to in that manner. “With what clan?”
A small band of young lads came to retrieve their horses. “Jamie, ye and Fergus are with me. Have the rest of the men tend to their horses, then get something to eat.”
Jamie gave the order then hurried to catch up to his laird and Fiona.
“Not clan, but clans,” she said as she began leading him toward the second wall in hurried fashion. Jamie and Fergus fell into step behind their laird. The McDunnah warriors followed alongside them.
Good lord! He’d only just arrived and now he must prepare for war with not one clan, but two. Mayhap more. “The Farquars?” They were more of a nuisance than any great threat, but they were the first clan that came to his mind.
Fiona laughed. “Nay,” she said. “They ran like frightened rabbits when they saw us coming a week ago.”
The gates pulled open as they approached and the large group spilled out into the bailey. Save for the warriors and a few scraggly looking dogs, the space was empty.
The keep was even more impressive up close and for the first time since he was a lad, he felt rather small.
“Then who?” he asked as they splashed through puddles heading toward the stairs.
“The MacGregors for one,” she said.
The MacGregors. “They have been life-long allies to the Chisolms,” he said. “One of my and Richard’s biggest concerns were how they’d respond.”
“Caelen believes they’re simply worried over their future. With ye, us, and the MacDougalls, they are probably shittin’ their trews worried we will try to take their lands.”
’Twas a shock to hear a woman speak in such a manner. But then, Fiona MacPherson was not a typical woman. She said not another word as she led the group up the steps and into the massive keep.
Fiona led the way down a long corridor and through a set of tall double doors. Within was one of the largest, grandest gathering halls he’d ever seen. I have fought on smaller battlefields, he mused as he took in the enormous space.
Large stone fireplaces lined the walls to his left and right. Overhead were six, heavy black iron chandeliers with dozens of candles blazing in each. A long, wooden high table, lined with benches sat on a dais in front of the fireplace on the eastern side of the room. Over the mantle hung the MacCullough banner. It appeared to have been torn in several spots and mended back together. It angered him to think someone would have torn it thusly, but he was thankful to whomever mended it.
Caelen McDunnah sat at that high table in the only chair. War braids lined both sides of his scarred face. ’Twas difficult to tell if he was amused or perturbed; both expressions were often similar. Two men were leaning in, speaking to him in hushed tones. Neither man looked pleased.
As Lachlan and the others approached, their heavy footfalls echoed off the walls and arched ceiling, drawing Caelen’s attention away from the two men who were speaking to him. As soon as the man saw his beautiful wife, he smiled. Or leered. ’Twas difficult for Lachlan to tell. Either way, he did appear quite pleased at seeing his wife.
Now, Caelen McDunnah was legendary. He was known to start a fight simply because he enjoyed fighting. Ruthless and unforgiving on the field of battle, it was widely accepted throughout Scotland that Caelen McDunnah was the meanest, most relentless and ferocious son of a whore that ever walked God’s earth. He was a terrifying man.
His wife, however, was not of that same mindset as the rest of the world. She bounded up the steps as he pushed himself away from the table. Lachlan watched as the two people shared a warm embrace. The public display of warmth and mutual admiration went against everything Lachlan thought he knew about the either of them. Love, he reckoned, could change a person. Thankfully, it hadn’t softened Caelen’s fighting abilities.
Caelen finally turned his attention toward Lachlan. “Ye look like death warmed over,” he said by way of how-do-you-do.
Lachlan shrugged his shoulders. “It has been a long five years.”
They grabbed each other’s forearms in greeting. “How long has it been since last we’ve met?” Caelen asked.
“At least eight years,” Lachlan said.
Caelen nodded, stepped aside, and pointed to the ornately carved chair. “’Tis yer seat now, MacCullough.”
My seat.
Reluctantly, he stood behind the chair. This was the seat of power, so to speak. How many generations of lying, cheating, conniving Chisolms had sat in