Page 38 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"Nay, and it's been over a week since the weddin'," replied another.
Lachlan pulled his horse to a stop behind a row of stalls, dismounting quietly. Through the gaps between the woodenstructures, he could see a small group of villagers gathered near the blacksmith's forge.
"Me wife heard from her cousin who works at the castle," the blacksmith was saying, his voice carrying clearly across the square. "Says the new lady spends most of her time talkin' about her own clan, about goin' back to rule there proper-like."
"Going back?" asked a woman with obvious concern. "But she's Lady Kinnaird now."
"Aye, but she's still Lady McLaren too, isn't she? Word is she never intended to stay here permanently. Just wanted the alliance."
Lachlan's jaw tightened. Where were they getting this nonsense?
"What about the succession then?" pressed another villager. "If she goes back to her clan and there's nay heir..."
"Well," the blacksmith lowered his voice, "Duncan Morris is still next in line, isn't he? Blood relation to the old laird."
"Duncan?" The woman's voice held distaste. "That one gives me the shivers. Always has."
"Shivers or nae, he's family. And if our laird doesnae get an heir soon..."
Lachlan had heard enough. He stepped out from behind the stalls, his presence immediately commanding the attention of everyone in the square.
The villagers scrambled to their feet, bowing hastily as they recognized their laird.
"M'laird!" the blacksmith stammered. "We dinnae hear ye approach."
"Obviously," Lachlan said, his voice deadly calm. "What is all this talk?"
The group shifted uncomfortably, looking at each other as if hoping someone else would speak first.
"We... we were just..." the blacksmith began.
"Just spreadin' gossip about yer laird's marriage?" Lachlan's tone could have frozen fire. "How... productive."
"Beggin' yer pardon, m'laird," one of the women said, stepping forward with more courage than the others. "But we hear that despite yer marriage, yer wife is a lady who wants to return to her clan to rule there. People are... concerned."
"I see." Lachlan's expression revealed nothing. "And where does this talk come from?"
The villagers exchanged glances again before the woman answered. "From the castle, m'laird. Servants talk, and word spreads."
"Does it?" His voice was soft, dangerous. "And what exactly are me servants saying?"
"Just... just that the lady asks many questions about travel between the castles. About how often she might visit her own lands." The woman's voice grew smaller under his stare. "And that she seems... distant. Like she's nae planning to stay."
Lachlan studied their faces, seeing genuine concern beneath the fear. These people depended on strong leadership, on the certainty of succession. Gossip about his marriage created exactly the kind of instability his enemies could exploit.
"I assure ye, if me wife seems distant, it is because she is doin' exactly the opposite of what yer rumors say. Now I suggest," he said quietly, "that ye all return to yer work and leave the affairs of yer betters to those who understand them. Gossip serves nay one well."
"Aye, m'laird," they chorused, scattering quickly back to their tasks.
But as Lachlan mounted his horse and rode back toward the castle, his mind was churning. How had rumors started that Erica was planning to leave? Who in his household was spreading such talk?
More importantly, how long before those rumors reached ears that could use them against him?
Duncan might not be actively scheming yet, but if word spread that Lachlan's marriage was failing, that there would be no heir... it wouldn't take long for his cousin to see an opportunity.
Lachlan's jaw set with grim determination. He needed to secure his line, and he needed to do it quickly. Before gossip became fact, and uncertainty became a weapon in the wrong hands.
The problem was getting Erica to trust him enough to create that child.
