Chapter 4

Morgan ran a hand back through the dark tangle of his hair. He knew he should be pleased. In just under a fortnight, the company had finally crested the brae and caught their first glimpse of Creagor.

True to its name, the sandstone castle resembled a gold jewel, set on a low hill of green velvet grass. Unlike his rugged Highland home with its majestic peaks and towering waterfalls, the Borders featured gentle glens and bubbling burns. The land here was fertile, the weather mild. Life would be easy in such hospitable surroundings.

So his father had told him. His English mother, of course, had less pleasant memories of the Borders. Content in the Highlands, Hilaire didn’t miss the battles between the English and the Scots, where loyalties were constantly shifting. And she had no interest in returning to the stormed castle where she’d nearly lost her life.

But despite the gasps of wonder and enthusiasm around him, Morgan felt nothing. He might be past the crushing sorrow of losing his wife. But he could take no joy in the world, no matter how beautiful. What he suffered now was a sort of numb resignation.

Beside him, his old maidservant Bethac murmured, “I think your son likes it here, m’laird.”

He glanced down at the bairn, who gurgled and waved his fists. But he still felt nothing.

Bethac’s face fell.

Morgan sighed.

“We’ve much to do,” Colban announced in a strong, confident voice. “’Tis already midday. The sunlight lasts a wee bit longer this far south, but if we want to be settled in by nightfall, we’ll need to make haste.”

He looked expectantly at Morgan.

Morgan had nothing to say. He didn’t know where to begin. Colban expected him to take command. But he couldn’t even summon the spirit to respond.

Colban’s gray eyes flattened in disapproval. With a disappointed scowl, he motioned the rest of the retinue forward.

The others descended the brae at an eager pace, exchanging cheerful expressions and excited whispers, while Colban marched beside Morgan in a cold silence so impenetrable a claymore couldn’t cut through it.

Once they entered through the palisade gates, Colban remarked to the others with satisfaction, “At least the keep is in good repair. Until we find out if the neighbors are friend or foe, ’tis good to have strong walls between us.”

While Morgan stood in the midst of the courtyard, activity commenced around him under Colban’s expert direction. The clan began the process of moving in—assessing the outbuildings and unloading the carts.

“Perhaps ye should inspect the hall, m’laird,” Colban suggested.

With a resigned sigh, Morgan made his way to the stone keep and hauled open the heavy doors to the great hall.

The shutters were open, and light came in through three tall windows, reflecting off the bare, polished wooden floor. The great hearth had been scrubbed recently, but slabs of dry peat were stacked beside it, ready to serve as fuel. Iron sconces were set into the plaster walls. Some still held remnants of beeswax candles.

His uncle had left no progeny of his own. Because of the castle’s strategic location near the English border, the king had wanted it occupied as soon as possible. His uncle’s few remaining servants had departed, taking most of the provender and supplies. But the keep was livable.

Morgan headed toward the stone stairs that spiraled up one corner of the hall. Despite the early hour, he wanted nothing more than to seek out his new bedchamber and sleep the rest of the day. Even if it was on the bare floor.

Before he could take the first stair, Colban entered the hall.

“Morgan!”

Morgan hesitated, but didn’t turn.

“We need to talk,” Colban said.

Morgan didn’t need to talk.

He didn’t want to talk.

He wanted to continue upstairs. Fall asleep. And never wake up.

But that was not to be.

Colban loped up beside him and set a firm palm on his shoulder. His gray gaze was stern and unrelenting. “We’ve known each other for—what—twenty years?”

Morgan lowered his brows. This sounded like the beginning of a lecture. He didn’t need a lecture. Not from Colban, who’d never borne the responsibility of a lairdship or a wife.

“And in all that time,” Colban continued, “I’ve ne’er spoken a word against ye. Ne’er questioned your good sense. Not once doubted your judgment.”

“But?” Morgan bit out.

“But…” Colban hesitated, as if the words were painful to say. “Ye’re not yourself, Morgan. Not since she died.”

Morgan had thought he was beyond feeling. But Colban’s words hit like a hammer. They struck a fiery spark from his heart, immediately inflaming his ire.

“God’s bones, what do ye expect?” he hissed, knocking aside Colban’s hand. “She was my wife, Colban. My…everything.”

“I know.” Colban looked truly sorry. “I know that. But she’s gone now. And ye can’t bring her back. Ye’ve had time to grieve. Now ye have to think about the future.”

Morgan didn’t want to hear about the future. Any future without Alicia was bleak. Empty. Hopeless.

“Ye have a chance to start anew here,” Colban continued. “Ye have a fine keep, a substantial holdin’, and a hale son who—”

“Who killed my wife,” Morgan snarled.

Colban’s gasp told Morgan he’d been too frank. Colban might know him better than anyone. But he had yet to witness the dark side of Morgan’s raw grief.

Colban’s shock didn’t last long. He wrenched Morgan about by the arm and pinned him with flashing silver eyes.

“Don’t ye ever say that. Don’t ye believe it. That is an innocent bairn. He’s flesh o’ your flesh and blood o’ your blood, heir to all this.” He waved his arm at the great hall. “’Tis sorrowful enough the poor lad will ne’er know his ma. But for his own da to blame him for her death…”

Morgan knew Colban was right. But the spark in his heart had grown into a burning coal. And anger felt so much better than melancholy.

“Stay out o’ my affairs!” he barked. “What would ye know about fatherhood anyway?” He regretted his next words even before they spilled off his bitter tongue. “Ye don’t even know who your da is.”

Colban growled and gave him a hard shove.

Morgan shoved him back.

What followed was a brawl more befitting beardless lads than grown men.

Colban gave him a well-deserved punch in the jaw, hard enough to rock back his head.

Morgan cursed and clamped an arm around Colban’s neck, pulling him off-balance.

Colban gained release by pummeling Morgan in the gut, bending him in half. While he clutched his bruised stomach, Colban tackled him to the ground.

They scrambled across the polished planks, kicking and clouting, wrenching at each other’s garments, grimacing and cursing, scratching and spitting like wildcats.

As foolish as the grappling was, the rage was cathartic. For the first time since Alicia’s death, Morgan felt…capable. What he was capable of, of course, was senseless violence. But the fury flowing through him melted the ice in his veins.

He might not be able to defeat death. But he could damn well leave Colban begging for mercy.

If only he could catch hold of the slippery bastard.

Colban escaped him and headed up the stairs.

“Coward!” Morgan yelled, thinking he was fleeing.

But when he charged forward in pursuit, Colban turned suddenly, using the advantage of height to leap down upon Morgan.

Morgan collapsed under the attack, twisting his ankle and striking his brow on the stone wall as he went down. Stars floated before his eyes. His fingers found blood dripping from his forehead.

Colban didn’t escape unscathed by the fall either. He rolled away, groaning and clutching at his knee.

Morgan gave his head a hard shake to dispel the dizziness and struggled to his feet.

Colban regained his footing as well, though he favored his injured leg. He limped before Morgan, taunting him with a smoldering glare.

Morgan outweighed Colban by a wee bit in muscle and might. Unfortunately, Colban was the faster man.

His quick punch caught Morgan’s left eye, blurring his vision.

Morgan barreled blindly forward. Catching Colban about the waist, he slammed him into the stone wall.

Colban grunted.

Morgan reared back and drove his fist toward Colban’s fair face. But Colban dropped down in that instant, and Morgan’s knuckles crunched against the hard sandstone.

Grimacing and cradling his injured hand, Morgan staggered back a step.

Colban seized the advantage, lunging toward Morgan’s shins and knocking him backward.

The great hall careened upside down at lightning speed. Then the planks of the floor collided with the back of Morgan’s head.

The last thing he heard was his old maidservant Bethac asking what in the hell the two of them were doing.

The last thing he saw was a black fog rushing in to eclipse his vision and render him senseless.