“McLoughlan? Is that a Highland name I detect?” Lord Chatham asked, lifting a brow.
“Aye,” Alasdair confirmed, keeping his voice even as he tensed; he recognized the tone Chatham used, and it was not a good one.
“Ah. Fascinating,” Lord Pennington remarked as he swirled his wine, holding his glass almost daintily. “Is it true that Highland lords are still drinking mead from horns and spend most of their time chasing sheep?”
“Ye’ve not heard, have ye? We’ve moved on to drinkin’ from glasses now. An’ our sheep—aye, they’re gettin’ schooled. Smarter than some men, they are,” he replied.
Another man further down the list, Lord Wesley, let out a sharp, high-pitched titter that cut through the low murmur of the room, his amusement thinly veiled and somewhat mocking.
Nearby, a gaunt, pale gentleman with sharp cheekbones leaned forward, his cold eyes narrowing as if probing Alasdair’s every move, radiating a quiet intensity that was far more unsettling than Wesley’s blatant laughter.
“Your Grace… I’ve heard your estate is so remote it’s home to more bears than tenants,” the gaunt man said, though Alasdair recognized the barb beneath the jest.
He expected as much. These English lords still couldn’t take Scots seriously. Yet often, jokes were a mask for fear—an attempt to mock what they didn’t understand.
“Aye, that’s the story they spin, is it? A pity it lingers. But mark me words: those bears are better company than half the men prancin’ about these halls.”
Laughter rippled around the room, but it was strained and uneasy, each side barely masking their mutual disdain.
Seth shot Alasdair a sharp warning glance.
Yet the English lords, drunk on their own arrogance, pressed on relentlessly. A powdered dandy, tightly clutching a silver-and-gold cane, finally ventured a cruel jab aimed at Alasdair’s father.
“I hear your father was quite the gambler, Your Grace,” he crooned. “Lost half a forest and a fortune—to a courtesan, no less, who was clearly in cahoots with the men at his card table.”
Time seemed to freeze. Alasdair could have sworn he heard a distant ringing, but it was more likely the roar of his own blood pounding in his ears.
In his mind, he could hear his father.
Honor above all, lad. Always.
But at that moment, all he felt was anger, deep and raging.
“Best keep me faither’s name out yer gob if ye’ve nothin’ kind to say. Unless ye fancy yer teeth stirred in with yer supper,” he growled, ensuring his tone would show that he would gladly punch his way through to get some peace.
Gasps rippled through the room. Alasdair knew his rising fury only confirmed their worst suspicions: that he was indeed the “savage” they so disparaged.
The powdered dandy with the silver-and-gold cane visibly paled.
Seth’s hand shot out, gripping Alasdair’s arm firmly, ready to hold him back if things spiraled out of control.
“Alasdair,” was all he said.
“I do mean every word,” Alasdair roared. “Ye’ll soon see what ye’ve been beggin’ for. Highland savagery isnae just some tale to scare the wee bairns at night.”
The lords now looked genuinely unsettled, eyes wide as they stared at Alasdair. Seth tugged at his arm with more insistence, and this time the Scotsman didn’t resist. He recognized the steady hand of reason in his friend.
“Come, my friend,” Seth urged quietly. “There’s no honor in actions we’ll regret come dawn.”
The moment they reached the foggy street outside White’s, Alasdair whirled around, facing Seth.
“Those are the men ye want me to beg to, Seth? Nothin’ but puffed-up fools, the lot of them!” he growled.
“Unfortunately, yes. Men of power typically have that arrogance that would make everyone else hate them. However, they do hold the keys to the doors you wish to open. I did not bring you here for nought. At least I hope not,” Seth said, sounding almost as exasperated.
“I cannae bow to anybody. It’s not in me blood,” Alasdair replied.
“I am sorry to say, Alasdair, but you must make adjustments. Sometimes, we must put our pride aside,” Seth reminded him. “There is no other way.”