Page 27 of Wedded to the Devilish Highlander
He didn’t miss Calum’s eye roll, and he hummed. “Our arrangement is new, but it suits us both. Thank ye for the well wishes.”
Mack dipped his head, his smile wider now. “How fortunate yer timing is, indeed. A union like this will… surely strengthen ties.”
Archer nodded once. “That’s the aim, as we have discussed several times before. Is it nae?”
“Indeed, Me Laird,” Mack agreed, his casual smile resting on his otherwise red face.
The rest of the meeting dragged on, far longer than Archer had anticipated. He was only half-listening, as his temples started throbbing again. Every new topic was the primary aim of each man at the table—a stone added to the weight on his back.
Fergus brought up troop positions. Torren inquired about winter storage. Dugal listed out the statuses of the clan’s trade agreements. The discussions and updates carried on around him like a slow tide, but his thoughts kept returning to the deaths, to Eileen, and to the tension crawling down his spine.
When the meeting finally ended, the councilmen filed out slowly, muttering amongst themselves. Most seemed pleased with his announcement. Some seemed quietly suspicious.
Archer lingered by the hearth, letting the fire’s warmth chase away the chill. Then came the voice.
“Laird MacLennan.”
Archer turned.
Henry Millar stood in the doorway, hands folded behind his back. Of middling height and steady build, he always wore his position like a tailored cloak. Not ostentatious, but unmistakable. His blond hair, peppered with grey now, was combed back neatly. His pale blue eyes were calm and steady. He always reminded Archer of a bird.
“Henry,” Archer said, inclining his head.
“I only wished to check on ye. After last night. A disturbing thing, to be sure.”
Henry had served Archer’s father. A man of ledgers and land taxes, he’d kept the clan’s finances in order for decades. And when Archer had taken the mantle, Henry had offered smooth guidance. As had all of his father’s councilmen.
Archer gave the man a tight smile. “I’m fine, Henry.”
“Och, good. Good. And the lass? Erm, Lady Eileen Kilmartin. Ye seem elated?”
“Elated,” Archer repeated blandly.
Normally, an announcement of marriage to one of the most sought-after women in the Highlands would have been a point of pride. Perhaps it was because the matter wasn’t settled yet, or because the betrothal was forced down his throat by the very men in this room. Either way, he couldn’t muster a lighter tone, but Henry didn’t seem to mind.
“Glad to hear it!” the man said, smiling and laughing oddly to himself. “Well, if ye find that ye need anything from the books?—”
“I’ll let ye ken, Henry.”
Henry dipped his head respectfully. “Then I’ll leave ye to yer thoughts, Me Laird.”
He turned and exited with the same quiet grace he always carried.
As the door closed behind him, Archer stayed where he was, staring into the fire.
Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his bones. Like a splinter too deep to reach, but ever aching.
9
The corridors of this blasted castle all look the same!
Eileen had taken one wrong turn—or perhaps three—and now she was certain she was lost. The grey stone halls twisted and bent like a maze meant to trap wandering souls.
It didn’t help that it was still quite dark out and the torchlight played tricks on her eyes. She thought that she had passed the same tapestry at least twice, a faded scene of some long-forgotten battle between men with swords too big and expressions too grim. She even spent a good long while studying it at one point in the morning.
Her slippers made no sound against the stone, but her heart thudded loud enough to echo in her ears.
“Saints preserve me,” she muttered under her breath, wrapping her arms around herself. “Could this place nae be built with a proper layout?”
