“Ye ken he hated lounging around. He willnae understand why we have to gather every year.”
Caelan would have preferred not to have the memorial at all. SinceEvan's wedding, he had let go of some of the guilt he felt over their father's death. It was on the memorial'sevethat he relapsed into the sad drunk he had become. The brothers insisted that it preserved their father's memory.
Arran said, “He died like he would’ve wanted. On the battlefield. I want to go out like that too.”
Evan gave him a sharp look. “By yer son’s hands, like our faither?”
“Better me son—betterye—than some scoundrel,” Arran persisted, holding Evan’s guilt-ridden gaze.
“He wanted ye to do it, Evan. It was his dying wish,” Caelan reminded him. Evan shook his head, then his shoulders sagged in a defeated shrug.
After asking Evan to put a sword through his heart, their father’s next announcement had sent Caelan into spiraling confusion. That day, his world had crashed down around him.
While he had struggled for breath and blood surged through his armor, his father had gasped, “Ye’re not me true bairn, Caelan.”
Caelan couldn't process what he had heard for a long time. His brothers, who wore the same puzzled expressions, tried to coax more words from the dying man, but he refused to say anything else before taking his last breath.
Evan dropped his sword and left the arena, feeling the weight of what he had been asked to do. Caelan and Arran stayed close to their oldest brother, putting their father's revelation on hold for the time being. In the months to follow, Caelan had worked up the courage to ask his mother the truth whowas bereaved and spent most of her days locked away in her chambers. Evan was even more ill in his mourning, having not a thing to say, but Arran never questioned Caelan nor treated him differently.
Yet, all Caelan felt wasdifferent. He'd begun to notice differences between himself and the other two Graham sons. For starters, his green eyes. Nobody in the family had his eyes. Arran and Evan had stockier builds and wide, flat faces. Caelan possessed fuller lips, a narrow, pointed nose, and prominent cheekbones. He was also taller.
Those details, which he had previously overlooked, kept him awake at night. Arran assured him that their father's memory had been tainted by his death and that he didn't know what he was saying. Caelan, however, was consumed by a desire for certainty. He couldn't move forward without it.
One night, after a bountiful harvest and successful trade meeting with English merchants, he had asked to speak with his mother.
She waved him in, but her smile had died when she saw his face. Caelan didn’t have to ask before she confirmed his worst fear. It was true: he was not a Graham. He inquired about his real father and she’d burst into tears.
Years later, while drinking with his brothers, hestill worried that he had a lot more to prove—to earn his place in the family. They had given him a worthy noble name, secured his status, and bestowed upon him the best that life had to offer. His father had treated him the same as his trueborn sons. He owed it to the former Laird to be irreproachable. No... to become legendary.
So he agreed to marry. His marriage would create a powerful alliance with another clan, and he would fight to the death to protect them all.
“How is your special lass, Caelan? Still reading sweet stories to her?” Arran’s sarcasm cut into his thoughts, especially when he realized of whom he spoke.
He blinked. When had they gotten to the topic of Eilidh? “Er… I… I dinnae ken. How should I ken? She works in the kitchens. I dinnae see her every day! And I only read her stories all those years ago because she was ailing. Ach! How is it that ye went from talking about Faither to a maid?”
His protests were no contest for the hot blush on his cheeks. Arran guffawed into his glass. Even Evan laughed at his distress.
“Trying to avoid the topic again, are ye? Ye must do something about the lass,” Evan urged. “I caught Brandon staring at her the other day. Willnae be long before some fool marries her.”
Caelan always knew Brandon was failing in his duty to guard the gates. Now he knew why. It was no wonder a spy had almost wormed his way into their castle the week before. He had been staring at lasses.
“I dinnae care if they do. She’s a bonnie lass, I admit. And she is free to be with whomever she wants.”
“Ah,” Arran said, his eyes twinkling.
“I cannae understand why you insist on ignorin’ her. We need a strong lass like her to be part of our family.”
Arran saluted Evan with his glass. “Aye. Wee thing stood her ground against MacAdam all those years ago, lest ye forget. She’s not ordinary, I tell ye. If ye dinnae want her, I might try me luck...”
All on their own, Caelan’s fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. He managed to keep his breathing regular.
“Ye can,” he muttered, grabbing his glass and downing its contents. He hated the knowing smirks on his brothers’ faces. “I’ll be retiring now,” he stood.
“What? The bottle has nae dipped halfway—”
“I have much to dae afore sleeping,” he muttered.
Caelan gathered the shreds of his dignity and strode out of Evan’s study. Knowing that behind him, the two men cackled at his expense.