The cheers and laughter that surrounded Eadan grated at his ears. He forced a smile and raised his cup of ale as a distant cousin shouted words of congratulations from across the hall. At his side, Magaidh, his bride-to-be, wore a strained smile that must have matched his own. Eadan met her eyes, stiffening at the hatred he saw lurking in their green depths, before she quickly lowered them. His bride-to-be seemed to hate this arrangement as much as he did.

The grand hall of Macleay Castle was more crowded than usual, filled with various members of two formerly feuding clans, Clan Acheson and Clan Macleay. They were all gathered to celebrate his betrothal to Magaidh, the daughter of the Acheson chief. Eadan sat at the head table with Magaidh and other leading nobles of the two clans.

He looked out at the great hall. Light from the various candles and two large fireplaces that were on opposite ends of the hall illuminated the cheerful faces of the guests. Several servants moved to and fro, carrying trays of wine and ale to refill their cups. The boisterous conversation of the guests filled every corner of the vaulted great hall. Eadan studied their jovial faces, wishing he could share the same cheer.

“Christ, Eadan.” Eadan stiffened as Ronan, seated on his opposite site, hissed the oath in his ears. “At least try tae seem like ye’re happy about this. That smile looks painful."

Eadan turned to scowl at Ronan. Ronan was his cousin; Eadan’s father Bran had raised him as his own after the death of Ronan's father. There weren’t many members of their clan who could get away with talking to Eadan, the tainistear—the chief’s heir—the way Ronan did.

Eadan decided not to reply, worried that Magaidh's keen ears would pick up on whatever he said. His gaze slid back to her as she sipped her wine. She was a lovely woman, with long auburn hair and vibrant green eyes, but Eadan wasn't one to be taken by mere beauty—she was as cruel as a viper. He'd witnessed how she treated the castle servants, as if they were no better than rodents scampering at her feet. If Eadan hadn’t intervened, she would have gotten an elderly cook who'd worked at the castle since he was a bairn dismissed for not cooking her supper the exact way she liked. He knew Magaidh hated him, though she tried to hide her dislike behind coquettish smiles. A part of him felt sorry for her; daughters of high-ranking clan members rarely had a choice when it came to their husbands, but he suspected Magaidh wasn't so innocent.

“Tae Eadan and my beloved daughter,” a voice boomed.

Eadan turned to face the man who spoke at the opposite end of their table—Dughall, Magaidh’s father. He had the auburn hair, now shot through with gray, and green eyes that his daughter shared. For a man in his late fifties, he was still sturdy and strong. He’d been a strong fighter in his youth, and he remained an expert swordsman to this day.

Dughall lumbered to his feet, his smile forced as he raised his cup of ale.

“May yer lives be fruitful after ye wed.”

“Aye!” the guests cried, as Dughall took his seat again, his eyes never leaving Eadan’s, and he could have sworn he saw a dark look in the older man’s eyes.

Their two clans had been feuding for years over a disputed patch of land in the northern Highlands. Dughall was the one who’d approached his father with a peace offering. He wanted to join their clans in marriage; his daughter and only heir Magaidh, to Eadan, heir to Clan Macleay.

But the offer had struck Eadan as odd. Until recently, Dughall had been a vocal proponent of going to outright war over the disputed land. It was only the calm diplomacy of his father that prevented Dughall from rousing the nobles to battle. Dughall had gone quiet over talks of war and suggested the betrothal only weeks later. It was an abrupt change of position, one that Eadan didn’t trust.

Eadan's father Bran was a shrewd man, but he’d fallen ill in the past year, and was now a shadow of the strong man he’d once been. The castle healer had told Eadan he didn’t believe his father had much time left; Eadan suspected Bran had taken Dughall’s offer because of this—he wanted to leave this life knowing his clan could have peace.

When Eadan tried to argue with his father, telling him he found Dughall's peace offering suspicious, Bran had curtly told him that as chieftain of the clan, it was his right to accept such an offer, and had refused to listen to anything further Eadan had to say about the matter. Knowing how important ending the feud was to his father, and to the clan, Eadan had agreed to the betrothal, though his instincts that something was amiss remained.

Bran, seated at the center of their long table, rapped on the table for silence. The hall fell silent as his father lurched to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane.

“’Tis my honor tae join Clan MacLeay and Clan Acheson with the betrothal of my sole heir, Eadan, tae Dughall’s bonnie daughter Magaidh." Bran turned to Eadan and Magaidh, raising his cup of ale. "May ye have strong sons and continue the peace for years tae come.”

The hall erupted with cheers and Eadan struggled to keep the smile pinned on his face. As the cheers rose to a crescendo, Bran gestured for Eadan to stand.

Dread filled every part of him, but Eadan got to his feet, turning to face the guests.

“I look forward tae a long and fruitful marriage," he lied. “Tae the joining of our clans, and tae peace."

As the cheers and cries continued, Eadan’s gaze landed on Dughall. This time, Eadan knew that he didn't just imagine the dark look in the man's eyes. Eadan’s chest tightened; Dughall was hiding something, and he would find out what it was—before he married his daughter. Eadan kept his eyes trained on Dughall as he held up his ale and bellowed, “Tae peace!”

“Tae peace!” the guests echoed.

Eadan turned, gesturing for the minstrels to resume their music. Many guests stood, streaming to the center of the hall to dance. The ale and wine they'd consumed had taken full affect, and they were giddy with merriment.

At his side, Ronan gave him a meaningful look that said, "Ask your betrothed to dance." Eadan tensed, but turned to Magaidh.

“Would ye like tae join me for a dance?”

“Aye,” she said, though her mouth tightened with dislike as he took her hand.

In a way, it was a relief that Magaidh hated him; if she fawned over him like a besotted maiden, it would make their betrothal—and marriage—even more difficult.

All eyes fell on them as they moved to the center of the hall to dance. Eadan's face had begun to hurt from the strained smile he wore, but he needed to look merry. He felt nothing as he pulled Magaidh into the circle of his arms to dance. Despite her beauty, there was no lust, no affection; not even hatred or dislike. He could have been dancing with air.

There were plenty of loveless marriages among the clan members, and he had no qualms about having one of his own. In fact, he preferred it. The men who loved their wives were distracted from their duties to the clan.

Though Bran was still chief of Clan Macleay in name, Eadan was laird of Macleay Castle, and he'd taken over his father’s leadership duties as chief ever since he’d fallen ill. He wanted nothing more than to focus on leading the clan, overseeing the castle and his lands, without the distractions caused by love. He doubted he would even take a mistress as many husbands did. He would focus only on his role as laird and leader of his clan. And right now, his focus was on getting out of this betrothal—and figuring out what Dughall and his clan were up to.