“And if there is opposition to you choosing yourself as the leader, you wipe them off the earth?” she said, also pushing up to sit. The strength in her face made her determined words even harsher, condemning him.

Eyes narrowing, he beat down the defensiveness threatening to come into his tone. “How then, Ella Sutherland, would ye keep Scotland safe?”

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

I would kill you.

The thought surfaced in her mind like the memory of a nightmare.

Cain sat there under the stars next to her, ready to defend her from her dead father, ready to hear her thoughts about making Scotland strong. Was he the monster that Kenneth and all of Sutherland clan thought him to be?

Her lips felt numb in the wind, and she touched her mouth, sliding a hand down to her chin. Kenneth used to clasp her chin when she was a child to hold her attention as he taught her right from wrong. She dropped her hand. “I would unite the clans as allies with a written treaty between them. The clan leaders would work to remain together through quarterly discussions as a group and with King James.”

“James is not strong enough to keep the clans together,” Cain answered. “Such pacts have fallen apart before.”

“It requires honest and respectful listening and discussing to get the clan leaders to agree to stay together. Diplomacy.”

“I would be honest and respectful, but I have found that others like to shoot and slash rather than talk,” he said.

“Fear makes people attack. Perhaps you should try…I don’t know…not growling at people or ordering them around constantly or riding down on them with your crown and bow and three nightmarish brothers.”

She sucked in a large breath. “Maybe listen to them for a change. Learn their names and who they are. Other people have ideas, some of them sound. Others, besides you and your brothers, are also clever, but when you roll through clans, taking everything over, killing whomever stands in your way, you silence them.”

“I am listening right now to the Sutherland chief, am I not?” He crossed his arms where he sat, the silhouette of a mighty warrior. If he was carved in marble, he could be called The Strength of Scotland.

“Yet you are stripping away my chiefdom,” she said. “Trying to change my people into Sinclairs. If you take their name and their pride, no amount of stargazing will make them strong. The strength of Scotland lies in clan pride and loyalty. Conquered warriors will not fight for the Sinclairs, at least not well. If you conquer the pride of our people, Scotland will weaken.” She watched his face, his brows lowered. Could she possibly change a mind that had been molded by a madman over a lifetime?