Lachlan's Heart (The MacCulloughs #2) - Suzan Tisdale Page 0,19
the men come into the room.
Fergus and Jamie brought Murdoch forward, neither letting loose their grip on the man’s arms.
“Found him hidin’ in the granary,” Fergus told him. “Like the coward he is.”
Murdoch shook his head with a good measure of disinterest. “I told ye, I was merely nappin’.”
Lachlan glared across the table. “I have had enough of yer games,” Lachlan told him. “A fortnight ago, ye said ye wished to stay. But ye have yet to swear yer fealty,” the laird reminded him. “Why did ye nae leave with the others?”
More than fifty warriors, along with wives and children, had left the day he had given them the choice. But Murdoch had chosen to stay. Lachlan was by no means a stupid man. He knew from the first moment he met the man he’d have to watch him carefully.
“This is my home,” Murdoch told him pointedly.
“Then ye will give me yer fealty?” Lachlan was certain he already knew the answer. Even if Murdoch agreed, there was a strong possibility ‘twould be naught more than empty words.
“If ye want my fealty, MacCullough, ye will need to earn it.”
His statement surprised Lachlan. He had anticipated a worthless promise. “I challenge ye, MacCullough. I challenge ye.”
The challenge wasn’t surprising in and of itself. What Lachlan did find astonishing was the strength behind the words, the tone of his voice, and the way he stood, tall and proud—with conviction.
“Ye think ye could best me in battle?” Lachlan asked with a raised brow.
Pulling his shoulders back, Murdoch nodded his head slowly. “Aye, I do. Ye are nae wanted here, MacCullough. None of ye are.”
“We earned the right to be here, Murdoch. We did nae start the war betwixt our clans; Maitland Chisolm did. Ye have no one to blame for this but he.”
Murdoch scoffed openly. “Maitland did what was best for his people. He had every right to retaliate.”
Puzzled, Lachlan took a step forward. “Retaliate? Against the MacCulloughs?” He was utterly confused. “Pray, tell me, what exactly did the MacCulloughs do that necessitated retaliation?”
The look Murdoch gave Lachlan said he thought him no smarter than a flea. With a groan of disgust, he said, “When yer men attacked us like cowards.”
Lachlan’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Near on seven years ago, Galen MacCullough sent a band of his warriors to our southern border. In the middle of the night, thirty of yer men killed five of our young men who patrolled the border.” Anger burned behind his eyes. His voice grew deeper, filled with repugnance. “After that, they made their way onto our lands and killed an innocent family of six. Set their home ablaze. Raped the young mother of four as they made her husband and children watch. That is why we retaliated.”
Repulsed at the notion, Lachlan ground his teeth together before responding. “I tell ye we never did such a thing. Never.”
“Tell that to the dead,” Murdoch seethed.
Shaking his head, Lachlan took another step closer. “Galen MacCullough was a good and honorable man. He would never order such a thing. What proof do ye have?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, “There,” he said with a nod toward the hearth behind Lachlan. “On the mantle is a box. Inside that box is a letter from Galen MacCullough. Written in his own hand.”
Fergus retrieved the box from the mantle and placed it on the table next to Lachlan.
“Maitland kept that letter as a reminder to all of us why we should hate and despise every one of ye. There is yer proof.”
Lachlan lifted the lid with his index finger. Inside the box was a rolled parchment. Carefully, he removed it, unrolled it, and began to read quietly.
Maitland,
I write this to ye in my own hand so there is no mistake as to the meaning or contents.
Consider this attack a warning to ye and yers. Ye have betrayed the MacCulloughs in the worst possible way. I will never forgive ye for what ye have done.
Therefore, I officially declare war upon ye and yers.
I will nae rest until every last Chisolm is obliterated from this earth. I will see to it yer name and every memory of ye is erased from history.
Ye have been warned.
Galen MacCullough
Lachlan read the missive twice. He knew his uncle’s handwriting well enough to know it was not written in his own hand.
“Galen MacCullough did nae write this.”
Murdoch’s expression said enough; he didn’t believe him. “Ye lie.”
Fergus and Jamie stepped forward, swords drawn, ready to gut the man for the insult.
“Stand down,” Lachlan ordered