Page 29 of The Chief

Chapter 15

Rory pressed his fingers to both temples, attempting to block out the shouting of the council.

“We are already at war,” McFarland argued. Again. “Why wait for Kerr, or anyone else for that matter? Attack while McKinnon isn’t expecting it.”

For two days now, they’d gone round and round the issue. In some clans, the chief had the final word on all decisions. But their grandfather had set a different precedent. In Clan Kennaugh, the council had a say in three important decisions: attacks, counterattacks, and matters of succession. In theory, Rory agreed with that policy—important decisions deserved great thought and consideration—but they appeared to be at an impasse. Both sides felt passionately that they, and they alone, knew the best way forward.

Terric had glanced Rory’s way more than once this morn, but Rory had decided to let him take the lead. The chief had returned, had he not? Now, he was once again naught but the second. And yet, he couldn’t shake the thought that perhaps Cristane was right about his approach with Terric. His mother had told him the same, but it had made more of an impression coming from Cristane.

But what did it matter?

Terric was still chief.

And Cristane was leaving. When his brother had pressed him about her the night he arrived, Rory had said little, knowing his reluctance to discuss it disappointed Terric.

“Are we boring you, brother?”

Sighing, he opened his eyes and looked at the others. They were all watching him closely, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the disappointment in Darron’s eyes.

The glib response that was prepared to roll off his tongue paused at the tip of it instead.

He’d so often acted the part of the fool, with his brother, with the council, and—most egregiously—with her. Things might have been different if he hadn’t asked her to be his mistress. Perhaps they could have finished the conversation they’d begun that night. Perhaps he could have told her what he really wanted . . .

Terric had given her the message she’d been waiting for all these months, but he had another alternative. One he would present to her later, but first he must reclaim his dignity within the clan.

“Not bored, brother, but frustrated,” he said. Shifting his gaze to McFarland, who’d led the movement of those who wished to attack now, he said, “You refuse to see how much has changed. The reivers grow bolder. The English, more intolerable.” He turned to Terric. “With exceptions, of course.”

Terric’s brows rose.

“Whether we acknowledge it or not, influences from far across the channel have crawled into our politics,” he said, looking to McFarland again. “McKinnon is not just one man, or one clan. He is representative of a new type of threat that cannot be beaten by sword and scabbard alone. Would I arm the men and march against him this very afternoon if I thought such an act would bring anything more than a temporary peace? Aye, and you would follow, for a more loyal man I’ve never met,” he said honestly. “We should wait for our allies in this.”

McFarland was not convinced.

“Kerr, aye, and Dunn too. We need the reivers as much as our enemies do. We’d be foolish to paint them all with the same brush.”

Although Terric didn’t appear surprised by his pronouncement, the others who had not known about Dunn’s possible involvement all started talking at once, some, it seemed, agreeing with him.

“They’ve not yet said they will fight with us,” he spoke over them, “but they will. Then, and only then, do we move against our enemy. And when we do, McKinnon’s greed will be his downfall. Whether he has reinforcements or not, he’ll not stand against our combined might.”

Silence met his statement. Then one by one, the men pounded their mugs on the table, ale spilling everywhere. He and Terric waited for McFarland, and then, after an insufferable silence, the stubborn old man reached for the handle of his mug and pounded it.

Rory exchanged a glance with his brother, who’d already raised his arms to make the pronouncement.

“It is settled. We meet again once we’ve received word from Kerr. But now, you must vote.”

The cheering stopped.

Vote? Hadn’t they already done so?

“As you know,” Terric continued, “I’m married now to an Englishwoman who very much enjoys her wretched country.”

The men all laughed. Well, all except for Rory, whose heart had started beating faster in his chest.

“As she does Dromsley Castle. I will admit, I’ve developed a certain fondness for my mother’s inheritance.” He looked to Rory. “’Tis no small matter for a chief to run an earldom. My father did it and cursed the matter for as many years as I was alive.”

Murmurs of agreement met Terric’s words.

“I would put before you the matter of making my second the new chief of Clan Kennaugh. You deserve a man whose attentions are not split. Who loves his clan as much as I do. Who was trained by our father, the greatest man to ever live.”

Every man present crossed himself, a beautiful gesture of acknowledgement that would have moved Rory more had he not been completely incapacitated by shock.

“I’ve spoken to each of you privately, so this comes as a surprise to none but”—Terric turned to him—“my brother, Rory. You’ve made me proud, brother. I would see you do the same with our clan.”

Rory barely felt the clap on his back, his whole being still paralyzed.

“A vote, then. Aye or nay.”

A chorus of “ayes” and it was done. Although their father had long talked of such a thing, having one of his sons in Scotland while the other stayed in England to protect their mother’s legacy, Rory had doubted it would ever happen. And to think . . . Terric had made the decision before the council meeting.

“Congratulations, brother,” Terric said, smiling. It struck Rory that Cristane had been wrong about one thing. His brother had known the truth about him all along. His act had fooled no one. Not his mother or sister. Not Cristane. Not even Terric.

No one, he corrected, but himself. For far too long.