The Highlander's Destiny (Highland Rogues #2) - Mary Wine Page 0,48

the bodies up. Cora felt her body tightening. Every muscle was rigid as those men turned to carry the bodies through the open gates toward the graveyard.

So very quickly, life had changed. It was sobering and frightening. But Cora felt something else stirring inside her. A sense of justice. She watched the way the women in the yard turned to Faolan. There was fear in their eyes, and Cora didn’t pity any of them. Instead, she took note of the ones who shuffled their feet and ducked their chins.

They were about to reap what they had sowed.

Gainor stroked his beard. He eyed Faolan up and down before inclining his head. “Laird McKay.”

Faolan tilted his head to one side. He pointed at Gainor. “My head captain.”

Gainor sputtered.

Cora enjoyed the moment until she looked past Faolan to where Malcolm’s captains stood. They wore hard expressions, but somehow, Cora didn’t think their dark visages were because of their laird’s recent demise.

No, they were glaring at Faolan. In their eyes, Cora saw the discontent which might turn to blood on the floor. Their positions were at stake, and ambition was a vicious thing. It would strip civility from a clan. Faolan would need eyes in the back of his head if he planned to survive.

Cora squared her shoulders and stepped up beside Faolan. He caught her movement, turning his head to look her way. She continued to look at the captains, and none of those men missed the warning she was sending them. The McKay looked between their new laird and the men who had so very recently held authority over them. Beside her, Faolan was sending her a hard look. But one side of his mouth twitched into an arrogant little grin. Cora turned her head, locking gazes with him.

For a moment, she watched enjoyment glitter in his dark eyes. Something twisted in her belly in response. A sensation that raced along her spine and down her limbs. It left goosebumps on her skin and made her nipples tighten. Whatever it was, she craved more of it.

So, she’d be staying right there beside him. Faolan McKay could just get used to her being his wife.

*

Burying his brother didn’t take much time. The McKays weren’t willing to cross the Church. Besides, there were plenty of men who saw Malcolm’s death as an opportunity to rise in position.

It should have pleased him. Malcolm had never shown any affection for him, and the men who had voted for Malcolm had made Faolan’s life difficult at best. Faolan grinned in spite of the dire circumstances of the day. There were likely more than a few men sweating as they waited to see if Faolan had a sharp memory or not.

His memory was sharp.

Malcolm had stopped just short of murdering him. Now there was a solid truth. Faolan looked at the McKay stronghold. The place was suddenly more welcoming. As for retribution, well, he had no time for it. But he’d never forget the names of the men who had taken their ire out on his mother.

“Laird.”

One of Malcolm’s captains had spoken the word. The man was one of the younger captains. He reached up to tug on his cap, while Faolan recalled his face and the way he’d backed Malcolm when Faolan was being exiled to the clifftop tower.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” the man began. “Ye need me at yer back.”

“All of the McKay should be pleased to support Faolan as laird,” Cora spoke. “It’s fortunate there is a clear heir. It would be a shame to see the McKay weakened by internal strife.”

The captain narrowed his eyes. “This is men’s business. And me aunt saw the sheet this morning, it was clean. So ye have no business in the affairs of the McKay.”

Faolan stuck his arm out in front of Cora. It was an impulse. One that felt a little too good, and if he had time to contemplate his feelings, he might have questioned just why protecting Cora was so important to him. For the moment, all that appeared to matter was the fact that someone had dared to threaten his woman.

“Gilmor,” Faolan recalled the captain’s name. “I’ll decide if Cora has business with the McKay or not.”

Gilmor reached for the corner of his cap once again. Another captain had joined him. “As ye say, Laird.”

“He’s no’ laird of the McKay just yet.” The argument came from Yestin. His beard was gray, and his eyebrows were, too. But the way many of the