Page 44 of Only By Grace
Ronan’s gaze drifted to the fields below, thinking of where Maeve had used to play as a child. He had failed to protect his sister, failed to shield her from Flynn’s machinations. That failure weighed heavily on him now, a constant reminder of the cost of generations of pride and the lingering consequences of the feud. Maeve was safe, yes, but she was not whole. The light in her eyes had dimmed, and Ronan did not know if it would ever return.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He turned as the door opened, and his mother entered, her presence as steady and quiet as ever. She hesitated for a moment, her worried gaze casting over him before she stepped into the room.
“You do not sleep,” she said softly, her voice softly scolding. “The household is concerned.”
Ronan turned back to the window, his jaw tightening. “It changes nothing.”
His mother closed the door behind her, her footsteps light as she crossed the room. “When will you tell me what happened?” she asked, gently probing. “Your father asks after you. I had to tell him about Maeve when you left again without greeting him earlier. Word reached him before I had a chance to warn his valet.”
He sighed heavily. “I will see him forthwith. Perhaps it is best if we go together and I tell you both.”
“First, this just came by messenger for you.”
The familiar crest pressed into the wax caught Ronan's attention immediately. It was the crest of Corlach. He took the letter from her with a furrowed brow and broke the seal, his fingers steady despite the weight he felt pressing on him. The parchment was crisp, the handwriting bold and deliberate. He read it in silence, his emotions shifting from guarded curiosity to contemplative.
Dear Lord Carew,
Wordof my son’s death has reached me. Though my son’s actions brought about his own end, I cannot deny the role our feud has played in perpetuating such reckless enmity. For all our families have lost over the years, I have come to see the folly in carrying this bitterness further.
I beg you—let this end here and now. Flynn is gone, and with him, let there be no more grievances between us. Let there be no further bloodshed, no more families torn asunder by hatred borne of wounds long scarred over. I am an old man and do not wish my legacy to be hatred.
I pray Lady Maeve is unharmed. Whatever Flynn’s sins, I grieve if they caused her pain.
Corlach
Ronan folded the letter slowly,his mind turning over each word. Corlach’s tone was not one of defiance but of regret, a rare sentiment from a man who had been his family’s adversary for so many years. For the first time, Ronan felt the stirrings of a possibility he had scarcely dared to consider: peace.
“Bad news?” His mother’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to find her watching him with quiet concern.
“No,” he replied, his tone carefully measured, “not bad but unexpected. Corlach writes to propose an end to the feud.”
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Truly?”
Ronan nodded, his gaze distant. “He admits Flynn’s responsibility in all of this and asks that we let it end here. He claims to grieve for Maeve’s suffering.” His voice hardened slightly on the last words, the thought of Flynn’s treatment of his sister still raw in his mind.
She stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. “Perhaps he means it,” she said gently. “You need not trust him to accept peace. This will be a relief to your father. His own culpability weighs heavily on him.”
Ronan nodded and together they made their way to speak with him.
The door to his father’s chambers opened slowly, the familiar scent of wood smoke wafting out to greet him. Lord Donnellan sat in his usual chair near the hearth, his once-imposing frame now frail with age and illness. Despite his weakened state, his eyes were sharp as they met Ronan’s.
“You have news,” his father said, his voice gravelly but steady. It was not a question.
“I do,” Ronan replied, stepping inside and motioning for his mother to follow. She hesitated briefly but complied, her presence a quiet support that Ronan found himself grateful for.
Ronan held up the folded letter. “A message from Corlach,” he said. “He proposes we end the feud. Flynn is dead, and he wishes to let the feud die along with him.”
The elder man’s brows furrowed, his gaze narrowing. “And you believe him?”
“I believe he is weary of this fight, as are we all,” Ronan replied. “Flynn’s death, though just, has left a heavy mark. To carry on this feud would only deepen the wounds he has left behind.”
“It has never lessened enmity before.” His father leaned back in his chair, his expression inscrutable. “And what of Maeve?” he asked after a moment. “How fares my daughter?”
Ronan’s jaw tightened when he thought of what Flynn had done to her. “She is safe now,” he answered quietly, “but the wounds Flynn inflicted cannot be mended with kind words and assurances. I failed her, Father.”
“Maeve does not see you as a failure. She sees you as her brother, the man who risked everything to save her. That matters, whether you believe it or not.” His mother’s voice was firm but kind.
“The blame is mine. I should have ended this long ago,” his father interjected.
