Page 6 of Bride of Fire
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.
