by Paula Quinn
He was tempted to blurt out that he was the Mackinloch laird’s son. That while he realized he was meant to wed Lady Lazy-Eye, would the MacCarrons object if he married her aunt instead?
“I think we should leave,” Fynn said, shaking him out of his lunacy.
He dragged his gaze away and stalked to the hallway.
“To the stables,” he hissed to his men when the door closed behind them. “We need a new plan.”
*
“He doesna seem so bad,” Jeannie whispered.
“What?” Shona replied, her eyes still fixed on the door. She couldn’t understand her reaction to the man who’d escorted her betrothed to Creag Castle. Just looking at him had caused peculiar but not unpleasant sensations to ripple up her thighs and into very private places.
“Yer intended,” her auntie explained. “He seems like a nice mon.”
Shona swiveled her head back to the conversation. “He has one hand.”
“Still, he’s mature, not like the other two.”
Shona had an urge to shriek. “Mature! He’s old.”
Jeannie bristled. “Weel, I’d wager he’s not much older than me.”
“Ye can marry him then,” she retorted.
Her aunt stood, took her by the arm and led her away from the bed. “We’re likely to wake Kendric with all this caterwauling. The Mackinloch is intended for ye, nay me.”
Shona detected a sadness in the strange eyes. “Ye liked him.”
Jeannie shrugged. “Aye, but that’s neither here nor there. Ye’re the one who’s going to marry him and sooner or later ye’ll have to reveal yer identity.”
That much was true. Uncle Kendric would eventually awaken and the truth would come out. But the longing in Ewan Mackinloch’s brown eyes taunted her. If there was a chance… “I liked the younger men better,” she declared haughtily.
Jeannie scoffed. “Ye prefer a lad who canna speak to one with no hand?”
Shona pouted, aware her aunt knew exactly what she meant. “I was thinking of Ewan.”
Jeannie snorted. “That’s his name, is it? Cheeky bugger couldna take his eyes off ye.”
“He doesna ken who I am. Probably thinks to pursue me.”
“That’s impossible and ye ken it.”
Conflicting emotions swirled in Shona’s heart. It was impossible, but she’d never been known for her obedience to authority. If she had to marry Fynn, she might as well explore her feelings for Ewan first. “My uncle has decreed I wed a Mackinloch. Ewan is of that clan.”
“This deception is proving too dangerous. What ye propose might destroy a fragile peace.”
“Aye. We need a new plan.”
We’ve Been Tricked
The unusual number of visitors to the castle obliged the ostlers to stable more than one horse to a stall. Two lads were lethargically grooming Liath and the other Mackinloch mounts. They left without hesitation when Ewan took their brushes and tossed them a coin.
He brushed Liath vigorously, hoping the restlessness fogging his brain might dissipate if he kept busy. “We need a new plan,” he repeated when he was certain there was no one nearby to overhear.
Liath snorted.
Fynn’s attention remained on checking Egil’s hooves and he made no reply.
David nodded.
Guilt pressed on Ewan’s temples. He’d not only landed himself in an impossible situation, he’d also made life difficult for two loyal men willing to accompany him to MacCarron lands.
Amid all the confused emotions swirling in his heart, he was certain of one thing. He wanted the golden-haired beauty.
Perhaps she’d consent to becoming his mistress if he had to marry Lady Lazy-Eye. The prospect left a sour taste in his mouth. He knew of many a married laird who kept a leman, but they weren’t men who were generally respected, and such a rare beauty deserved a man who doted on her.
Exasperated, he raked a hand through his hair. Lust was filling his head with fanciful notions.
“Lovely lass,” Fynn suddenly sighed, sounding more like a lovesick swain than a grizzled Highlander.
Ewan’s gut tightened. “They both are.”
“Aye,” Fynn replied. “But yon Lady Shona is a fine woman.”
“Won…won…won…wonky,” David contributed, pointing to his own eye.
Fynn glared at him, jaw clenched. “And ye can barely talk, yet I warrant ye consider yersel’ a fine mon nonetheless.”
“Arguing is getting us nowhere,” Ewan hissed. “And Lady Shona is promised to me, lazy eye notwithstanding.”
Fynn scoffed. “But ye dinna fancy her.”
“And ye do, I suppose,” Ewan blurted out, immediately wishing he hadn’t when the fire in his clansman’s eyes betrayed the truth of the matter.
They glared at each other. Ewan opened his mouth but words refused to come. Gooseflesh marched across his nape when a loud snore from the neighboring stall interrupted the standoff.
Frowning, Fynn and David stood stock still. Ewan motioned them to stay where they were as he took a step into the narrow space that separated one row of stalls from the other.
He cocked his head to listen and decided the snoring rendered it unlikely they’d been overheard, but he had to make sure. He drew his dagger and crept stealthily towards the culprit.
He was tempted to laugh out loud when he peered around the splintered wooden frame. A shaggy-haired grey dog as big as a wee pony lay sprawled on the hay, sound asleep, tail twitching.
His amusement was short-lived when he realized a boy slept back to back with the deerhound. For a panicked moment he thought it was Andrew, but that was impossible. He was about to tiptoe back to his men when the boy rolled over and studied him with blue eyes wide. “Dinna worry,” he yawned, sitting up. “Ruadh willna harm ye.”
Nostalgia rose in his throat. The lad sounded like Andrew too.
“I’m nay worried,” Ewan replied softly, not wanting to alarm the bairn. “What’s yer name?”
“Robbie.”
He hunkered down next to the beast. “Pleased to make yer acquaintance. Ewan’s my name. I’m curious why the dog is called Ruadh? He’s grey, not red.”
“My auntie named him,” Robbie replied, combing his fingers through the rough coat of the still-snoring dog, “because his mother was red, and the puppies were red when they were born, and she thought they’d always be red.”
Ewan chuckled. “Seems reasonable.”
“Aye,” the lad replied, clearly at ease with a stranger.
“Yer auntie?” Ewan asked, wondering again about the complicated relationships among the MacCarron clan.
“Lady Jeannie. She’s not really my auntie, but I call her that. Ye’ve mayhap met her. Mamie says I shouldna point out such things, but I think ye’re new and might not ken who’s who. She’s the one with the lazy eye.”
Evidently, sleep had dulled the boy’s wits. “’Tis true we’ve only recently arrived, but isn’t Lady Shona the lass with the peculiar eye?”
Robbie shook his head and laughed. “Nay, Cousin Shona is bee-ute-i-ful.”
His laughter dragged the dog from his stupor. Ruadh raised his head and attempted a bark that emerged more like a muffled woof of greeting rather than a challenge. He yawned, revealing an awesome array of sharp teeth, then let his head fall back to the straw, apparently exhausted by the effort.
The fog slowly lifted from Ewan’s befuddled mind. They’d been tricked. “Just to be clear,” he said. “Shona’s the fair-haired lass.”
Robbie frowned. “Aye, but she’s nay for the likes o’ ye. She’s promised to a cursed Mackinloch, if ye’ll pardon my language.”
*
Shona opened the door of Kendric’s chamber only a crack until she was certain it was Moira who had knocked.
She inhaled the aroma of stewed rabbit as her maid carried in the tray of food.
“Quickly,” Jeannie admonished, rising from her bedside chair. “I’m starved.”
Moira obliged and bustled to t
he small table by the hearth. She removed the muslin cover with a flourish. “Cook sent a bowl o’ broth wi’ two drops o’ laudanum for the laird as ye asked, and there’s meat and gravy and parsnips for ye.”
Shona wrinkled her nose. “Parsnips!”
Moira pouted. “Be grateful, my lady. Cook is trying his best to feed the visitors. The hall is full to bursting.”
Shona couldn’t help herself. “Are the Mackinlochs there?”
“Aye,” Moira replied. “Since ye and the laird are absent, only the man with one hand sits on the dais, and he doesna look very comfortable.”
“We should be in attendance,” Jeannie retorted, chewing a mouthful of meat. “What will our guests think?”
Shona rolled her eyes. “We canna go down to the hall. The Mackinlochs will quickly discover our ruse when somebody blabs.”
Jeannie sipped a spoonful of gravy. “I’ll go mad if we have to stay in this oppressive chamber much longer.”
Shona ignored her and turned to Moira. “The two escorts who are supping in the hall, does it appear they are still convinced I am Jeannie?” she asked.
“I suppose so, but only wee Robbie and that daft dog are sitting at the same table, and Mungo Morley is making no bones about stirring up old hatreds with rude comments.”
Jeannie skewered a parsnip with her eating dagger. “Causing trouble. His favorite pastime. I’ll take yer parsnips if ye dinna intend to eat them.”
Shona pushed the trencher closer to her aunt. “At all costs, Mungo canna become our chief,” she said.
A shiver stole over her nape. The one way to thwart the bully’s ambition to become laird was to marry the one-handed Mackinloch.
“Aye,” the others chimed in together, confirming her worst fear.
But it was a fate she resolved to put off as long as possible. The Mackinlochs had promised to stay for a year and a day. Her brain might reason she was playing with fire, but her heart urged further investigation of her feelings for Ewan. “Ye must be our eyes and ears, Moira,” she told the lass who knew more of her secrets than anyone. Born the same year, they’d grown up together. “Make friends with the escort. Find out what ye can.”
Moira beamed a broad smile. “The bonnie lad?”
Shona had to nip that prospect in the bud. “Nay. He’s too smart and will sense ye’re prying. The other one.”
A scowl furrowed Moira’s brow. “The one who canna talk?”
“Aye. Him.”
As the door slammed behind the pouting maid, Jeannie stirred the broth with the spoon. “Help me lift yer uncle. We must get sustenance into him.”
Shona braced herself against the bed and struggled to raise Kendric’s dead weight to a sitting position while Jeannie spooned broth into his mouth. Most of it dribbled down his chin, but then he slowly opened his eyes and swallowed.
“Good,” Jeannie exclaimed. “Ye must eat, Brother.”
She managed to get him to swallow a few more mouthfuls in between bouts of coughing before he turned bleary eyes to his sister and then to Shona. “What happened? Some sharp-toothed creature is gnawin’ ma leg and ma hip.”
His bulk became too much for Shona. She eased him down onto the bolster. “Yer horse threw ye during the hunt.”
He blinked rapidly, as if trying to remember. “Spooked,” he eventually mumbled. “Are ye wed yet?”
Aunt and niece exchanged a glance across the bed. “Tell him,” Jeannie whispered.
“I’ll nay wed until ye’re better, Uncle,” she said softly, but he’d already closed his eyes.
“Tell him,” Jeannie urged again, then pursed her lips.
Shona nodded. “For the good o’ the clan, I’ll agree to yer wish that I marry yon Mackinloch—even though he has only one hand. But not quite yet.”
“Aye,” Kendric mumbled sleepily. “Asked for yer hand. Whats’er makes ye happy, lass.”
*
Ewan never thought he’d be glad of the company of a wee boy, a lazy dog and a stammering lad, but the atmosphere in the hall was decidedly unfriendly. He supposed the same might be true if a gang of MacCarrons were obliged to eat in the hall of Roigh Castle. However, he suspected Mungo wouldn’t be hurling overly loud insults about the parentage of every Mackinloch since the dawn of time if the laird were present. It confirmed his initial impression of the man’s cowardice. And the voice! He sounded like a petulant lass.
In the absence of The Camron and his close kin, Fynn sat in splendid isolation on the dais, adding to the murmurs of discontent, and providing fodder for Mungo’s vitriol.
It was interesting that not everyone sided with the giant’s insults. There were definitely two factions, but it was difficult to ascertain the identity of the second group’s champion.
Amusing too were the varied reactions to Fynn’s handicap. Some gawked at his ability to eat food without difficulty; others gasped each time he used his stump to dab his mouth with a napkin. Ewan had to admit the man had risen to the occasion and was playing his part well. There was whispered speculation about how he’d lost the hand and general agreement it had probably been in battle. No one seemed to work out that most battles fought by Mackinlochs in Fynn’s lifetime were against MacCarrons.
Robbie had readily accepted the revelation that Ewan was part of the Mackinloch delegation. He’d politely apologized for his earlier remarks and now chatted on about all manner of things, though never with food in his mouth. “Mamie says it’s bad manners.”
Ewan cast about for some sign of the elusive Mamie, but no one seemed concerned about the lad.
Ruadh had evidently come to the conclusion that Ewan’s booted foot was the most comfortable place to lay his enormous head, only lifting it slightly each time Robbie threw him a scrap or two.
The most curious thing, however, was that David had caught the eye of a pretty serving wench. The lass refilled his bowl of broth twice and ladled copious amounts of gravy on his meat. She even asked his name.
“David,” he replied without a trace of a stammer.
“Moira,” she breathed, smiling beguilingly and leaning forward in an obvious attempt to make sure the lad got a glimpse of her ample cleavage.
Not used to being ignored in favor of another man, Ewan felt an initial twinge of annoyance, but quickly realized he ought to be glad for the youth. Were it not for the speech problem, the fresh-faced David would make some woman a fine husband. Mayhap a lass who truly loved him wouldn’t care about the stammer.
He leaned close to his kinsman’s ear. “Ye should seek her out after the meal,” he suggested, nodding to the servant as she made her way to the kitchens.
The young man blushed and shook his head.
“He’s right,” Robbie said. “Moira’s a canny lass, according to Mamie.”
Apparently, the lad had keen ears. “See,” Ewan said.
“She’s Lady Shona’s maid,” the bairn added.
A thought niggled in the back of Ewan’s brain that it was odd for a lady’s maid to be serving food in the hall, but he chose to ignore it. Perhaps she’d been assigned the duty because her mistress was tending a sick man. Besides, the more he knew about the real Lady Shona, the sooner he could plot his revenge for the subterfuge that had added an unexpected thrill to the pursuit. “Make friends with Moira,” he muttered under his breath to David. “Find out all ye can about her mistress.”
Robbie got up from the table at the same time and took David’s hand. “I’ll go with him, if I may be excused.”
Ewan nodded, chuckling inwardly at the boy’s good manners. As they walked away he called, “Dinna forget yer dog.”
Robbie shook his head. “Ruadh is nay my dog.”
Still pondering this conundrum, Ewan thought he should perhaps have warned David not to give away too much, but he quickly dismissed the worry. It was unlikely the shy lad would manage to say anything at all.
Caught in the Act
Shona had to force her aunt out of Kendric’s chamber, and not only because she was
reluctant to go. The woman was obviously about to keel over from exhaustion. “Ye’re tired. Go to bed. I’ll stay until the steward comes to keep vigil.”
“Goodnight, then,” Jeannie muttered in yawning agreement.
As she closed the door, Shona worried her aunt might not make it safely to her chamber, but she couldn’t leave Kendric alone. He’d been restless since the meager meal an hour or so ago and she hoped the steward would remember to bring more of the opium potion in case it was needed during the night. The necessity of staying away from the hall and the other busy parts of the castle was becoming a nuisance. The ruse was turning her into a prisoner in her own home. How much simpler life would be if the appealing Ewan had turned out to be her intended.
Donald arrived a short time later, brandishing the vial of laudanum. “How fares The Camron?” he asked.
“He woke earlier and managed to sip a few spoonfuls of broth, but he’s been restless since.”
Donald peered at his master. “No sign of fever though?”
Shona swallowed back a yawn. “That’s a blessing.”
He pulled the chair closer to the bedside. “Go, my lady. I’ll send for ye if needs be.”
Donald had served as Creag’s steward for nigh on twenty years and Shona knew she could depend on him. She pecked a kiss on her uncle’s forehead. “Goodnight,” she whispered.
After opening the door, she looked left and right before stepping out into the drafty hallway. Her chamber was a short distance away, but she’d walked only a few paces when she heard the familiar click of claws on stone. With his usual uncanny timing, Ruadh knew she was about to retire. His wet nose nuzzled her hand. “Clever dog,” she said softly, turning to pat his head.
Gooseflesh swarmed over every inch of her body when she realized Ewan Mackinloch stood behind Ruadh, arms folded across his chest. An enigmatic half-smile hinted he knew something she didn’t. His presence caused a peculiar but pleasant clenching in her nether regions, though an alarm sounded in her head.
“The hound seemed lost,” Ewan suggested, “so I thought I’d best follow to see if I could find his master.”
