“Ha!” Ian said, pointing his finger at Connor. “Let that be a lesson to ye, when you go choosing a wife among our enemies.”
Connor rubbed his forehead. As their chieftain’s son, he would be expected to make a marriage alliance with one of the other clans. With so many men dead after Flodden, a number of clans would be looking to negotiate such a match.
“Interesting that ye should be giving advice on wives,” Alex said, raising his eyebrows at Ian. “When it doesn’t appear ye know what to do with yours.”
“I have no wife,” Ian said with a deliberate warning in his voice. “So long as it hasn’t been consummated, it’s no a marriage.”
While in France, Ian had done his best to forget his marriage vows. But now that he was returning home to Skye, he would put an end to his false marriage.
Alex sat up. “Anyone willing to make a wager on it? My money says our lad will no escape this marriage.”
Duncan grabbed Ian before he could beat the smile off Alex’s face.
“That’s enough, Alex,” Connor said.
“Ye are a sorry lot,” Alex said, getting to his feet and stretching. “Ian, married but doesn’t believe it. Duncan, who refused to wed his true love.”
Ah, poor Duncan.Ian glared at Alex—the tale was too sad for jesting.
“And then there’s Connor,” Alex continued in his heedless way, “who must try to guess which of a dozen chieftains with unwed daughters would be the most dangerous to offend.”
“Ach, my da’s brothers will likely kill me first and save me the trouble of choosing,” Connor said.
“Not with us watching your back,” Duncan said.
Connor’s half-uncles would be pleased to have one less obstacle between them and leadership of the clan. Connor’s grandfather, the first chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat, had six sons by six different women. The sons had all hated each other from birth, and the ones still alive were always at each other’s throats.
“I hope when my brother is chieftain he’ll save the clan trouble by keeping to one woman,” Connor said, shaking his head.
Alex snorted. “Ragnall?”
That was a false hope if there ever was one, though Ian wouldn’t say it. Connor’s older brother was no different from his father and grandfather when it came to women.
“So who will you wed, Alex?” Duncan asked. “What Highland lass will put up with your philandering without sticking a dirk in your back?”
“None,” Alex said, the humor thin in his voice. “I’ve told ye. I’ll never marry.”
Alex’s parents had been feuding for as long as Ian could remember. Even in the Highlands, where emotions tended to run high, the violence of their animosity was renowned. Of the three sisters who were Ian’s, Alex’s, and Connor’s mothers, only Ian’s had found happiness in marriage.
At the sound of footsteps, Ian and the others reached for their belts where their dirks should have been.
“Time to leave this hellhole, lads,” Ian said in a low voice. He flattened himself against the wall by the door and nodded to the others. Plan or no, they would take the guards.
“Alexander!” A woman’s voice came out of the darkness from the other side of the iron bars, followed by the jangle of keys.
Ian drew in a deep breath of the salty air. It felt good to be sailing again. They had stolen Shaggy’s favorite galley, which went a long way toward restoring their pride. It was sleek and fast, and they were making good time in the brisk October wind. The jug of whiskey they passed kept Ian warm enough. He grew up sailing these waters. Every rock and current was as familiar to him as the mountain peaks in the distance.
Ian fixed his gaze on the darkening outline of the Isle of Skye. Despite all the trouble that awaited him there, the sight of home stirred a deep longing inside him.
And trouble there would be aplenty. They had spoken little during the long hours on the water since the Campbell woman had given them the terrible news that both their chieftain and Connor’s brother Ragnall had been killed at Flodden. It was a staggering loss to the clan.
Duncan was playing sweet, mournful tunes on the small whistle he always carried, his music reflecting both their sadness and yearning. He tucked the whistle away inside his plaid and said to Connor, “Your father was a great chieftain.”
Their chieftain had not been loved, but he was respected as a strong leader and ferocious warrior, which counted for more in the Highlands. Ian found it hard to imagine him dead.
He took a long pull from the jug. “I can’t believe we lost them both,” he said, clasping Connor’s shoulder as he passed him the whiskey. “To tell ye the truth, I didn’t think there was a man alive who could take your brother Ragnall.”
Ian knew that the loss of his brother was the harder blow for Connor. Ragnall had been fierce, hotheaded, and accepted as the successor to the chieftainship. He had also been devoted to his younger brother.