed his forehead.

He looked up when the door opened and put the lenses down. The frown disappeared and he broke into a smile. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, leaning back in his chair. "So ye are alive, after all?"

Emeric inclined his head. "Tales of my demise are greatly exaggerated."

"Damn it. That's a shilling I owe Marcus." With a grin, his uncle heaved himself to his feet.

As always, the sight of his uncle sent an odd little pang through Emeric. It was like looking at his father. His uncle and father had not been twins, Douglas being a year older than his brother, Edric, but they looked so alike they may as well have been. Same tall build and bold nose, same sandy colored hair that Emeric had inherited. But like his mother, his uncle seemed to have aged in the last year. There was more gray at his temples and in his beard, and the lines of worry on his forehead seemed deeper.

His uncle put his hands on Emeric's shoulders and looked him over. Then he pulled him into an embrace, almost crushing the life from him. Despite his advancing years, he was still as strong as a bear. After a moment, his uncle pushed him to arm's length .

"Ye look like hell," Douglas said, eyeing Emeric's mud-splattered clothing.

"I feel like it too. Got into an argument with the marshes."

Douglas snorted a laugh. "Aye, that will do it. Have ye seen yer mother? And yer sister? They've been going frantic with worry when ye didnae arrive by supper."

"I have."

Douglas studied him for a few seconds, then clapped him on the shoulder, and turned, leading him toward the fire crackling merrily in the grand hearth. "We've missed ye, laddie." He waved to a decanter of amber liquid on a side table. "Come, pour us both a drink and fill me in on yer adventures."

Emeric did as he was instructed, pouring two generous drams of whisky into pewter goblets before taking a seat across from his uncle. The chair creaked slightly under his weight.

He handed one goblet to his uncle and took a sip from his own, feeling the smooth burn creep down his throat and spread warmth through his chest. A silent toast to coming home alive. With the life he led, sometimes it was the best you could hope for.

"How are things with the clan?" he asked.

Douglas gestured with his cup. "Ye need not worry about such matters. Everything is fine."

But the words rang hollow. There was a strain in his uncle's voice that didn't sit well with Emeric.

"I'm not a naive youth anymore, Uncle. Tell me the truth. "

Douglas sighed heavily. "Emeric," he began gently, "ye've been away for a long time."

"Aye, that I have," Emeric acknowledged. "And the world hasnae stopped turning in my absence. Nor, I am sure, has life up here."

The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, casting strange shadows on the old stone walls. Douglas took a sip of his whisky and then spoke.

"There's been the usual unrest. Clan differences that are as old as the Highlands themselves. Nothing we canna handle, but..." He paused, gazing into the depths of his goblet as if searching for the right words. "They've become more... problematic of late."

"Because of Aislinn's engagement to Brodie Murray?"

His uncle's eyes flicked up to meet his. "Aye. The MacDonalds didnae take it too well."

Emeric took a sip of his whisky, digesting this news. The MacDonalds were their allies, their larger, more powerful neighbor, and for as long as Emeric could remember, Duncan MacDonald, the laird's son, had had his eyes on Aislinn. Now she was marrying someone else he could only imagine the strife that had caused his uncle. Yet he'd allowed the engagement to go ahead all the same.

"Ye didnae insist on a match between Aislinn and Duncan MacDonald?"

It was Douglas's right as laird and legal guardian to arrange Aislinn's marriage. A marriage to Duncan MacDonald would have been the sensible choice, strengthening the alliance between the two clans. Yet that was not his uncle's way. He'd lost his wife, Sarah, in childbirth and had never remarried. As a result, Aislinn was the daughter he'd never had and he spoiled her like a princess.

"How could I?" Douglas said. "The lass would have been miserable. Ye know she's always been a free spirit, always followed her heart. And she's besotted with the Murray boy, and he with her. He'll make her a devoted husband, which is more than could be said for Duncan MacDonald. More in love with himself than anyone else, that one. When yer father died, I promised I'd take care of ye and yer sister, and I mean to honor that promise."

Emeric swirled his glass, staring down into the liquid. Suddenly, the room felt stifling. His father's presence hung heavy in Dun Achmore, even though he'd been gone for years. He took another gulp of whisky.

"How did the MacDonalds react to the news?"

"As ye might expect. They feel slighted. Insulted. And ye know how insults between clans can fester in the Highlands." He waved a hand. "Dinna worry, lad. I'll smooth things over. It will be fine."

Emeric said nothing. Instead, he reached down, untied the purse from his waist, and tossed it onto the small table between them. The coins inside jingled as it landed.

Douglas narrowed his eyes. "What's that?"

"I told ye I'm not a naive youth anymore, Uncle. Brodie Murray might be besotted with Aislinn, but his father isnae. Alistair Murray wouldnae agree to a match between the Murrays and the Mackintosh without ye paying a sizable dowry. A dowry that we can ill afford. Am I right? "

Laird Douglas studied Emeric in silence. Then he sighed, looking away. He ran a hand across his face. "Aye, lad. Ye are right."

"Then that should cover it. It's my pay from the Order."

Laird Douglas stared at the purse. Emeric wondered whether, in his pride, he might refuse. But his uncle was more pragmatic than that. He picked up the purse and dropped it into a desk drawer.

"Ye know," he said. "I thought we lost my brother ten years ago. But we didnae. He's sitting right in front of me now. He lives on in ye, lad. Ye are so like him. He would be proud of ye. I am proud of ye."

Emeric looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn't like being compared to his father.

"Well, it's late. I should be getting to bed."

Downing the rest of his whisky, he put his goblet down on the table and rose to his feet. His uncle rose as well.

"The games to celebrate Aislinn's marriage start in a few days. I think it's about time the Mackintosh showed what we can do, eh? Will ye join me in training the men in the morning?"

Emeric inclined his head. "Of course. I'd be honored."

Douglas nodded and gripped Emeric's arm. "It's good to have ye back, lad."

"It's good to be back," he replied. "Good night, Uncle."

With that, he turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him. As he walked through the shadowed corridors towards his room, he pondered how easily lying came to him these days. Because no matter what he said to his uncle, it wasn't good to be back.

And he couldn't wait to leave.