And – Alasdair set his jaw – determining to ruin Alasdair’s day.
Geordie was another reason he kept his back to the room.
He wasn’t of a mood to come face to face with the old dog. Geordie was sprawled on his plaid before the hearth where a huge wood fire blazed. And his soured mood was apparent. The ungrateful beast missed the twists of dried beef Grim had given him in Nought’s birchwood.
Alasdair refused to consider that Geordie might miss Grim.
Such a possibility was wholly unacceptable.
Outrageous, even.
He frowned, ignoring how both the dog and Malcolm were eyeing him suspiciously.
At least, they did when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Alasdair turned his face to the morning wind, tightening his grip on Marjory’s ribbon. At the moment, the bit of blue silk made him feel close to her. Until now, he’d never been a sentimental man. Leastways not about women. The last thing he needed was an aging warrior and an old dog prying into his business, guessing that Marjory had haunted him the entire journey home.
That he couldn’t string the words together to tell his people of his plans because all he could think of was pulling Marjory back into his arms, tearing the clothes from her and then sinking deep into the tight, slick heat of her. Kissing her everywhere….
He frowned, fisting his hands around the blue ribbon.
She truly had robbed him of his senses!
The air shifted beside him and Malcolm appeared at his elbow, proving that his infirmities didn’t prevent him from moving with annoying stealth. “You will ruin your trophy if you keep crushing it.”
“What trophy?” Alasdair whipped about, glaring at the ancient.
Malcolm only cocked a brow, looking irritatingly fit and hardy. “If I must tell you, then you disappoint me greatly.”
“I found the ribbon in the wood.” Alasdair couldn’t keep the belligerence from his voice. “It means nothing,” he lied, heat surging up his neck when Malcolm’s expression showed he knew the ribbon meant everything.
Marjory’s perfume even clung to the silk, the fresh wildflower scent taunting him every time a whiff of it wafted near his nose.
Malcolm reached to pull the rumpled blue ribbon from Alasdair’s fist. “A gift of such worth should be treated with care,” he said, his tone erasing the years and making Alasdair feel like a brash, callow youth. “Most especially if it is all you are to have of her.”
“You’re babbling nonsense.” Alasdair leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, feigning casualness.
Malcolm shook his head slowly. “You’ve been bitten hard, lad.”
“All that’s biting me is the chill of the wind.”
“Aye, worse than I thought.” Malcolm chuckled low.
Alasdair glared at him.
Malcolm only stroked his neatly trimmed beard and nodded. Then, with the smooth gait of a much younger man, he defied the battle wounds that plagued him and sauntered over to Alasdair’s table where he placed the ribbon on the gleaming oaken surface.
Not yet satisfied, he straightened the ribbon to its full length and then carefully smoothed out the wrinkles with his big, war-scarred hands.
Annoyance beat through Alasdair as he watched him.
“Have you naught better to do, Uncle?” Alasdair angled his head to the open windows, grateful to catch the ring of steel against steel coming from a courtyard around the tower’s curve. The younger warriors were training there, starting their day with sword practice. “Ewan would appreciate your help instructing the lads at swordcraft.”
Malcolm crossed the room as if Alasdair hadn’t spoken. Calmly, he reclaimed his seat on the stool. “A good warrior’s training is more than how well he swings a blade.”
Alasdair pretended not to hear.
He continued to lean against the wall, but turned his head, gazing pointedly at the loch. Experience had taught him that whenever Malcolm made such comments, and in that tone, a lecture was forthcoming.
With luck, ignoring his uncle would dissuade him.
Sage words were the last thing he needed.
Unfortunately, the graybeard was clearing his throat most demonstrably. And the instant Alasdair slid a glance his way, Malcolm pounced.
“Take these wooden toys…” Malcolm picked up a half-carved goose, examining it closely. “In a good clan, all hands pull together. It is fine when a laird’s sons learn to be braw warriors. Yet” – he turned the goose in his hand, peering at it as if the toy held all the world’s wisdom - “even lads born to a kitchen wench or a cottar’s wife can, and should, hold their weight in battle.
“Truth is, such men, once grown, often make the deciding difference.” He looked up then, his gaze piercing. “Remember how such folk supported Robert Bruce, our hero king, at the great battle of Bannockburn. They ran onto the field in the most desperate hour, shouting and wielding whatever weapons they had.
“Their bravery helped Bruce win the day.” Malcolm looked back down at the little half-finished goose, one corner of his mouth hitching up in an annoyingly sage smile. “You should remember that,” he added, reaching for his whittling knife. “Aye, you should.”
“I dinnae see what the Bruce’s triumph has to do with me.” Alasdair frowned at the toy in Malcolm’s hands. “Even less a little wooden goose.”
Malcolm ignored him, whittling away.
Geordie gave a huge, old-dog sigh and rolled onto his side, clearly tired of keeping a long, accusatory stare fixed on Alasdair.
It couldn’t be easy to go so long without blinking, even for a dog well-practiced in such irksome habits.
Peace returned to the painted solar. A log popped on the hearth and the increased ringing of steel from the courtyard proved his lads were learning well.
Alasdair drew a long breath, welcoming the return of normalcy to his morning.
If he was left alone, he’d manage to think.
He began to relax, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
“Rearing lads to feel special builds confidence in them.” Malcolm’s deep voice shattered the tranquility. “They know they’re appreciated, valued as a strong link in the clan. They learn pride, to keep their chins aye raised and meet your eyes when you speak to them. In time, they may get cocky, talking back to you or walking with a swagger. Then the day comes when men must fight and they’re often the first to reach for their weapons, ready to give their all for kith and kin. Such lads, and the men they become, should ne’er be forgotten.
“That’s why I’m carving barn animals for Anice’s boys.” Malcolm set down the wooden goose, now finished and startlingly lifelike. “Such lads are the lifeblood of every clan. They should have a few toys when they’re so young.”
Alasdair just looked at him, feeling chastised even though he couldn’t figure out why he should.
He did see to the well-doing of every man, woman, and child in the clan. Even now, his mind raced, making plans to ensure their weal when he was gone.
He was a good chieftain.
And Malcolm knew it.
“You’re up to something.” Alasdair was sure of it.
“You asked if I didn’t have aught better to do.” Malcolm reached for a new chunk of wood, turning it this way and that as if to decide what animal it wished to become. “I answered you, no more.”
“Nae, you’re leading into a lecture.” Alasdair pushed away from the wall and strode over to Malcolm’s stool, dropping to one knee to be on eye level with him. “I’d hear what it is. I know you’ll tell me anyway.”
Malcolm’s lips twitched, but he caught himself quickly, assuming a swift air of innocence. “I’m simply carving toys, lad. You ken I like children.”
Alasdair stood, ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t argue with Malcolm.
The greybeard did love children. He spent much of his time with the clan bairns, as Alasdair well knew. But there was one thing he didn’t know.
Alasdair studied his gr
eat uncle, his gray head once more bent over the new piece of wood. “Why didn’t you ever have sons of your own?”
Malcolm looked up at once. “I ne’er married now, did I?”
“Why didn’t you?” Alasdair knew his mistake as soon as the question left his tongue.
“The same reason you’ll no’ be wedding, I’m thinking.” Malcolm began carving the wood as he spoke. “I fell in love with the wrong lass. She was a MacKenzie, daughter to a cousin of Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail. A more beautiful maid ne’er walked the hills, I say you.
“She had hair black as a raven’s wing, eyes like sapphires. And she had spirit, a fiery temper, and so much passion a man could singe himself just looking at her.” Malcolm paused, turning aside to knuckle his eyes. “Yet it was me she wanted, no other.”
Alasdair bit his tongue, stunned to see a tear spill down Malcolm’s cheek.
Then his eyes cleared and he fisted his hands so tightly on his thighs that his knuckles gleamed white. “She begged me to marry her,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “She insisted our love mattered more than the troubles between our clans. My grandfather told me she was right.” A little smile touched Malcolm’s lips, but it was sad, reminiscent. “He spoke of the old days when even in times of feuding, a man’s worst transgression would be forgiven if he’d acted out of love for a lady.”
“He suggested you offer for her?” Alasdair was surprised.
“Nothing the like.” Malcolm laughed and slapped his knee. “He told me to ride to Eilean Creag Castle and snatch her out from under the Black Stag’s nose, is what he said.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Nae, I didn’t. My honor and loyalty to our clan stayed me. Even though she wished to be taken, I knew that stealing her away would fan fires of enmity that already blazed too bright.”
“And now you regret it.”
“More than anything else in my life.” Malcolm closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath. “I’d give the rest of my days for one moment to go back and undo my thickheaded posturing. My refusal to risk everything I loved most for the one woman I loved even more.”
Alasdair rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “What happened to her? Do you know?”
“Och, aye.” Malcolm’s lips twisted. “As the fates willed it, a MacLeod snatched her away while she was out berry picking one fine summer day. The MacLeods, as you ken, are much more hostile to the MacKenzies of Kintail than we ever were. Yet” – Malcolm leaned forward, his gaze on Alasdair – “the great Black Stag eventually forgave the man, even welcoming him into his hall.
“It was a fruitful union, producing eight strapping sons and one bonnie daughter, last I heard.
“And” – Malcolm reached again for the new chunk of wood and his whittling knife – “the heather didn’t vanish from the hills and the mist didn’t slip away to hide just because she wed a man from a warring clan. Truth is I doubt her children, or Duncan MacKenzie, even cared how the pair came to be wed. They made a good match and raised a fine family, to the weal and benefit of both their clans.”
“And those nine children should’ve been yours.” Alasdair spoke what his great uncle left unsaid.
“They could’ve been, aye.” Malcolm didn’t look up from his whittling. “If I’d accepted that sometimes what’s in a man’s heart matters more than what’s expected of him.”
Alasdair frowned.
His head was beginning to ache with a vengeance.
Malcolm said nothing, his attention focused entirely on his wood carving.
It was a show, Alasdair knew.
So he went back to the window arch before Malcolm could see how much his words moved him. Even so, the Highlands were different now. Much changed since Malcolm’s grandfather or even Malcolm might’ve stormed a stronghold and tossed their ladylove over their shoulder, riding off with her into the night. Such acts were barbaric.
Men were civilized now.
Alasdair pulled a hand down over his face, feeling anything but. He cursed beneath his breath, his gaze on the hills to the north. Not surprisingly, he couldn’t see them clearly. As so often in the Highlands, the weather had changed, turning dark and blustery. The loch was now iron gray and long swaths of mist drifted in from the sea to curl across the water. Thick clouds had chased the blue from the sky, the day’s gloom suiting his mood.
In such weather, any man could feel a tail growing, horns to mark his bold intent and cloven feet to brand his daring before the eyes of all men who kept their honor.
Soon, he’d break his word to the King.
Yet what was honor if it kept a man from claiming the woman he held most dear?
Alasdair flattened his hands against the cold stone of the window ledge. With the wind bringing the chill, wet smell of rain, and the mist blurring the hills, it was easy to imagine a black-painted coracle slipping into the loch, gliding past Blackshore’s walls. Knowing such a craft had been at Nought’s Dreagan’s Claw made it even easier to believe such intruders had something to do with Marjory.
Indeed, he was sure of it.
He knew trouble when it danced beneath his nose.
Truth was, he knew it from afar, too.
His entire body tensing, he cleared his throat, his gaze on the loch and the whirling mist. “Malcolm,” he spoke with deliberate calm. “Are the men still going on about a sea serpent in the loch?”
“Every night, aye.”
“What do you think?”
“I know I’ve ne’er seen a swimming beastie hereabouts, or anywhere.”
Alasdair rubbed his brow. He’d hoped Malcolm would give him a different answer. But he wasn’t going to mention his suspicions. Not yet, anyway. He needed to think before alarming the clan. There were other, more serious matters weighing on him.
Such as….
He glanced at the table where Marjory’s blue ribbon gleamed in the light of a candle. Its blue shimmered, reminding him of how the ribbon had delighted her at Castle Haven’s Harvest Fair. How he’d purchased the ribbon for her and how much she’d loved wearing it in her hair. The way his heart had slammed against his ribs when he’d spotted the ribbon in the birchwood. How it now reminded him of her racing into the clearing to challenge him. Their ensuing journey across Nought and – his heart squeezed – everything that had then come to pass between them in the Thunder Caves.
Malcolm was right.
The ribbon was a grand prize.
The graybeard was right about a few other things as well, but Alasdair wouldn’t swell his head by admitting anything the like.
He did push away from the window, briskly brushing his plaid into place. Then he strolled across the room to where his sword, Mist-Chaser, rested on a bench beside the door. If Malcolm noticed that he picked up the ribbon as he passed the table, so be it.
He also didn’t care if he was observed raising the ribbon to his lips and then tying it around Mist-Chaser’s hilt.
The deed done, he placed Mist-Chaser back on the bench and dusted his hands.
Across the solar, Malcolm was still on his stool, whittling industriously, his head bent low over what was beginning to look like a lamb.
But Alasdair didn’t miss the glint in the old warrior’s eyes. Malcolm had seen everything. And the brief nod he gave Alasdair was his approval.
Alasdair stepped in front of him and placed his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “I wish you’d have gone after your MacKenzie lass.”
“So do I, lad, so do I.”
This time it was Alasdair who nodded gruffly. He also made a promise to himself to never be an old man sitting on stool, regretting what he hadn’t done.
His lady wasn’t beyond reach.
She was even waiting for him to come for her.
And he’d be damned if he’d allow anyone to stop him from claiming her.
Later that morning, but on the other side of the Glen of Many Legends, Marjory walked briskly, her head high as she approached Nought’s great hall.
Hercules hurried beside her, his steps jaunty, as if he anticipated the mayhem about to erupt at the high table.
Hercules loved chaos.
Marjory preferred calm. So she’d spent much of the night preparing to accept Kendrew’s news with grace. She’d even thought of an enthusiastic response so that no one would guess how hurt she was by Alasdair’s unexpected betrothal.
Only Isobel would know of her devastation.
That her world had been ripped apart, her heart torn, and her dreams shattered on the night the stars had shone their brightest for her.
How quickly their dazzle had faded.
Now there was nothing for her to do but save what she could, her pride.
Unfortunately, as she neared the hall’s arched entry, she caught the low rumble of male voices, including her brother’s. She couldn’t make out all his words, but she heard Alasdair’s name. Her breath caught and her heart lurched. Images of their hours at the Thunder Caves whirled through her mind, as did everything she and Isobel suspected about Alasdair and Lady Coira Mackinnon. She forgot the rebuttal she’d been repeating so carefully in her mind.
She’d been up since before sunrise, composing it. She’d practiced so that her voice wouldn’t waver, her tone unconvincing.
Now she couldn’t remember a word.
Equally distressing, her ambers were on fire again. The stones hummed from within, each one vibrating against her skin as if they’d sprung to life.
They surely knew she was about to receive tidings that would end all her hopes of happiness.
Quickening her pace, ready to hear the worst and be done with it, she vowed to have the necklace delivered to Alasdair as soon as she could make arrangements for someone to carry it to Blackshore.
Now that her pact with Isobel and Catriona would not be fulfilled, she couldn’t keep the ambers.
They belonged to Clan Donald.
Alasdair could give them to his bride as a wedding gift.
The thought made her feel sick and dizzy. It also sent heat rushing to her cheeks, so she stopped outside the hall door to take a deep, steadying breath. Then she lifted her chin, summoned her brightest smile, and sailed into the hall.
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 29
