Say Yes to the Scot

by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick

  “Everyone adores her,” Flora said, smiling. “Have ye by chance had any word from the MacLeods?”

  “No.”

  “Ye should send word to the Sutherlands, demand a ransom,” Hector said, frowning at Cait as she helped a wee girl through the steps of the dance. “She should be in the dungeon.”

  “Och, she’s not dangerous in the least,” Flora said.

  Hector sent Flora a sharp glare. “Is she not? What if she’s a spy? She’s had free run of the whole of Culmore for weeks. She knows everything about us, all our strengths and our weaknesses. One day she’ll leave, and—”

  Flora snorted. “Don’t be silly. She’s not a spy, Hector. I for one believe her when she says she’s lost. Have ye seen how easily she gets herself turned around? She takes the wrong staircase or walks into closets thinking the door leads to the library or the solar,” Flora said. “The children have taken to helping her find her way.”

  “Then perhaps she’s daft,” Hector said.

  “She’s not that,” Flora said. “Look at the brides. They’re lovely thanks to Cait, and that’s given them confidence. They’ll make excellent wives—Well, one of them will.” She turned to Alex. “Have ye decided which lass you’ll choose?”

  Alex shook his head. He was still consumed by the memory of a single kiss, and the one lass he couldn’t have. He could have her, he supposed, but Cait MacLeod would bring no tocher—no cows, no men, no coin. Whoever she was—MacLeod or Sutherland or neither—she wasn’t for him. His destiny lay elsewhere.

  “What do ye intend to do with her, Alex?” Flora asked softly, following his gaze to Cait.

  “It’s been three weeks,” Hector said. “I’ll say again that it’s time to send word to the Sutherlands that she’s here. Demand a ransom or send her back in pieces if they won’t pay. They’ve done worse to our folk.”

  “And what if she is the MacLeod’s daughter?” Flora demanded.

  Hector frowned and followed Cait with his eyes. “What if she isn’t? There’s no proof.”

  “There hasn’t been a single raid since she came,” Flora said. “Folk think she’s brought back the luck of the fairies.”

  “Ye know there’s no such thing,” Hector said.

  “Och, aye? Look at Aggie, and Janet, Coll, and Airril, and Auld Bryn. They believe it. So do I. Auld Bryn is composing a song about her.” She raised her chin and sent him a narrow look.

  Hector scowled at her. “And what will they say at midsummer when Alex stands before them with no ring to renew that magic?”

  Alex frowned.

  “They’ll tear ye to pieces, Alex,” Hector warned in a low growl. “They won’t wait for Samhain. Send her back where she came from. Why give them false hope? She’s not a blessing. She’s a curse.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hall.

  Alex knew he should go after Hector, speak to him about the defenses, the progress on the new cotts. But Cait’s laugh echoed through the hall, ringing in Alex’s ears like fairy bells. His heart clenched in his chest, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

  He couldn’t send her back to Rosecairn.

  He couldn’t imagine Culmore without her.

  * * *

  Cait bit her lip and knocked on the door of Alex’s chamber.

  “Come,” she heard Alex say, and she took a breath and opened the latch. He was seated at his desk, and he stared at her.

  For an instant her breath caught in her throat. He was so tall, so handsome. The rays of the setting sun poured through the window to limn his hair with gold, and his gray eyes held hers. She forced herself to smile.

  “Flora has mended your shirts, and she asked me to bring them to you.”

  He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Just set them on the—”

  Bed. He didn’t say it, but she heard it nonetheless, felt it, imagined . . .

  “Let me . . .” He got up from the desk quickly, and the paper he was working on—a set of plans for three new cotts—was swept off the surface by the breeze. It landed at Cait’s feet. She set the shirts down on the edge of a large chest and bent to pick up the parchment.

  “Is one of these for Aggie?” she asked, looking at the drawings.

  He nodded. “Aye. We decided to build them closer to the castle. But they were only half built when all three collapsed. I suspect the mortar isn’t setting properly. And Auld Bryn . . .”

  She smiled gently. “He blames the fairies.”

  “Aye. You’ve heard the tales, then.”

  “Of course.” She carried the drawing across to the desk and peered at it in the light. “Is this the river?” she asked, pointing. He came to look over her shoulder, standing so close their shoulders touched.

  “Aye, there’s a burn here. Aggie had a long walk to collect water at her old cott, and I thought being closer to a spring would help her.” He sighed. “The old site was good—flat and dry—but she worries that the Sutherlands will come back, and fears for her safety if they do, so the cotts need to be moved closer in.”

  Cait pointed to a spot on the map, a different meadow. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “The training field. My men practice there.”

  She bit her lip. “But the land there is also smooth and flat and reasonably close to the burn, but not so close to the river there’s a risk of flooding or sinking,” she said. “My father had the same problem. With the clan growing, he had to build four new cotts last year.” She turned to look up at him. He was leaning over her, and she could smell the fresh, male scent of his skin, and the wind and heather in his hair from being outdoors. She noted the callouses on his hands from working, wanted to run her fingers over them.

  “The training field is close to the castle,” she said slowly, breathing him in. “Perhaps it would be a better spot to build the cotts. The men . . .” She swallowed as she met his eyes, read desire there. “The men could practice on the other field, couldn’t they?”

  He was scanning her face, and she felt his breath on her cheek. She felt desire rise, tighten her nipples, make her mouth water. She sighed and leaned toward him, wanting another kiss, just to see . . .

  But he stepped back. He looked—well, horrified. He turned away, ran his hand through his hair.

  “It—” she swallowed hard. “It was just an idea.” She meant the kiss as much as the cotts.

  He turned to look at her. “And a good one. I should have thought of it myself.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from the opposite side of the desk. “I have to wed. I must choose Sorcha or Nessa, or Fiona or, or . . .”

  “Coira,” she supplied.

  He nodded and began to pace. “Sorcha Fraser has a fine tocher. Enough to buy food and cows and all the goods we need to see us through the winter. Fiona MacKay comes with land—good land. I could build all the cotts I wanted.”

  “Aye,” she said. “The MacKays are wealthy folk. I’ve heard my father say so.”

  “Your father,” he muttered. He paused to look at her. “Ye ken I’ve not heard anything from Glen Iolair.”

  “He won’t send word. He’ll simply come for me.”

  His frown deepened. “But what if he doesn’t?” he asked. His eyes slid over her, and she felt the lust in his eyes like a touch. She shivered. “I have to wed,” he said again. “I’d not dishonor Sorcha or Fiona or Coira or . . .”

  “Nessa,” she whispered. She raised her chin and folded her arms over her chest. “Nor would I.”

  “Then ye should go.”

  “Leave Culmore?” she asked, stunned.

  He shut his eyes. “I meant the room, but aye, maybe. Ye must know I desire ye. One kiss, and—” He shook his head. “I’m the laird. I wouldn’t dishonor any lass under my roof. I have responsibilities, and—”

  “And I am a laird’s daughter,” she said, pride making her angry. “If you think I’d ever . . . with a man who belongs to someone else . . .” She finished with a strangled sound of indignation and spun on her heel and walked
toward the door, and he watched her go. She would have made it, but she knocked over the pile of shirts, sent them to the floor. With a cry of frustration, she dropped to her knees and began to pick them up, refold them.

  Alex caught her wrists, pulled her to her feet. “Leave them, lass.”

  She looked up at him, met his eyes. His grip on her softened, though he didn’t let go. His calloused thumb slid over her pulse, and her breath caught in her throat.

  He groaned softly and released her. “Go,” he said. “Go before I change my mind and beg ye to stay.”

  Chapter Ten

  The day before Midsummer’s Eve

  The raiders came down upon the little group in the wood unexpectedly, like wolves, in broad daylight.

  Cait, the brides, and the children, along with Coll and Hector, had left the castle and gone into the woods to gather boughs and flowers for the midsummer garlands.

  The smallest children bore baskets for flowers, and the bigger ones carried rowan and hawthorn branches. The brides wore pretty gowns trimmed with more of the coverlets from Cait’s towering bed, and they glowed in bright colors that matched their eyes, or complemented their hair, or turned their skin to creamy perfection. She’d grown to like each and every one of the lasses.

  The outing also served to get everyone out of the way while Janet and the servants scoured every inch of the castle in one last, desperate search for the ring.

  “We’ll need holly and ivy for the wedding crowns,” Fiona said. “And Saint John’s wort, and meadowsweet, and mistletoe.”

  “And herbs for the wedding chalice,” Coira added. “Lavender, and skullcap, and rose.”

  “Is there mugwort growing nearby?” Nessa asked Coll.

  “Aye. What do ye want it for?”

  “If ye put just a wee bit of it under your pillow, you’ll dream of your future mate,” she told him. “We want to see which of us dreams of the laird. Will ye try it yourself, Coll?”

  He blushed and shook his head, frowning with mock disapproval, though his eye twinkled. “Go along with young Tam, lassies—he’ll show ye where to look.”

  The brides went happily off on their own with the boy while Cait stayed with the children. Hector Munro glared silently at everyone, especially Cait, and watched the woods warily while Coll helped to cut branches and carried the littlest ones when they grew tired. He told them stories, and he knew from long years of experience where the best patches of berries grew, deep in the wood and out of sight of the castle or the river.

  They heard hoofbeats before they saw the raiders, felt the pounding of the horses through the dense earth. Coll turned to stare down the path with his one good eye, and Hector drew his sword.

  Hector reached for Cait, but Coll pushed her off the path.

  “Sutherlands! Hide yourself and the wee ones.”

  Cait didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the hands of the nearest children and led them into the undergrowth. “Quickly now—we’ll go into the bushes and hide. We’ll stay quiet and won’t come out until they’ve gone past.”

  “Will they find us?” Megan asked her, her blue eyes wide.

  Cait picked her up and carried her deeper into the wood as the riders came nearer. “I hope not. I truly hope not,” she answered the child, her own heart pounding. Coll yelled a challenge, and other men cursed him, and Cait heard the terrible clash of weapons as she ran down into a gully and made sure the children were hidden under the thick ferns before she curled in beside them.

  “Caisteal Folais ’na Theine!” Coll bellowed the Munro battle cry, and Cait concentrated on holding the children still, keeping them quiet, hoping that Coll and Hector would prevail, that no one would be hurt.

  She heard the grunts and cries of men fighting, the whine and caper of wheeling horses. She heard Coll yell a curse, and the horses thundered away again, and there was a terrible silence. The children were crying, but their sobs were silent. They were used to raids now, knew to hold their breath and their fear until it was over.

  “Come out! Where the devil are ye?” She heard Coll crashing through the undergrowth as he came down the hill, and she rose.

  “Here. We’re safe.” She saw blood on Coll’s forehead and started toward him. “Coll, are you—”

  Coll slapped her hand away and glared at her, his sword still clutched in his fist. He pointed toward the track. “Those were Sutherlands, mistress. Your kin. This time they’ve taken Hector.” He pointed his sword at her breast, and she stood very still, wondering if he’d use it on her.

  “We’ve got to get back to tell the laird,” she said quietly.

  Coll cursed and began to grab the children, who still stood with Cait. “Get away from her. Run home now, through the wood. Sound the alarm. Your legs are faster than mine. Go, all of ye.” Still he held the sword pointed at Cait, his face grim. “Not you, mistress. You’ll stay with me, and we’ll go back together. If ye try to escape, I’ll cut your throat, for Hector. He was right. We should have ransomed ye when we had the chance. Now we’ll be lucky to exchange ye for Hector, if they don’t murder him first.”

  “I didn’t—” she began, but he growled at her.

  “Silence! They asked for ye by name, know you’re here. Let’s go.”

  Baird knew . . .

  She didn’t bother to argue. She watched the children leap through the undergrowth and disappear. The baskets of flowers lay abandoned, the joy of the day turned to terror.

  “Coll, I’m not—” she began as he drove her forward on the point of his blade, but another yell sounded from the direction the Sutherlands had taken.

  Coll spun, scanning the trees. He turned back to her.

  “Sit ye down right here and wait for me,” he ordered. “I’ll not let them murder Hector in cold blood.”

  And with that he hurried away and left Cait alone.

  * * *

  “The Sutherlands! The Sutherlands!”

  Alex heard the children screaming as they raced through the castle gate, and he hurried out to meet them. The youngest ones were crying, their eyes wide with terror. The older ones were muddy and grass stained, out of breath from running and carrying their wee siblings.

  The brides had come back with herbs and flowers an hour since, but the children carried nothing.

  He knelt before the eldest lad. “What happened?”

  “We were picking flowers with Mistress Cait when the Sutherlands came. Coll told us to run home and warn ye, Laird.”

  Alex looked over the lad’s shoulder at the gate, expecting to see Coll and Cait following, but the track was empty. His belly caved against his spine, and he squeezed the boy’s shoulders. “Where are they, lad?”

  But the boy shook his head. “I don’t know. Coll said the Sutherlands took Hector, Laird. Coll said it was Mistress Cait’s fault.”

  Alex turned and ran toward the stables. “I need a horse,” he bellowed.

  * * *

  The path was right here—or it should be. She’d led the children into the gully, which lay behind her. But when she turned, there was a hill instead, and the ferns and underbrush were undisturbed by any sign of a track. Cait felt her heart climb into her throat.

  She was lost again.

  She’d picked up a stout stick and followed Coll, sure she could talk to the Sutherlands, convince them to release Hector and leave Munro territory. Even if the Munros didn’t believe her, the Sutherlands were perfectly aware that she was indeed the daughter of one of the most powerful men in Scotland. They knew exactly what the Fearsome MacLeod would do to the kind of men who preyed on a weaker clan.

  But the father and faster she walked, the more lost she became. The sun began to dip toward the horizon, and the shadows lengthened, and still she wandered through an endless tract of forest. There was no sign of anyone. She pushed her hair off her sweaty face and longed for a drink. A drink would come from a stream, and a stream would lead her to the river. Culmore Castle stood beside the river . . .

  But she couldn’t
find a stream. She couldn’t find anything familiar at all.

  * * *

  Alex found Coll on the track, walking back toward Culmore. He frowned when he saw Alex coming. “I’ve failed ye, Laird. The Sutherlands took Hector, the captain of the guard, the very flower of our fighting men, the best of—”

  “What of Cait MacLeod?” Alex asked.

  Coll’s scowl deepened. “I told her to wait while I went after Hector. When I returned she was gone.”

  Alex’s hands tightened on the reins. “Did the Sutherlands take her?”

  Coll shrugged. “They didn’t pass me on the path, but she might have found her own way back to them . . .”

  Tell my father I’m lost again . . . Alex recalled what she’d asked him to write to Donal MacLeod. He thought of how she often took the wrong corridor or walked into the wrong room, though she’d been at Culmore for several weeks. He looked around at the thick forest.

  Or perhaps she’d planned this, betrayed him and the folk who had befriended and sheltered her, and returned to the Sutherlands, to Baird.

  Her betrothed. His belly tensed.

  He dismounted. “How long since you left her?” he asked Coll.

  “Nigh on three hours. I followed the Sutherlands’ tracks until they crossed the river, but I couldn’t go on alone.”

  Three hours . . . Even on foot she could be all the way to Rosecairn in six hours or so—if she knew her way.

  Alex tossed the reins to Coll. “Ride back to Culmore. Alert the guards. Check the village, watch for signs of any more raiders.”

  “Ye can’t mean to go alone, Laird, and on foot,” Coll said.

  “Go—I need ye at the castle. Keep the gate closed, watch for trouble,” Alex said.

  With that he stalked off down the path, wondering if he’d been a fool and lost his heart to a clever spy, or if Cait was simply lost again and waiting for someone to find her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Flora slipped out of the castle when the late afternoon shadows were long and purple. She wore her plaid close over her face to hide her passing and took the path that led into the oldest part of the forest. She knew the ancient byway by heart, and thick moss muffled the sound of her feet.