Rodrick was the first to rise the following morning. He left his wife and babe to sleep as he dressed quietly and started the fire.

A new day had dawned, a new beginning for him and Muriel. A day in which he knew, unequivocally, that his wife loved him. Loved him like a wife loved a husband, in a romantic fashion, and not as one would love a brother, father, or friend. She proved that to him last night, after she put Cora in her cradle. She spent the next two hours showing him just how much she loved him and how ready she was to move on.

While he would have loved nothing more than to wile away the day, staying abed with his wife and making silly faces just to see his daughter smile, there was much to be done. First, he needed to meet with Ian. There was still the matter of the Randall raid that needed to be dealt with. He also wanted to thank Ian for helping him to get Muriel and Cora back.

When he stepped out of his home, he was met with brilliant sunshine, birds flittering about, and the sound of his clan coming to life. I could die right now, and die a most happy man, he mused.

One of the women folk was walking by, pulling him from his quiet reverie. She bore the oddest expression when she looked at him. As if he were some deranged madman. ’Twas then he realized he was smiling. He supposed no one was accustomed to seeing his lips curved upward, unless he was in battle or training his men.

“Good day to ye,” he said with a nod. Let them think me mad, he thought to himself. ’Twill keep them off balance.

The woman said nothing, but she did pick up her pace.

Taking the path that led to the keep, he continued to smile. Aye, life is good, he thought.

That was until he saw Ian coming toward him.

Ian did not look happy.

Before Rodrick could inquire as to what was making his chief look mad enough to bite nails, Ian said, “Ye have a visitor.”

Confused as to why a visitor would cause his chief to be so angry, Rodrick stopped and asked, “Who?”

With his nostrils flared, Ian let out an angry breath. “Walter MacDonald.”

Rodrick, Ian, and ten of their men rode out of the keep to meet with Walter MacDonald. Ian was furious. Before mounting his horse moments before, he said, “I shall give ye over to the MacDonald before I enter into a war.”

From his expression, Rodrick did not doubt him for a moment.

Walter MacDonald sat tall in his saddle. Though he might have been nearing sixty, he was still a formidable looking man.

Leaving the rest of the men a few paces behind, Ian and Rodrick rode out to meet the chief of Clan MacDonald. The father of the man Rodrick had killed just a few days ago.

“Which one of ye be the one called Rodrick the Bold?” Walter asked. His voice boomed and echoed over the open landscape.

“I be Rodrick the Bold,” Rodrick replied dryly.

Walter studied him closely for a brief moment. “Ye be the one who killed me son?”

“Aye, I am,” Rodrick answered. He tried his best to keep the pride he felt in doing so out of his voice.

The MacDonald shifted slightly in the saddle as he continued his close scrutinization. Rodrick and Ian maintained their air of indifference.

“I have kent fer some time that the day would come when an angry husband, father or brother would kill him,” Walter said. “Or some young lass who had finally had enough.”

Rodrick continued his stone-cold silence. He knew he could learn more by listening than by talking. And they needed to know why the MacDonald was here. The wrong word said now could lead to dire consequences.

“Fergus,” Walter began as he shifted his weight once again, “was no’ me best work. He was a fool and a deviant, that I will no’ deny.”

Rodrick kept his opinion on the matter to himself. However, Ian finally broke his silence. “Have ye come to declare war to avenge the death of yer son?”

Rodrick knew they could ill afford a war at the moment. Ian had to be worried, but no one else would have guessed. His tone was that of a calm and unconcerned man.

Walter raised one bushy brow in surprise right before chuckling. “Ye be Ian Mackintosh, aye?”

“I am,” Ian replied.

“Ye can put yer worries aside. I am no’ here to declare war.”

“Then why are ye here?” Ian asked.

“I’ve come to thank the man who finally had the guts to take me son’s life.”

Rodrick and Ian glanced at one another, but their expressions belied what they were both truly thinking.

“I ken it sounds cruel that a father would think so poorly of a son,” Walter told them. “But as I said, Fergus was no’ me best work.”

Rodrick couldn’t fathom having a son he would not grieve or mourn for. He had to give Walter MacDonald some credit for realizing his son was a demented and deviant individual. However, Rodrick had to believe that he would have done everything in his power to help any of his children off the beaten path and onto the path of righteousness and good.

As if Walter could read his mind, he said, “I did everything I could fer him.”

The three men sat quietly for a long while. Two were trying to gauge the truthfulness and sincerity of the one.

“Rodrick the Bold,” Walter said, breaking the lengthy silence, “I would like to speak to ye alone.”

Rodrick and Ian sat a bit taller, uncertain if this was for nefarious purposes to get Rodrick alone.

“I want to speak to ye about the child.”

* * *

Rodrick thought long and hard before making his decision. Cora had been claimed as Fergus MacDonald’s child and Walter MacDonald’s grandchild. By law, Walter had more rights over Cora than either Muriel or Rodrick. Pushing his worries aside, he finally agreed.

The two men dismounted and walked side by side toward the creek. Tension roped around Rodrick’s shoulders, his senses on high alert for any sign of treachery. Knowing Ian and the others had his back did give him a better sense of strength.

“As ye ken,” Walter began as he clasped his hands behind his back, “I did declare the child as me grandchild. Publicly and for all the world to ken.”

Aye, Rodrick knew it because he’d witnessed it first-hand. “If ye think we will give Cora over to ye—” he began.

“Nay,” Walter interrupted. “That is no’ what I want. The mother seems to love her child verra much. I believe she be in good care here.”

Rodrick nodded his agreement but otherwise remained quiet.

“Me son’s inheritance, by rights, belongs to the child.”

“Her name is Cora,” Rodrick told him. “Cora MacElroy.”

Walter stopped their forward progression and turned to face Rodrick. “The inheritance belongs to her,” he said, ignoring Rodrick’s declaration. Tugging at something draped into his belt, Walter retrieved a hefty pouch. He tried handing it to Rodrick, but he refused to take it.

“Do no’ let yer pride stand in the way of yer daughter havin’ what is rightfully hers.”

Walter’s words yer daughter did not go unnoticed. “I can raise her on me own. We do no’ need yer help.”

Walter rolled his eyes. “Ye be as stubborn as I,” he said. “’Tis no’ fer ye to use to raise her. ’Tis fer ye to give to her when she reaches an appropriate age. Or to give to her as a dowry.”

Rodrick stared at the offered pouch for a long moment. From its size, he could reckon it contained a good deal of money. None of this made a bit of sense. He was talking to the father of the man he’d just killed. A man who could have started a war. A man who could take Cora and naught could be legally done to stop it.

Yet instead of declaring war or seeking retribution on behalf of his son or demanding custody of Cora, Walter MacDonald was being congenial. “What do ye get from all this?” Rodrick asked. He knew there had to be more to his generosity that merely that of a loving —if that could even be said — grandfather.

“I want naught but two things from ye,” Walter began.

Rodrick was suspicious but tried to keep an open mind.

“I want yer word,” he said, pointing a thick index finger at him, “that ye will raise Cora better than I raised Fergus.”

That would be as easy as breathing, Rodrick thought. “And?”

“And,” Walter said. Rodrick could see him struggling ever so slightly to find the right words. “I would like to see the girl child at least once a year.” He stopped Rodrick’s protests with a raised hand. “She need no’ ken I be her grandsire,” he said. “I merely want to make certain ye be keepin’ the first promise. It can be at a time and place of yer choosin’.”

Rodrick did not think it necessarily a horrible request. “Me wife will never agree to such,” he told him.

“Need she ken?” Walter asked, suggesting he lie.

“Of course she needs to ken!” Rodrick exclaimed. “I will no’ keep such a thing from her.”

Walter thought on it for a long moment. “So ye will tell her about the inheritance and our meetin’? What if she refuses all the gold in that pouch?”

Gold? Rodrick looked at the fat, heavy pouch. He thought, at best, it might be naught more than a few pieces of silver. But gold?

“Will ye be able to give a dowry such as this to her? To any of yer children?”

Rodrick need not answer, for they both knew he couldn’t.

“If ye allow me to see Cora once a year, I will see to it that all of yer children, born or to be born, each receives the same amount of coin fer either a dowry or whatever they wish.”

There was no way he could offer anything even remotely similar to Cora. And if last night was any indication of his future, he and Muriel would be having many, many children. Could he, in good conscience, keep such a secret from Muriel? She was bound to find out sooner or later. Especially when he presented a heavy bag of gold as dowry or marital gift.

He supposed, for a moment, that he could take the money and put it away for safe-keeping. Later, mayhap a decade from now, he could tell Muriel. Aye, she might be mad enough to bludgeon him to death with a cooking pot, but at least his children would be cared for.

Realizing he was not a young man anymore, and realizing he could never give any of his children such a gift on his own, he made a decision to accept.

Rodrick could only hope and pray he could convince his wife of the soundness of his plan.