by Annis Reid
“And forgot to tell ye.” Donald snorted.
Leith’s left hand, closest to his cousin, lingered near the handle of the blade tucked inside his belt. “I would thank ye not to make light of the situation,” he warned in a sour tone. “I dinna find it as amusing as ye seem to.”
“Ye must admit, it is a bit amusing,” Donald insisted. The only thing keeping Leith from exploding on the man was knowing he meant no harm. “What I mean to say is, the thought of no one telling ye that ye had been promised in marriage as a bairn strikes me as something worth laughing over. How could they forget?”
“I have been straining to make sense of it these many days,” Leith sighed. For it escaped his understanding as well. How could neither of his parents think it worthwhile to inform him of his betrothal? After five-and-twenty years, no less?
“Perhaps it had to do with yer mam passing,” Donald murmured. He was no longer making a jest. “Perhaps yer da simply… forgot.”
Leith nodded, staring ahead between the ears of his black palfrey. Perhaps that was the case. It seemed his father had become a bit vague when it came to certain matters after the passing of Fionella MacManus when Leith was no older than six winters.
While no one would dare doubt Kirk MacManus’s ability to perform as laird of the clan—indeed, only the worst sort of fool would underestimate him—there was to be certain a lost quality about the man. As if at times he forgot why he’d entered a room. From what he’d gathered and pieced together over the years, it seemed this sort of behavior had made itself known upon the sudden passing of the laird’s beloved wife.
Perhaps Donald had a point. It stood to reason that he would make at least a bit of sense after so much mindless chatter. Perhaps Leith’s father had forgotten just as he’d forgotten so much of what took place before the catastrophe that left him widowed and somewhat lost without the wife who’d kept him tethered.
“Still,” Leith grumbled. “One would think yer da would speak of it, at the verra least.”
“My da?” Donald’s familiar laughter was a shout in the open air. “I suppose he assumed someone had told ye. But in case ye forget, he had more than enough to occupy himself.”
Indeed. The man had scarcely made it back from Culloden, as had so many of the men who fought along with him. Leith and Donald included.
It was after the battle, after their loss, that Kirk MacManus had seen fit to inform his eldest living son of the bargain he’d struck with Niall MacNeill that Niall’s daughter, Flora, would wed Leith when she came of age.
To be fair, the lass had not yet been born at the time. No matter who Niall’s eldest daughter had been, no matter her temperament or appearance, she was destined before birth to be the wife of the eldest son of the MacManus. There was nothing to be said or done about the matter. The decision was final.
And it left Leith with the sense of having no control over his life.
“She is a bonny one, at least.” Donald ran a hand over his long, wild beard, as red as fire. The same red as Leith’s hair, the same coloring which ran through their entire bloodline. Red and heralding the nature of the men and women who shared it.
“Aye, she is at that.”
Donald regarded him from the corner of his eye. “That is not enough for ye, lad?”
Again, Leith rolled his eyes. “Ye know the lass as well as I do.”
“Which is not saying much,” Donald pointed out, quite sensible for a change. He was no longer jesting, as was his normal manner. “We have only met her… What? Once? Twice, perhaps?”
“Aye, and that was quite enough. Do you recall the way in which she spoke to the servants at the feast? When her mother left her in their charge? She was about to kick that poor girl who’d spilled the flagon of ale on the floor.”
Donald expression changed, his brows drawn together over bright, green eyes. Another trait they shared. “Aye, I recall. A nasty bit of work, now that ye make mention of it.”
“Now ye ken what disturbs me.”
“Ye will be her lord and master, will ye not? Tis up to ye, cousin, to curtail such behavior.”
Leith chuckled without humor. “Ye have strange ideas, cousin. Do ye not know there are women who will not trouble themselves with behaving as their husbands wish them to behave? If there was ever a woman who struck me as the type to poison my mead, ‘tis Flora MacNeill.”
“I also recall the way she gazed upon ye that evening,” Donald snorted. “Like as not she was aware of your betrothal, even if ye were not.”
Leith groaned at the memory. “Aye, and I ask myself how I did not know it from the start.”
Again, Donald laughed, the sound echoing in the open space. Like so much of him, his laughter was large, expansive. “As if lasses have not been looking at ye that way since ye were old enough to grow hair on yer face,” he laughed.
Leith shifted in the saddle, never much for having his appearance praised. No matter who was doing the praising, and no matter the spirit in which they spoke. He knew his cousin was merely jesting, but there was a hint of truth to it. Indeed, Leith had always had an easy time with lasses he fancied.
Never would he have imagined regretting his looks. Certainly, that would be just one more reason for Flora to wish for his hand, though he suspected she cared a great deal more for the wealth their marriage would bring her.
Nothing in the world would have displeased him more than marrying the lass, wicked piece of work she was. No, he did not believe she would fall in line at her husband’s orders. There was a hardness to her, a bitterness unsuited to one so young and fair. A man could be forgiven for believing her golden hair and wide, innocent cornflower blue eyes spoke of a quiet, tender nature.
What a terrible trick nature had turned, making her so lovely. Were her looks to truly reveal what was inside her, she would be little better than an old hag.
And she was promised to him. What had he done to deserve this?
“Truly,” Donald insisted. “In every bit of seriousness. It does not have to be as bad as this. Let the lass have her own mind, or at least allow her to believe she has it. There are ways for a man to get around his wife.”
“I will not have my servants abused. Never have we treated our household as anything less than members of our family,” Leith pointed out. The thought of old Bessie, cook for the house since before he was born, being subjected to abuse from Flora turned his stomach.
“Perhaps living with ye will soften her heart,” Donald shrugged. That was his way. He was always laughing, always trying to find the bright side of the situation. Even in battle—for he had fought more fiercely and bravely than any man—he had always done his best to lift the spirits of those around him. That was his way, his gift.
“Perhaps,” Leith allowed. He did not believe it, but the turn toward the village was fast approaching, and his cousin would be on his way soon enough. It was better to part on good terms, at least pretending to have reached an understanding. There would be more than enough time for Leith to mourn his situation once he reached his uncle’s castle.
“Tis a pity your father was not in good health, that he might join ye,” Donald observed.
Leith nodded, clearing his throat in an effort to speak over the lump which formed there at the mention of his father’s health. Were it not for Kirk’s advanced age, Leith might have taken it into his head to argue against marrying the MacNeill lass.
But facts were facts. Leith was the eldest son, the heir. He would be laird on his father’s passing, needing to not only form an alliance with another strong clan but provide future heirs. It was his duty as the eldest son. It had always been his duty.
No less so now that his wife had been chosen for him without his knowledge.
“I shall meet you there in two days,” Donald promised before bringing his chestnut gelding around to follow the split in the road. “Try not to murder your betrothed before the wedding.”
Leith chuckled. “I canna make promises, man.”
&nbs
p; Yet once Donald turned away and started down the road, Leith’s smile faded. His cousin’s departure could not come a moment too soon. While Donald was a fine friend and a good man, one whose company was normally appreciated and in fact sought out, the business of pretending to be in a better mood regarding his upcoming marriage was too trying.
Now he no longer had to keep his complaints to himself. Sharing concerns was one matter, but complaining outright was not his nature. Men did not complain, especially over matters which there was nothing to be done about. Children complained. Men had no choice but to bear the situation and move on.
This was unlike any situation he had borne before. Flora MacNeill was perhaps the last lass Leith would have considered joining his life with, no matter how pleasing she was to the eye nor how well-off her father happened to be.
Aside from the fact that the leadership of his clan would mean securing the clan’s landholdings and wealth, Leith did not personally care for such matters. Wealth had never held much charm for him, nor had power. Were he the second son, as his brother Malcolm had been born, he would have happily lived his life in service of the clan—yet would have been more than satisfied in a simple home, living a quiet life if possible.
Instead, it was Malcolm who was left free to make his own choices. Malcolm who might decide to be a member of the guard or to serve as an advisor, or to do anything else he wished. It mattered not, because there was not such expectation placed on his shoulders. Leith was healthy, intelligent and more than able to provide the clan with numerous heirs.
How fortunate for him.
Up ahead was the original MacNeill Castle, where the clan’s laird, his wife and their family had lived for centuries prior to the tragedy which had taken place long before Leith was born. There was still little telling precisely what had transpired in the castle to so suddenly end the lives of all who’d lived behind the walls.
Now, it was little more than fodder for superstitious old women, warning bairns of the dangers of venturing near.
As for himself, he did not believe in ghosts or spirits. He had seen far too much take place before his very eyes to fear anything which might exist beyond what was real and solid. If anything, after the massacre that was Culloden, he welcomed the notion of restless spirits. He welcomed the notion of there being something beyond this life.
The MacNeills had long since moved the center of their clan’s life and livelihood to the keep where Flora now lived with her parents and siblings. Her grandfather had been brother of Bruce MacNeill, he who had died along with his family and all others nearly thirty years earlier.
Were it not for that tragedy, Leith mused, he would be marrying the granddaughter of Bruce. Life was strange that way. A single moment or event could change everything for those who had not yet been born.
This was the thought working its way through his awareness that the very moment when something new called his awareness.
A woman. A woman barely dressed, wearing the thinnest of shifts, running from inside the deserted castle’s walls while two men followed, shouting for her to stop. Shouting a great number of things, in fact.
Perhaps it was his reluctance to arrive at his uncle’s keep, or perhaps it was simply the fact that he had never been one to suffer a woman being taken advantage of.
No matter the reason, he charged ahead to see what the matter was all about. The lass noticed him, changing direction at his approach, her eyes wild and her brown hair hanging in tangles about her face as she ran to him.
“Help me!” she gasped, breathless and desperate.
4
It was a nightmare. Just a dream. She had hit her head so hard, she was now unconscious and lying on that grimy floor, floating in a dream state.
A dream state that was absolutely terrifying.
Funny how knowing it was a dream didn’t do anything to change what was happening around her. Even knowing she was dreaming, she felt no control over her surroundings or the situation she was in. No matter how many times she told herself it was all in her head, and that the people chasing her were figments of her imagination, there was no stopping them.
Just like there was no stopping the furious pounding of her heart.
“Come here, lassie!” one of the men shouted as she burst from inside the castle wall, her head swinging right and left as she searched for someplace to hide. She knew what they had in mind and even in a dream was in no mood to fight them off.
They burst out behind her, making her run again. Lucky her shoes were sturdy enough and comfortable enough to allow her to run.
But there was nowhere to run to! Everything was open, all around, only the village a few miles away offering any sort of shelter. But unless she was in the mood to take a long run, that wasn’t going to help.
The presence of the third man on horseback was a godsend. The fact that he might have been just as big a threat as the two behind her didn’t occur before she was already running toward him, waving her arms, knowing she must’ve looked like a wild woman but not caring very much just then.
Besides, it was just a dream, anyway. A dream which felt more real than anything she’d ever lived through, but that was beside the point.
“Help me!” she gasped, her feet carrying her toward the man. Like the other two, he was dressed in some sort of costume. Great, he was probably a friend of theirs. Maybe he had the same thing in mind that they had.
No, her instincts were right on the money. He took one look at her and then shot a look of absolute hatred toward the men who’d pulled up short upon seeing him approach.
He was out of the saddle in an instant, a mountain of a man. The first thing that came to mind was a Viking—tall, powerfully built, with flaming red hair and a thick, trimmed beard. His green eyes flashed as he charged toward the men, placing himself between her and them. She barely came up to his shoulder as he stood in front of her, huge hands on his narrow hips.
“What do ye believe ye are on about?” he demanded of the pair who now looked like they might be about to wet themselves. They were skinny, scrawny, mean-looking men who the guy in front of her might have used to pick his teeth. If it turned into a fistfight, he would make short work of it.
For a second, keeping in mind how they had already terrorized her without so much as putting a hand on her, she sort of hoped it would come to that.
“Calm yerself, Leith. We were only having a bit of fun.” The younger of the two men looked downright ashamed, scuffing the ground the toe of his leather boot. “We were not truly intent on harming her, ye ken.”
“From the looks of her, it appears as though ye are telling lies.” This man was dangerous, not just in appearance but in the way his voice carried across the open space, loud and booming. The sort of guy who meant business. He must’ve been their leader or something, the head of their group.
She wondered what sort of group roamed the Highlands wearing costumes and pretending it was centuries ago, but people did all sorts of things. She had never been one for cosplay, but whatever. He was sticking up for her.
The second man spoke, and he wasn’t in the mood to hold back. Maybe because he was older. “Look at her! Running about in her shift. What does she expect?”
Her shift? A student of history, she knew what the man was implying. This wasn’t her underwear, for God’s sake. It was a perfectly normal sundress, much more modest than it might’ve been. Was it illegal to show bare shoulders on the Highlands all of a sudden?
Something about the man’s dismissive tone and the sneer on his filthy face embarrassed her, made her want to cover herself. And she hated herself for it. Nobody had any right to tell her how to dress.
“You’re one to talk,” she snorted. “When was the last time you washed that tunic? I can smell it from over here.”
The man standing in front of her looked down over his shoulder and snorted, his eyes a great deal softer when they looked at her than they’d been when he was glaring at the two who’d chased her. “Be on you
r way,” he advised them in a no-nonsense tone. “I will deal with the lass. Perhaps if ye go now without another word, I will forget this matter upon my arrival at the Fraser keep.”
There had to be something about the name Fraser. Both men went pale, the color draining from their face in the blink of an eye. “Now, Leith,” the older man said, much gentler now. “I dinna think it has to come to that.”
“I said, not another word.” This Leith person was not about to back down. “Go. I will not even ask what ye are doing here, desecrating this place.”
She looked over the castle walls now that Leith mentioned it, and had to give her subconscious imagination credit. The castle was in near perfect condition—at least, when compared to the way it looked in real life. The decay had only started to take hold, the outer wall broken in a few places but for the most part intact.
And yes indeed, it was very tall. Imposing. Just like the towers inside, which were now whole.
Wow. She always knew she had a good imagination, but this? She wished she could take a picture and bring it out of the dream.
Leith turned to her, now folding his arms over a chest that brought to mind the professional wrestlers Jimmy used to love watching on TV. He could easily be one of them, running around the ring and slamming his opponents into the mat.
The way she wished he would’ve slammed those to ruffians into the ground.
She realized a moment too late that he was trying to avoid looking at her. He looked at the sky, the ground, his horse. Everywhere but at her.
“Did they harm ye?” he asked. His voice was gruff, but far less intimidating than it had been when he was talking to her pursuers.
“No. They didn’t manage to get a hand on me, though they might have if you hadn’t shown up. Thank you.” She realized she was trembling, and suddenly very cold. It had to be the adrenaline—or rather it was, judging from the way it now drained from her system since the immediate danger had passed. She was starting to come back to herself, and she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
