Page 64 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

Lachlan found him in the small hall an hour later, and after Marcas had told him exactly what had happened, he didn't need to look up from the untouched cup in front of him to know exactly what was coming.

"Ye were hard on her," Lachlan said, without preamble, when Marcas finished.

"I said naething."

"That's precisely my point. Ye went cold as a winter loch and said naething at all. Then walked back tae the hall looking like a man who'd been struck, and I'd wager good coin she's sitting in her chamber right now wondering what she did tae earn it." Lachlan leaned forward. "She didnae ken, Marcas. She cannae have kent. Ye've never told her the whole of it, only that yer parents' match was unhappy. Nae the rest. She made an offhand remark about an arranged marriage gone poorly, the same as anyone might, and ye've punished her for it as though she'd said it with a blade in her hand."

"I didnae punish her."

"Ye shut a door in her face and walked away in silence. Call it what ye like, laird, but from where she was sitting, that's punishment plain enough."

Marcas said nothing for a long moment, staring into the cup he had no intention of drinking from, the whole of the afternoon sitting heavy and unresolved in his chest.

"I ken she meant naething by it," he said finally, low. "I ken that as well as ye do. It isnae her fault. It's mine, for never telling her the truth of it in the first place, and I'll nae fix that by sitting here discussing it with ye instead of her."

"Then go tae her."

"I've work tae do first." He rose, because sitting with it any longer felt considerably worse than moving. "I've a letter tae write tae Cailleach MacRath, and I mean tae write it while the anger's still hot enough tae get the wording right."

Lachlan studied him a moment, clearly unconvinced this counted as progress, but let it go.

Marcas crossed to his study and sat at the table where a scrap of his mother's embroidery had once sat untouched between himself and a woman he'd shut out for nothing more than trying to be kind. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him, and let the fury that had been circling all day finally find somewhere useful to land.

Cailleach, he wrote, pressing the quill hard enough to nearly tear the page. Yer men struck at Neilina Chisholm on MacKinnon land, in my own village, in broad daylight, and two of them lie dead for it. I'll nae pretend I dinnae ken whose hand sent them, whatever plaid ye think tae disown. Understand this plainly, so there's nae further misunderstanding between us: any further attempt on her, by yer men, by hired men, by any hand ye set in motion, wherever it happens, I will treat as an act of war against Clan MacKinnon, and I will answer it as such, with every sword I command and every ally the King's Accord grants me the right tae call upon. Ye lost a wager on the road three days past. Ye'll lose considerably more than that if ye try again.

He read it back once, satisfied with the plain, unadorned threat of it, and sealed it before he could soften a single word, and sat a long while afterward with the fire burning low, thinking not of Cailleach at all, but of Neilina's face in the solar, uncertain and hurt and trying, he suspected, to work out what exactly she'd done wrong.

I owe her the truth, he thought. I've owed her since the kerchief. I've simply nae had the courage yet tae hand it over.

She saw him leave from her window. He was alone, on foot, no guard trailing him, and something about the set of his shoulders made her abandon whatever she'd been doing and follow, careful to keep her distance, unsure herself what she meant to say when she caught up to him.

He led her, without knowing he was leading anyone, up a winding path behind the kirk and through a small iron gate she hadn't noticed before, into a walled garden gone quiet with early dusk. Headstones stood in careful rows beneath old rowan trees, and she stopped just inside the gate when she saw him come to a halt before one of them, his head bowed, his whole body still in a way that asked, without a single word, to be left alone.

She almost turned back.

Instead, she came forward slowly, quietly, and read the stone as she approached — Isobel MacKinnon — and felt the whole shape of that morning's careless remark arrive in her chest all at once, sharp enough that she nearly stopped walking entirely.

The crunch of her boot against the gravel made Marcas look up. His gaze found her, and for a moment he simply stared.

She stopped a few paces away, suddenly conscious of how strange it must look to find her here.

"I—" Her fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve. "I didnae mean tae intrude. I only⁠—"

Her eyes flickered towards the stone.

"I saw ye come this way, and I..." She faltered, unsure how to finish that without making it sound as though she had followed him out of curiosity.

Marcas said nothing.

"I didnae mean tae follow ye here," she tried again. "I only saw ye leave alone, and I—" She stopped, made herself say the rest of it plainly instead. "I came tae tell ye I'm sorry. I shouldnae have spoken of something I kent naething about. I was careless, and it cost ye something I didnae understand the weight of, and I'm sorry for it, whatever else ye choose tae say tae me."

He looked at her a long moment, the dusk settling soft and grey around them both, and something in his face eased, slowly, like a held breath finally released.

"I've been coming here more than usual," he said, quiet, nodding at the stone. "Since ye brought me the kerchief. I didnae ken why, at first. I think I've been thinking of her a great deal, this past week, and I didnae have the words for it yet."

"Ye dinnae owe me those words."

"I want tae give them tae ye anyway." He held her eyes, something decided settling into his voice. "Nae here. This isnae the place for it. But I want tae tell ye everything, Neilina, the whole of it, nae the careful, half-shape I've been giving ye. Will ye come with me?"