Tempting the Highlander
Page 12
Feeling more like an intruder than the next Schellden chieftain, he urged his animal forward toward the stables. He handed the reins to the young dirty stable hand, who cocked his head and asked, “Just who are you?”
“I’m Cyric Schellden,” Cyric announced loudly, but still no one seemed to recognize the name. Not even the boy, who just shrugged his shoulders and waited for Cyric to unhook his bundle from the saddle before taking his horse inside. Someday, Cyric vowed to himself, they will stop and acknowledge my presence and feel rewarded if I felt inclined to do the same.
“Welcome to Caireoch.” The booming voice of his uncle startled Cyric but was also a welcome relief, because he had no idea what he had been going to do next.
Schellden patted the young man on the back. Cyric had the size, even the bulk, of a Highlander, but his amber eyes contained the panicked look of a teenager on his first hunt. “I hope you enjoy your visit. I am sorry that no one was here to welcome you, but I had to finish up a meeting with my commanders and wanted to be the first to greet you.” Schellden gestured toward the double doors of the Hall where several armed men were exiting. “Come. I am sure you are hungry and have many questions.”
Cyric followed for he did have several questions, but the nature of them had abruptly changed from what duties he was going to take over first to . . . enjoy his visit? Robert I had implied something far different. A visit did not include a wife and a lairdship to his own prestigious clan. Not once had he imagined Laird Schellden would not be of the same mind as his king. It suddenly occurred to Cyric that maybe coming here was not all he had believed it to be.
Schellden entered the hall and waved for Cyric to follow. “We actually expected you earlier.”
Cyric glanced around at the few remaining men who were gathering their things. It was not respect he saw, but accusation, as if they knew without even being there that he was the cause of the delay.
“There is no meat left, but there is plenty of bread and ale,” Schellden said before sitting down at the head of the table.
The way his uncle had arranged the room, there was no sharing of authority. Only one chair was at the table’s end, forcing Cyric to take one of the six perpendicular seats. He suspected he should be glad that he wasn’t being offered a bench, which served as the majority of the room’s seating.
Cyric pulled a piece of bread free from the large loaf and chewed the soft, tasty morsel before swallowing some ale, hoping that both would give him fortitude. His questions were numerous, but he decided to stay away from the confrontational ones for now. Maybe his uncle was just testing him.
“Where is everyone?”
Schellden picked up a mug and swirled the contents. “Most are in the fields. We held games here for several days. The horses from the race ruined some of the lands and crops so everyone is helping to clean up and restore things to order.”
The answer was complete, but Cyric still felt as if he were being censored, and he was not sure why.
“Would you like anything else while you and the laird talk?”
Cyric twisted around to see a pretty girl with dark auburn hair and unusually large brown eyes hold up a nearly empty platter that still held a few pieces of meat and cheese. “I would,” he answered. “Build me a plate of whatever meat is left and bring it to me.”
Her dark eyes sprang open wide and flashed to the laird. Her warm smile disappeared, and she gave Cyric a terse nod before she left to do his bidding.
Cyric, once again mystified, turned back toward his uncle. “I had hoped to meet my cousins this afternoon as well. But perhaps it is a good thing they are not here to greet me. I should bathe and prepare myself to make a good impression,” he quickly added, hoping diplomacy might lessen the perceived tension he felt.
Schellden leaned over, and keeping his face expressionless, said, “I am sure they would have liked to say hello, but unfortunately I doubt you will have the opportunity to meet them while you are here. Since their mother is dead and I did not remarry, both are at a neighboring clan preparing for their wedding.”
Cyric nearly choked on the piece of cheese he was eating. His mouth had instantly gone dry and he picked up the mug and began downing its contents. “Did you say both of my cousins are getting married?”
“Aye, in less than a month. I am fortunate that the men they have chosen are well known throughout these parts and belong to a nearby clan, enabling us to see each other often.”
“But . . . but . . .” Cyric sputtered as the few items his uncle had so far divulged sank into full meaning. King Robert might have led him to believe he would be the next Schellden laird, but his uncle obviously intended something quite different. “But the king told me that—”
Schellden cut him off as he stood up and scooted his chair back to make room for his departure. “Robert relayed to me that he wants to secure the future of this clan. My daughters are marrying able, strong men of whom I am sure the king will approve. The union will help eliminate the potential of clan rivalries and thereby protect the strength of the Highland armies.”
Cyric stared at the piece of bread still in his hand. All the discomfort, all the pain, the cold, the exclusion he had felt for the past several days had been for nothing. He had arrived too late. Once again, he had been appraised by an elder and judged to be a disappointment. This time, however, Cyric was not going to just meekly accept the decision.
“Since the king told you of his desire to secure this clan, he must have also relayed how he intended for it to happen. I journeyed this very long distance based upon those expectations. I had been told that I would be marrying one of your daughters and would become the next laird of this clan.”
Schellden was vaguely impressed and slightly disappointed. His nephew had spoken calmly but with a surprising amount of determination. Schellden had half expected, half hoped Cyric would whine and beg to be sent home, bringing an immediate end to this part of the plan. But, his nephew’s departure would only resolve one of his problems, not all of them.
“Raelynd and Meriel are to marry Craig and Crevan McTiernay.” Schellden paused, thankful to see by Cyric’s expression that his nephew was well aware of the enormous power that Highland clan held. “If you desire, we can ride over and you can fight them for your rights to marry one of my daughters. I would, however, not expect any support from the king or any of your kin. The McTiernays have too many loyal allies and the king’s intent is to stabilize the future of the Schellden clan, not destroy alliances.”
Cyric studied his unreadable uncle. After years of acting as a negotiator between some crafty and devious leaders, Cyric wondered if Laird Schellden might be playing him for the fool. But such a claim could easily be found false, so it had to be true. The heavy burden Cyric had been carrying suddenly became nearly intolerable as he realized his father’s respect, which he so desired, might never be within his reach.
Schellden walked around to the other side of the table, clearly intent on leaving. But he halted so that he was directly opposite Cyric and faced him. “You are the only male Schellden heir. I will not relinquish the safety and the future well-being of my people based on blood alone. But you are welcome to stay and prove to me that you are ready and able to lead your clansmen.”
Cyric rose to his feet and looked his uncle in the eye. “I accept. And if I do prove that I have the skills and the aptitude to rule this clan?”
Schellden scoffed. “First, you must learn only the king has the authority to rule. A laird does his best to manage and address his people’s needs.”
“I understand. I watched my grandfather perform for years as laird of my mother’s clan. I am sure I am ready and you will see that as well when you charge me with clan decision-making and—”
Hearing how Cyric intended to prove his worth, Schellden’s deadened face cracked into a large grin and he began to laugh, loudly. Trying to overcome his mirth, he turned to the pretty dark-haired servant and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “If you would get t
he steward to show my nephew where he is to stay when he is finished eating, I would appreciate it, my dear.” Then his uncle disappeared, leaving only Cyric and the woman, who had served him his plate of food, in the cavernous room.
“Why so glum?” she asked as he slumped back into the chair despondently.
“This was not how it was supposed to be,” Cyric muttered, resting his forehead in his hand.
“And how did you imagine Caireoch to be?”
“Busy, filled with people, ready and wanting to meet me.” Ready to adore me, admire me, at the very least respect me, he added silently to himself.
“There were more clansmen here to receive you yesterday, but you did not arrive and there is much to do,” she explained, sitting on the bench closest to him. “To survive in the Highlands all must do what we can. You will have to do the same if the laird is to determine you are fit to stay.”
“You don’t understand. I came here expecting to be welcomed . . . not put on trial,” Cyric moaned.
The woman stood up and Cyric dropped his hand from his forehead so that he could look at her. She was not a striking beauty, but her waist was thin and her full figure was just the kind that he desired when he sought out a woman. Her rich brown eyes were also kind and gentle despite his treatment of her, for she obviously was not a servant. He wasn’t sure what her relationship was to his uncle, but he was certain that the Schellden laird did not go around kissing just any young woman on the cheek.
She pointed at the pitcher at the end of the table. “I will fetch the steward. Until he arrives, if you want more to drink, you will have to pour it yourself. Consider that your first lesson in Highland survival.”
“Wait, what is your name?”
“Rowena,” she said with a wink.
“I’m sorry about before. I thought you were a servant,” Cyric said rapidly, wishing he were acting more like his smooth charming self. “My name is—”
“I know your name,” she interrupted, and bestowed upon him a stunning smile that transformed her from a pretty woman into something quite breathtaking. “Good luck, Cyric. I think you will need it even more than I had originally believed.”
Then she pivoted gracefully and glided out the door, leaving him completely alone. He had known she was mocking him, but he was not at all put off by it. It was not a cruel ridicule like the kinds he had experienced from his guides, but more like a tease one received from a friend. Cyric hoped he would see her again.
Chapter 9
Meriel watched expectantly as the two men placed the oval wooden bathtub on the floor near the hearth. She waited until the last person hauling hot water dumped the contents of two buckets and left the room before falling stomach down on Crevan’s—now Raelynd’s—bed. She raised herself on her elbows and rested her chin on her hand to watch with amusement the slow methodical way her sister was still unpacking. “It’s so dark in here, Lyndee. You won’t be able to find a home for each and every item,” Meriel teased.
“Then I suggest you stop bothering me, go down to your room and finish unpacking.”
“I’m already done,” Meriel divulged, stifling a yawn.
Raelynd stood straight up and stared at her sister. “You can’t be,” she murmured, knowing Meriel had brought more than twice the amount of stuff she had. “Not with everything.”
“If I unpacked the way you do, it would have taken me a week.”
“What did you do? Just shove Craig’s stuff out of the way to make room for your things?”
Meriel shrugged, indicating Raelynd’s guess had been accurate, and then rolled onto her back to play with her braid. “Your way may be cleaner, but it is also a whole lot slower.”
Fact was, she had just pushed all of Craig’s things to a corner and then proceeded to dump her belongings, spreading them around to create various piles on the floor. Her more precious materials she had draped on the furniture. It did not make sense to find a place for everything as Raelynd was doing if they were only going to stay a few weeks. She would spend unnecessary time searching for whatever she needed. Now she just had to look around. In Meriel’s mind, not only was her way faster, it was far more efficient.
Raelynd, almost done, pulled out the gown she intended to wear that night. The deep rose bliaut had small pearls sewn around the neckline and the hem of each sleeve, perfectly matching the semisheer, cream-colored chemise she always wore beneath it. Digging in the bag, she pulled out her brush and the matching pearl hairpin. She rummaged around in it some more before hurrying to the other bag, which she had already emptied, to verify she had indeed gotten everything out of it.
“Meriel,” she began, clearly uneasy. “Please tell me that you packed slippers.”
Meriel went still, letting the braid she was holding fall to her chest. She had been so busy packing sewing materials, trying to squeeze everything she could into only four bags, she had not considered the odds and ends that went with dressing. She sat up. “I don’t think I packed any. Didn’t you?”
Raelynd shook her head. “I was so mad I wasn’t thinking about shoes. The only ones I have are there.”
She looked toward the two pairs of sopping leather double-soled turn-shoes sitting in front of the hearth. They were so filthy after two days of travel, washing them had been one of the first things they did. If lucky, the shoes would be dry by morning. They certainly would not be ready for that evening.
“Maybe Lady McTiernay will have some we can borrow,” Meriel muttered, hoping she would not have to go barefoot. Many Highland women did but their father had been afraid of them getting cold and sick. After years of wearing shoes, their feet were not accustomed to walking around without protection.
The sound of someone on the other side of the door caught their attention. Meriel, hoping that it was Laurel, jumped off the bed and rushed to the door. Opening it, she was surprised to see Conan, descending the staircase. He stretched his neck to see around her figure and grunted when he saw Raelynd reinspecting what even he could see was an empty bag.
Meriel was about to close the door when she heard him say, “My elder brothers must have gotten the last three clever women in Scotland. The only ones left are pretty little girls.”
Meriel fumed at the insult and was half tempted to chase after him, but taking one step onto the hard stone floor outside the room, she quickly jumped back onto the soft woven rushes that covered the bedchamber floor. “I wish he would try and woo me one time just so I could refuse. That man needs a good no.”
“With his kind, it would be pointless. He would just think you were too dense to realize how lucky and fortunate you almost were,” Raelynd said acerbically, dropping the bag onto the floor.
The sound of running feet was again outside the door, but both decided to ignore it. If Conan wanted to spend his time and energy jogging up and down stairs that was his choice. Meriel began to shimmy out of her bliaut. “I think the water is ready. Can you hand me the soap?”
Raelynd put her hands on her hips. “I told you to bring some.”
“And I told you I didn’t have any room!” Meriel barked.
“And I said to make some. You had more than twice as many bags as I did,” Raelynd replied, her voice growing icy.
Meriel opened her mouth to give a strong retort when more running was heard, this time followed by a knock. Raelynd called out, “Who is it?”
“Me,” came the soft, high-pitched reply.
Curious, Raelynd unlatched the door and opened it. Standing almost waist high was a little girl who looked to be around the age of seven. Thin with thick pale gold curly hair, she was the spitting image of her mother with the exception of her eyes. Instead of Laurel’s blue storm-colored eyes, they were gray, with silver glints that sparkled with impishness. “Who are you?”
Not waiting to be asked in, the young girl flashed Raelynd a grin. “I’m Brenna,” she answered, and walked toward Meriel, who was holding her bliaut up to her chest for she had on only her chemise. “Here.”
Brenna puckered her eyebrows in confusion. “You don’t know?”
Raelynd felt her jaw slacken. This was one of Laurel’s twins. She had heard of Brenna and Braeden. In the same way Raelynd’s father protected her and her sister, the McTiernay twins’ father had never allowed them to venture away from the safety of their home. “That was you running back and forth?”
Brenna nodded. “I heard everything.” Brenna beamed with pride. “Only Mommy’s extra soap was in the storage room, but I’ll try to help and get you shoes.”
Raelynd hoped Brenna had only thought she heard everything, for if she let it slip that she and Meriel had switched rooms, it might cause some ill will to develop between them and their hostess. “I am Meriel,” Raelynd said, testing the little girl, “and this is my sister, Lyndee.”
Brenna bobbed her head and Raelynd stifled a sigh of relief and took the gray mound from Meriel’s hand. It was soft and someone had taken the time to carve it into a rose. “Is this soap?”
Brenna again nodded enthusiastically and climbed up onto Crevan’s bed. “Clyde likes to carve them when he’s bored. But he’s gone so that’s the last pretty one.”
Raelynd rotated the mound, studying it. Her soap looked much darker because of the ash. “I wonder where these flecks came from,” she said, handing the rose-shaped lump back to her sister.
Brenna’s mouth hung open with candid shock. “What do you put in your soap?” she finally asked.