by Alisa Adams
* * *
Forever yours,
Your love,
Eilidh”
* * *
“And I want to say sorry for the way we treated you,” she went on. “It is unforgivable.”
“I forgive ye, Milady,” Iain replied. “As long as Eilidh loves me I can dae
anything. Gie yersel’ peace. Will ye tell Eilidh I love her, an’ I will aye love her, an’ if I live, I want her tae be my wife.”
“I will,” she replied. “God bless you, Iain.”
Malvina reached through the bars and kissed his hand.
She would pray all night for Iain to win.
17
The fight was to take place in the courtyard the next morning. Iain had been given a generous amount of food the day before, since no one wanted him to be too tired to give them a good bit of sport, and the bloodier the better.
The day Cormac had given him had helped him recover a tiny bit, but he still walked with difficulty.
The entire staff of the castle was there, from the lowliest kitchen maid to the housekeeper and butler, and there was a festive atmosphere as wagers were taken and spiced ale passed around.
Both contestants had been given a small sword as a weapon, and Iain was pleased to see this, since it was akin to the kind of tool he used to cut leather, and it felt comfortable and familiar in his hands. His damaged leg was on the left side, so it followed that Cormac would try to attack that side more often than his other one, so he would have to advance on his right.
He had wrapped his bad leg with torn strips of blanket that formed a thick protective pad; it was his only armor, whereas Cormac had a thick leather breastplate, leather pads on his knees and elbows, gauntlets, and a pair of thick knee-length boots. Iain’s expert eye noticed at once that they were of excellent quality, and to his shock he realized that he had made them himself; there was his stamp on the upper front of the boot.
Cormac, seeing his expression, gave a great belly laugh. “Made by a royal craftsman, eh, Your Majesty?” His eyes were gleaming with malice. “What a pity you will not be making any more!”
Iain was annoyed with himself for giving vent to his feelings, but he kept quiet, and presently Fearchar summoned them into the middle of the circle of stones they had used to mark the boundaries of the ring.
“There is but one rule to this fight,” a servant said loudly. “The best man must win, and that man will be the survivor. The other will be dead.” He held up a red kerchief and swiftly dropped his arm. The match had begun.
Eilidh turned around.
“Look at me my love. It is going to be fine.” Malvina swore to help her if Iain survived this.
Cormac looked mountainous. His girth was so wide that his breastplate was straining to contain him, and that meant that he could not move fast. However, what he lacked in speed he made up for in weight and power. Iain was younger and fitter, but hampered by his injuries. However, he was not overconfident like his opponent, who kept making playful jabs at Iain just to tire him out, laughing all the time. The crowd was laughing too. They could see that Cormac was only toying with Iain, and it was only a matter of minutes before he went in for the kill. He assumed a bored expression and yawned, still jabbing away as he circled around him.
“Well, Your Majesty,” he drawled. “This has been very pleasant, but—” Suddenly he lunged forward, his sword pointed straight at Iain’s heart. However, Iain’s reactions were not injured, and he slashed sideways with his own sword in a stroke too fast for the eye to see, completely unbalancing Cormac as he dodged to avoid it. The big man staggered sideways but did not fall; however, the movement had used up Iain’s small store of energy. Or so Cormac thought.
Iain was hardly able to stand up, and he breathed heavily.
Cormac was enjoying it. An evil, triumphant leer spread across his face. Iain was standing bent over, his hands on his thighs, recovering his breath when Cormac charged.
Iain snapped upright and stepped to his right as if he was not injured, then he whipped his sword out and held it out sideways as Cormac’s huge body, unable to stop in time, crashed into it.
The lethal edge of the finely-honed weapon sliced into his belly and split his flesh all the way to his spine, almost severing it.
There was a shocked cry from the onlookers as a fountain of Cormac’s life blood sprayed onto them, speckling them all with gore, then he rolled over as he hit the ground, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. A pool of blood was spreading around him, and everyone was left with an open mouth.
There was silence.
Iain pretended to be tired and tricked Cormac into thinking that his leg was in a much worse condition that it was. Cormac was overconfident…and Iain knew that he only needed a moment to end this. A moment to gather his strength and move fast. A moment of enduring the pain for a lifetime with Eilidh.
Now Cormac’s guts were all over the place.
Most women turned away, disgusted. Cormac’s sister was the first one to break the silence. Her screams were devastating.
Iain felt no triumph; he had just ended a man’s life. And although his mind told him it was self-defense, his heart would not listen. Then his train of thought was interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Iain! Iain!” Eilidh cried as she sprinted towards him. She treated Cormac’s body with scant regard as she leapt over it and ran up to where he was kneeling on one knee on the stone flags.
He was covered in Cormac’s blood, but she wrapped her arms around him anyway, and heard his soft, tired laugh.
They said nothing for a long, long time, just clung together in mutual love and relief.
“I knew you would win,” she whispered at last.
Iain laughed heartily at that. “Really, my Eilidh?” he said fondly. “Ye had mair faith in me than I had in masel’!” Then he stroked her shining hair, which looked almost white in the sunlight. “Look at this hair,” he whispered. “Ye’re beyond beautiful, lass. It is a joy tae behold ye.”
She was just about to answer when Malvina rushed up to them, closely followed by three guards who lifted Iain between them and carried him upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms on the same floor as Elildh’s.
Maisie was turning down the snowy white sheets of a big four-poster bed and the men laid Iain in it. She and Malvina went to get a manservant to wash him while Eilidh sat by the side of his bed, holding his hand.
“I have never been so scared in my life,” she breathed. “I spent the whole night praying for you.”
“God must have heard ye.” He smiled, then reached out his arms to her, and she went into them joyfully, as if they were a safe harbor for a ship in a storm.
When she felt the first touch of his lips on hers a shiver went through Eilidh’s entire body from her lips to her nipples to her secret place, and it was so sweet that she could hardly bear it. She felt his tongue teasing hers and then he pulled her out of the chair to lie beside him. She could hardly believe he had the strength.
He moaned with satisfaction as their bodies touched, then as he drew away from her, he said huskily, “I needed that. I need you, Eilidh. Marry me.”
“Of course I will, Iain,” she whispered. “Of course I will.”
“But I am no’ a laird,” he pointed out, frowning.
“You will be when you marry me,” she replied. “I have no brothers and the line passes through the males and not females, so as my husband you will become Laird.”
Iain’s expression was a study in amazement that made Eilidh laugh heartily. They were just about to kiss again when a manservant came in with Iain’s washing and shaving equipment, and Eilidh went to find him some food.
The wise woman from Braeburn came in to give him some medicine for his pain, and then, to his great surprise, Fearchar entered the room. Iain scowled at him and braced himself—for what, he did not know, but he expected at least a verbal attack. In his mind, Fearchar was merciless.
“I have come to apologize for my acti
ons over the last few days,” the Laird began, looking down at his feet in embarrassment. “I have talked with my wife and she has made it clear that what I did in trying to force Eilidh to marry Cormac was unbelievably cruel. I was mostly to blame. I would like to ask for your pardon but I will understand if you are not willing to give it.”
There was an extremely awkward silence for a moment, then Iain spoke. “M’laird, I have asked Eilidh to marry me an’ she has accepted me. If ye gie us yer blessin’ then I will forgive ye, but if no’ I will leave this place. And make nae mistake, Eilidh will follow me wherever I go.”
“I have never seen any man fighting like that ever before. God was on your side. That is for sure.
“We offered you a great way out,” he continued, “but you came back. So your love for Eilidh is true. You do not do it for the money. That is also for sure. I would be a mad man and a sinner before Lord if I denied you. You have my blessing,” he said firmly.
“She loves you. I wanted her to marry Cormac for security, but I made myself blind to the kind of man you are, so with his death everything has turned out for the best.”
There was a moment of silence. Iain did not know what to expect.
“But, I have one condition. A proposition, maybe,” Fearchar told him.
Iain was very eager to hear what Fearchar had to say.
“You will stay for six months in the castle with us before marrying my daughter. Six months in which you will, with my help, learn to run an estate. Iain, you are a capable man, and a warrior like no other. But you need more than that to become a laird. I want to help you.”
It sounded like a wonderful idea, except for one thing. He needed to provide for his sisters, and while he had put much effort and saving into their dowries so far, he still had a long way to go.
He explained the situation to Fearchar.
“Keep the house you have in town and bring all your sisters to live here,” he offered. “I have done much harm to your family and I would like to make amends.”
“An’ my shoemaking?” Iain asked doubtfully.
“Now about that. When I heard about it, I thought...I’ll be back.”
Fearchar went out of the room. He came back shortly after holding a pair of leather boots. It had Iain’s trademark on it!
“Did you make these?”
“Yes, with my own hands.”
“This is my favorite pair of boots.” Fearchar knew he had gone too far. Iain was not ready to make friends with him.
“Leave your cousin to run it. You will be meeting more customers here that you could ever imagine. I trust that your cousin is a skilled man like you.”
“I will talk to Eilidh aboot it,” he replied, “but thank ye, M’laird.”
Fearchar sighed, shaking his head. He still felt wretched. “Iain, it is the least I can do,” he replied, and for the first time ever, Fearchar Mackie smiled at Iain Jamieson. This could be the beginning of a friendship.
It was a golden time. Eilidh was overjoyed with the idea of having all her future sisters-in-law come to stay with them at the castle, although Fearchar and Iain did sometimes feel rather intimidated by their “gaggle of girls” as Iain put it. Malvina became their foster mother and slipped into the role with the greatest of ease and utter delight. She formed a special bond with the youngest, Katrine, who adored Malvina and tried to model herself after her. Of course, little of Iain's suffering was made known.
“I feel as though my life is beginning all over again,” she said to Fearchar as they lay in bed one night listening to a howling storm outside, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“As do I,” Fearchar agreed. “I am so glad that Iain is going to be a part of our family. He is intelligent, eager, and quick to learn, and all my tenants love him.”
“And Eilidh is madly in love with him,” Malvina pointed out. “I am glad things worked out for the best, although I did not wish for Cormac’s death.”
“It was meant to be,” Fearchar consoled her. “I am very sorry Malvina. I wish I could have seen the truth earlier.”
After the fight between Iain and Cormac, some justice had been meted out. Dugald McFarlane had been sent to the dungeon for theft, and Jean had been given the reward of two hundred pounds, and she had bought a little cottage by the seaside. At last she was having her rest.
“So you are happy, my love?” he asked, kissing her hair.
“So happy,” she replied with a contented sigh.
“Would you like me to make you happier?” he asked mischievously.
Malvina giggled. “Yes please,” she answered, and then there was no more talking, just the contented moans and sighs of lovers.
“Do you think we will...survive?” Eilidh asked. The wedding was only a couple of weeks away, and both Eilidh and Iain were dying of frustration.
“We have done so this long,” Iain replied, smiling fondly at her. “A wee bit longer willnae kill us.”
They had managed their long courtship by sneaking into each other’s beds at night, then kissing and cuddling for hours before returning to their rooms. Nobody ever found out, so it remained their own delicious secret.
They laughed with their heads close together, then Eilidh gave a little gasp as Iain’s lips met hers. They were sitting in a big armchair and Eilidh was on Iain’s lap, which was her favorite place in the whole world. She could smell the musk of his skin and feel his arousal against her, and as they sank into the embrace of the soft chair he ran his hand over the curve of her breast, making her moan with desire.
Even though he was a very masculine man, his lips were very soft and mobile, and she was trembling by the time the kiss ended.
It was almost the end of his “apprenticeship” as a laird and after the wedding he would be taking on more responsibility, but he had never been afraid of hard work. In fact, he was looking forward to it and had exceeded expectations so far. All the tenants loved him because he was one of them.
“I wish—” she began, but he put a finger on her lips.
“Me an’ a’ hen,” he whispered, “but it willnae be long.”
The last week before the wedding seemed like an eternity, and the night before was the worst, but Malvina made it bearable by inviting all the girls to her room where they sat and drank wine while Malvina told stories of her childhood. It was a warm and joyful evening.
Just as they were leaving, Peigi, who had been married a month before, took Eilidh aside. “Dinnae be feart o’ yer first time, lass,” she whispered. “I promise ye it gets better and better an’ efter a while it is heavenly!”
Eilidh looked at her joyous expression and smiled at her affectionately. “It will not be long before I find out,” she said. “And I cannot wait!”
18
Iain felt as if every butterfly in the world was flying around in his stomach. I am no’ scared, he told himself firmly. I am jist a we bit nervous. I have been through so much worse. He thought that if he told himself often enough he might actually convince himself, but he doubted it, and wondered if he could make it all the way to the altar without collapsing.
It was not that he felt unsure; he was absolutely certain that he wanted Eilidh for his wife, but he just wanted the whole ceremony to be finished with. Then he could sweep her into his arms, carry her to their bedroom, and make love to her as he had dreamed of doing so many times before.
“Dae I look awright, Sammy?” he asked his manservant. “I dinnae want to disgrace my bride.”
Sammy beamed at him. His wizened, gap-toothed face looked the picture of delight. “There isnae ony way ye will disappoint Milady the day! Why ye look like a king!”
Indeed, Iain was resplendent, his plaid tied around him and pinned to the shoulder of his snowy white shirt with a huge silver brooch in the shape of his clan crest. Of course, his shining black boots had been made by his own hands, but he had given the task of making Eilidh’s shoes to his cousin, since he wanted to know absolutely nothing about her outfit till he saw her in churc
h.
“Thank ye, Jimmy,” he said, relieved. He sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders, and went to meet his destiny.
Eilidh was equally nervous. Her wedding dress had been sewn by Annie who, as well as being an excellent ladies’ maid, was an accomplished seamstress, and it was stunning. Made of pale gray satin, it shone with a subtle luster, and it hugged her figure lovingly from the modest neckline, which cut straight across her collarbone at the front to the end of the pointed bodice at her waist. It flared out from her hips and dropped to her ankles in a full, heavy drape. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder and tight at the wrist, and she had tucked her hands into a warm sheepskin muff which she would carry into the church instead of a bouquet, since fresh flowers were hard to come by in winter.
Her boots, made of gray leather, were a work of art. They had modest little heels and pointed toes, and fastened at the front by means of a ladder of twenty tiny lace holes through which fine silk ribbon was threaded. Her initial E and Iain’s I had been intertwined and tooled onto the side of the heel. But even though they were decorative, they were warm and sturdy. She was glad of that, because it had snowed during the night and the ground was frozen and covered two inches deep with a fine blanket of white.
Over all of this she had a cloak of thick gray wool lined with sheepskin and trimmed with soft rabbit fur, and the hood was loose and framed her face then dropped onto her shoulders. With her cheeks pink from cold, she looked like the queen of winter as they stepped outside to cross the courtyard and step into the castle chapel.
“Will I do, Annie?” she asked her anxiously. “Do I look good enough for him?”
