Chapter Nine
Once the last warrior left the kirk, Alex sat down on one of the rough-hewn benches in the back. He’d suffered through the funeral mass, neither embracing or rejecting the words the priest had spoken in honor of his brother. Faith in anything but himself exposed Alex to weakness, and made it necessary for him to live within the boundaries of the church and law. He preferred owing allegiance to no one. It would make it easier to leave this place.
“Laird Alex,” Father Michael approached.
“I wish ye wouldna call me laird.”
“Why?” the priest asked. “Tis yer rightful title.”
Alex shook his head. “Mathe…” he said sourly. “The old man has been nipping at yer ear.”
The priest cleared his throat. “Captain Mathe spoke with me.”
“Aye. And I will tell ye the same thing I told him and the council. I have no desire to…”
“Yer soul is in jeopardy, milord. I am aware of yer many sins—murder—blasphemy, fornication—even greed.”
Alex chuckled at the last one. “Every Highlander is guilty of greed, Priest. Even the Pope is guilty of greed.”
Father Michael wobbled a bit, quickly seating himself on the bench. “Ye’d accuse the Holy Father of such a vice?”
“I’d accuse any man of wanting silver and gold, lands, and power. Tis inherent in every man born.”
“Christ was born.”
“Doona try to trap me by using my own words against me, Father Michael. Speak yer piece, then leave me to contemplate my own future.”
“The clan needs ye. The church…”
“Needs the annual donation my sire and brother generously sent to Rome?” Alex reached inside his tunic, pulling out a small leather pouch. “I willna deny ye what funds ye’ve honestly earned, Father. I’ll deny no man his living. Will ye?” He offered the priest the money.
Reluctantly, Father Michael accepted the pouch, placing it on the space between them. “Nay. God commanded every good man to toil.”
Alex scrubbed his face. “Tis good to know the Lord willna deny me a living either.”
“Alexander. I’ve known ye since ye were a bairn. Ye were a God-fearing lad, curious and of strong moral character. If yer sire ordered ye to do something, without hesitation ye’d do it. I remember the boy who sat quietly upon his bench, listening contentedly to the liturgy, asking for guidance if ye dinna understand something. What happened to that lad?”
He stared at the priest. “I grew up.”
“Will ye listen to reason, Alex? Remember the story about the man who built his home on sand?”
“Aye. Ye couldna pick a better illustration, Father. My home is built on sand, and I intend to travel there within a sennight.” Through with the priest, Alex stood. “I’ve chosen Jamie as the next laird.”
Father Michael nodded in appreciation. “He’s capable.”
“Aye.”
“But his proclivity for women…”
“Will be over the moment he weds Keely Oliphant.”
“What?”
“A goodly match, I think. It will finally achieve what my sire long wished for, a true alliance between the MacKays and the Oliphants. United, we will have access to more soldiers and coin to defend ourselves against the Sutherlands.”
“Ye’d speak of such things when yer only brother has been freshly entombed within these sacred walls.”
“Life goes on, Father, does it not? John died for the very reason I wish to hurry my cousin’s nuptials with the lass. I will make sure the clan is secure and well-funded before I sail for Constantinople. And in the future, rest assured I will continue to send coin to maintain this place. I willna leave my kinsmen hungry and vulnerable.”
“Though I believe ye, time and distance have a way of making a man forget his responsibilities.” The priest arched a brow.
Alex chose to say nothing as he left the kirk. Now he could add the priest to his list of disobedient servants. When his sire had been laird, fear kept his subordinates in line. The problem here now was none of these people really knew Alex or what he was capable of, even though he’d killed a man yesterday in defense of Keely.
*
He wandered inside the great hall, ignoring the invitations to have a drink in appreciation of his brother. Food and ale were plentiful today, for the MacKays dinna just mourn a lost laird, they celebrated their accomplishments with a feast and music, even dancing once everyone was drunk enough.
Alex wanted nothing to do with it. Just as he’d told the priest, his clan needed to see that life would go on without Laird John, and now, without him. He sought refuge in the solar, happy to keep company with Petro. More intelligent than any man he’d ever met, the Italian had a peculiar way of calming Alex’s inner storms.
“I am truly sorry for your loss.” The scholar looked up from a manuscript.
“Thank ye for attending the funeral.”
“Any family of yours…”
“Is not a bloody friend,” Alex interrupted him.
“The weight of the world is upon your shoulders?”
“I wish it were so easily explained.”
“Share the burden, then.”
“Ye couldna possibly understand,” Alex said.
“What exactly?”
“The complications of a Highland clan.”
Petro’s laughter filled the chamber. “Are you certain, my friend? I have three hundred and sixty-two cousins in Rome alone. Royal blood and the blood of traitors runs through my veins. My father outlived four wives, sired eighteen children, and calls himself king when he’s at home, though he’s a mere lord. And you claim I wouldn’t understand your life?”
Alex grabbed a cup off the table and drank down the remaining ale in it. “I stand corrected, then. Did ye say eighteen children?” The very idea of siring so many bairns made his balls ache, and not in a good way. “How did he…”
“I believe it involved food and wine, and lots of fucking.”
Alex snorted. “Are all of yer people so vigorous?”
A spark of mischievousness lighted Petro’s dark eyes. “Give me permission to mingle with your maids, and I will get an answer for your question.”
“Nay,” Alex said. “We sail soon, and I’ll not have ye get a poor lass with child.”
“Why would you leave this place?” His friend’s expression sobered. “If I never feel the oppressive heat of the east again, I will be a happy man.”
“Ye wish to go home?”
“I wish to serve you, here.”
“Where?”
“Scotland.”
“My days are numbered here, my friend. But if ye wish to stay, I am sure my cousin would be grateful to gain a capable adviser.”
“You’d recommend me?”
“I’ll write ye a letter of recommendation now. One ye can take wherever ye go. But I must tell ye, a man of yer talents could find work in the king’s court. Ye’d be well compensated, maybe even gain a title in time.”
“I’m the youngest child from a second wife, Alex. Wealth and titles mean little to me. Only my elder brothers received lands and money. There wasn’t enough to go around. My father kindly financed my education, then told me to make my own way in the world. Though I could return to Italy and find a wife and buy an estate of my own with the gold I’ve earned, I would get bored—and surely stray from my marriage bed. The daughters of Italy are too angelic for me.”
“It seems Constantinople has ruined our chances at happiness.” In that part of the world, people existed without pretense. Everyone knew their purpose, their place. There was no shame in a man earning coin for killing or paying to enjoy the bed of a beautiful woman. In Scotland, such actions demanded explanation, penance, and sometimes death.
“No,” Petro disagreed. “You deprive yourself of joy.”
“What do ye mean?” He eyed the Italian. Everyone else had pecked at Alex, why shouldn’t his most devoted friend take a turn?
“If God wished you to go back to Constantinople, then I am sure we’d be on the ship already. Every day you spend here, my friend, you get a little more entrenched in the politics at home.”
“I’ve offered a logical solution.”
“On your terms.”
“There are no other terms.”
“The council serves in absence of a leader, does it not?”
“Aye.”
“And you are an unwilling laird.”
“A proxy laird,” Alex corrected.
“But still laird.”
“Yer point?”
“When a man comes into power, whether he wishes it or not, he must examine his conscience, determine what keeps him from his true destiny.”
“Ye know my reasons.”
“I do.”
“Is that not good enough?”
Petro averted his eyes. “I think not.”
“How so?”
Petro turned back to him. “How many people have told you the answer already?’
“It doesna matter what anyone else says. I asked ye.”
The scholar closed the leather-bound manuscript, then stood. “I prefer to answer while standing in front of you.”
“So I can punch ye if yer words offend?”
Petro chuckled. “A risk I’m willing to take.”
Though short, the Italian was muscular and confident. And when necessary, he could swing a sword. Alex waited for him to speak, though he could guess what would be said.
“The woman,” Petro started. “She belongs to you. Not your cousin. Not her father. Not any other man.”
Alex rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Keely.”
“Lady Keely,” Petro repeated. “You have the only claim on her. I’ve read your sire’s journals, and your brother’s. Both acknowledged your right to her. Furthermore, you exchanged consents, which in the eyes of the law, means you are already married to the woman.”
“This canna be true. We never…”
“But the promise was made. Was it not?”
“Aye—more than once. In every way possible without having carnal knowledge of her.” Memories burned bright and passionate in Alex’s mind now. The feel of Keely’s plush lips on his, the soft curves of her body, the way she squirmed and bucked underneath him when he nearly claimed her maidenhead—before reason took over. He’d wanted to marry her in the eyes of God before he made love to her. Honor demanded it. But his body disagreed on every level—burning for the dark-haired beauty still.
“Unfortunately, Alex, it is the truth. Your brother’s marriage to Lady Keely was illegitimate. You are her husband.”
“Annulment.”
Petro shook his head. “The very thing you denied her. In order to keep peace with her clan, and to protect your people and assets, you must marry her again, only this time, do it with witnesses. Otherwise, according to the law, she must be returned to her family.”
“I have thought this over—considered every possible argument.”
“Except the finer details of the law. Even canon law.”
How could Alex disagree with a scholar from Rome, the very place the pope lived? Petro had a strong mind, greater than his own. Alex raked his fingers through his hair. What of his desert stronghold? His soldiers? Concubines? Servants? His freedom? Surely this news dinna change anything. If Petro dinna share the information with anyone…
“What will ye do with this knowledge?”
“Tell the truth,” Petro said in a subdued voice.
“To who?’
“The council has requested a meeting with me.”
What right did his captains have to speak with Petro? “Why?”
“On the occasions I was present while you were debating with the council and stormed off, a couple of the members questioned me. I am many things, Alexander, but not a liar. Not if your life doesn’t hang in the balance.”
“Ye’d lie to save my life?”
Petro nodded.
“Then lie for me now.”
“No.”
“This is such a moment.”
“Am fear nach misnich, cha bhuannaich.”
The familiar words made Alex freeze. His body began to quake with emotion. “Where did ye steal those words?”
“From letters I discovered in your father’s belongings. Letters to you. You know this saying?”
“The man who dares not, wins not,” Alex said. “Something my da often whispered to me as a boy when I feared anything.”
“And do you fear something now?” Petro pressed.
“I find peace among the heathens,” Alex said.
“There are no unbelievers here except for you.”
“I believe…”
“In what?”
“Myself.”
“Is that enough, Alexander?’
He dinna know at this point. Thinking hurt too much right now. And there were letters, from his beloved father. Why hadn’t his brother told him right away? Sent them to him? Because John probably believed he dinna deserve such a rare gift. “Give me the letters.”
Petro walked back to the table, picked up a pile of missives tied together with a leather chord, then offered them to Alex. “May God open your eyes, Alex.”
He hugged the missives to his chest. “Dinna look for me, Petro. And tell anyone else who wishes to disturb me that I will punish them severely for such an offense.”
Petro bowed, unable to hide the smile on his face.
Alex ignored him. There were more important matters to tend to now. First the missives, then his wife. The idea of having a wife dinna bother Alex overmuch, only the fact of who that wife was—Keely Oliphant—the bane of his very existence in the Highlands.