The Princess and the Laird

by C. A. Szarek

  Duncan laughed as he stumbled about the bailey. His brother released him, which made his unsteady gait even worse, reversing his momentum.

  He refused to concede to the ground rushing up and shot his arms wide until he regained his balance. Like he’d been a laddie imitating birds and pretending to fly. Alex sucked back a curse and glared at his twin, but the rascal beat him to speech.

  “Yer rusty, brother.”

  Damn, he wanted to wipe that smirk off the face that matched his. He’d had nothing to say to his brother since the day Alex had tried to tell him about Alana. When he’d admitted that the lass consuming his thoughts was a Fae princess, Duncan had laughed so hard he’d cried.

  His twin had slapped his plaid-covered thigh and had wiped his eyes dry only to further his mirth by accusing him of going mad.

  Alex had tried to convince him he’d spoken only the truth, but that only amused his twin even more. He hadn’t spoken more than a few words to him in over a week—since that conversation in his ledger room. He’d been forced to interact with Duncan in front of their mother, for her benefit, but even that had been strained, and his twin had acted oblivious, of course.

  He’d accepted the challenge of a spar today with the sole purpose if kicking his arse, leaving him bruised. A bump on the head from the hilt of his sword had merit, too. Maybe a little bloody?

  The surrounding men—a mixture of clansmen and MacLeod men-at-arms, murmured. Some watched, and some were also sparring.

  Alex and Duncan were used to an audience when they were on the fighting yard, due to who they were as much as their skills with the weapons.

  Dunvegan loomed behind them, a long shadow cast over the grounds. It was a sunny, breezy spring morning, but there was still a bite to the air that could cause shivers and dry the sweat they’d worked up.

  Thank Jesus they were on the opposite side of the large courtyard where the lasses were beating tapestries and rugs clean. The wind carried feminine chatter their way, but they were still out of sight.

  He had no need for female concern or attention. “I’m no’ rusty. Yer no’ playin’ fair.” He prayed his statement hadn’t sounded like a petulant, untrained lad.

  “Fair? In a fight?” Duncan scoffed as he circled him, obviously trying to hone in on another perfectly mounted strike.

  Truth be told, Alex would rather retreat inside than finish the match, even at the risk of being accused of weakness.

  He didn’t want to be out with the men. He didn’t want to look at his brother, or be forced to talk to him.

  He didn’t believe me.

  Duncan had always been the closest person to him. To be thought a fool by his twin, or that he’d been jesting, let alone that he’d gone mad, had more bite than Alex wanted to admit.

  They weren’t lads at play any longer. He’d needed his brother to listen, to believe him. Perhaps to solidify he wasn’t actually going mad.

  Obviously he couldn’t focus on swordplay anymore than he could Hamish’s endless scrolls demanding decisions. He just wanted to say aye to them all, but he couldn’t empty MacLeod coffers, either. He needed to study the requests, be smart, and see what was truly needed.

  Alex just wanted everyone—including his pesky twin—to leave him the hell alone. If Duncan had tried to apologize, it would’ve gone a long way toward forgiveness, but not only had he not, his brother acted as if he didn’t see his ire—and hurt—toward him.

  To worsen his mood, he’d missed his ride on the beach that morning, instead giving in to the requirements of his position at his steward’s behest. He was trying to talk himself out of panicking that he’d missed her presence.

  Alana would come to him if she’d been able to sneak into his realm, would she not? She knew where he resided. Or would she sit on the ridge where they’d kissed and wait for him, ultimately to no avail?

  Give up when he wasn’t there, and go back to her realm?

  After the hours they’d spent together the previous week, he was even more obsessed with the Fae princess than before. He’d gotten a real taste of her as a person—not to mention those two kisses in front of her cousin.

  She was even more delightful than he’d originally assessed, and he craved her.

  Which was worse? Not seeing her for days—maybe weeks at a time—or having to hear Duncan’s yammering about her being not being real? About him being mad?

  Then there was the charge that he wasn’t being truthful because she belonged to someone else—or worse, really was a MacDonald and Alex was trying to hide it with a jest about a myth.

  ‘Prove it,’ his brother had commanded.

  Alex growled and rushed forward, pushing Duncan back when their weapons clanged.

  “Ah, there’s my brother.” His twin backed up and circled again, beckoning with a flat palm. “Come a’ me.”

  “Dinna stick ou’ what ye dinna wanna risk losin’.”

  Duncan smirked. “Dinna make threats ye canna see ta tha end.”

  He narrowed his eyes and made an unsuccessful strike—his brother was able to slide out of the way. He cursed again and tossed his sword from one hand to the other, then re-gripped it and glared before trailing closer again.

  “What has ye in such a foul mood, brother?”

  Of course, he has no idea I’m still upset with him.

  Alex didn’t answer, just kept loping around his brother. Staring. Trying to intimate him.

  They were equal in strength and physical breadth—they were identical twins after all. In addition to that, they’d been trained by the sword from the same age, and were well matched in skill.

  Who won their bouts tended to switch off, but Duncan was always more bothered by that than he ever had been.

  Their clansmen often wagered over who would win and how long the streak would last. Of course, his brother would never bet against himself. Betting against his laird, on the other hand, made for a worthy brag when he managed to beat him.

  “Methinks ye need a good tumble.”

  Alex tried not to pause his movements or show a reaction to the jibe. It probably wasn’t untrue. He was wound pretty tight. His erotic princess dreams hadn’t decreased. If anything, they were more intense, more frequent since the last time he’d seen her. Touched her. Kissed her and held her hand as they’d walked and conversed on the beaches of Skye.

  The nightly torments still seemed too real to be mere dreams. Perhaps he should discuss them with her next time he saw her.

  She was magically inclined after all, maybe they were actually communicating somehow?

  Aye, I need a tumble. With Alana.

  No other lover would do.

  The longer he remained silent, the more Duncan looked torn between amusement and concern.

  Alex preferred being laughed at; had no desire for another I-don’t-believe-your-lass-is-a-princess conversation with his brother.

  “Somethin’s botherin’ ye.” His twin waited; lowered his claymore.

  You didn’t believe me. “Nay, nothin’s botherin’ me.”

  “Alex, whate’er ‘tis, can be remedied, canna no’?”

  Apologize to me. “Raise yer sword! Are ye ou’ here ta fight, or ta natter like a lass?” he growled back.

  Duncan smirked. But something passed in his eyes that said he was bothered that Alex wasn’t opening his mouth to confess all.

  “Duncan, I dinna wan—”

  His brother invaded his space and grabbed his forearm. “‘Tisna the lass?”

  Despite his low volume, Alex frowned and let his eyes dart about the bailey to see if anyone was looking their way. He had no desire for explanations if Duncan had been overheard.

  All the men were sparring, and no one seemed to be observing the laird and his twin quipping more than knocking swords.

  “Jesu, ‘tis tha lass!” his brother exclaimed when he’d failed to answer.

  “Keep yer voice down,” he barked.

  “What fer?”

  Alex sighed and sheathed his s
word. “I’ve duties ta attend ta.”

  Duncan stopped him from turning to go with a stronger grip. “I’m concerned abou’ ye, brother.”

  “Dinna ye mean, ‘my laird’?”

  “Ye can bluster all ye want, but ‘tisna gonna work. Tell me.”

  “Tell ye what?” His inquiry had been too loud. A shout that made him want to wince. I tried to tell you, and you didn’t believe me. Alex wouldn’t say the words. His brother would demand a real confrontation, and he didn’t have energy or desire for it.

  “Whate’er ‘tis, a’ course.” His brother’s tone was reasonable. Even. Calm.

  He wanted to yell again and shove him away.

  Usually, Duncan was the one with irrational bursts of temper, not him. The idea was sobering and Alex straightened his shoulders and told himself to breathe.

  “My laird?” The question was wrapped in amusement, and flared his anger all over again.

  “Sod off, Duncan MacLeod.”

  He broke the hold his twin had on his arm and whirled away, ignoring Duncan’s wide eyes and arched eyebrows, along with the way he’d reared back as if Alex had punched him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alana’s hand shook as she made a fist and hollered at herself to knock on Seamus’ guest suite door. It’d taken all evening, the next morning, and into the afternoon until she’d worked up the nerve to do what had to be done.

  Get it over with.

  It mattered not that she never intended to follow through with the arrangement. She didn’t want to agree, let alone sign something binding.

  When she closed her eyes she only saw—and yearned for—a certain pair of sapphire ones, and guilt swirled in her gut. Every once in a while, it jumped up and took a bite of her heart, leaving her shaking. Fighting sobs.

  It’d taken hours to gather her wits even after she’d resigned herself that her cousin was right.

  At least Xander hadn’t lectured her any more. He seemed to recognize how hard this was for her. Besides, he too despised Seamus.

  Relenting to the stupid prince’s demands—even if they really were for naught, and she had to keep reminding herself of that—was like losing a battle that would never sit right in her mouth, let alone her cousin’s.

  Xander had promised to help her figure out a plan—for everything.

  Too bad her whole body still ached for Alex, and Alana felt like she was betraying him by agreeing to sign parchment that would declare Seamus as her betrothed.

  Nausea roiled her gut. Bile rose and what little food she’d forced down at midday threatened to spill onto the corridor floor.

  She jumped when her cousin put a hand on her trembling arm. Alana swallowed, but the distraction had helped, and she clamped down her urge to retch.

  “I’ll come with you. I can chaperone. Decorum will keep him from asking me to leave.” Xander’s voice was right above her ear.

  “Nay. I shall handle this.”

  He offered a curt nod, but squeezed her wrist when she went to move away from him. “You scream if he so much as—“

  “I will, but he won’t do that today. He’s getting what he wants.” She gulped.

  “I’ll be right here, waiting for you.” Xander planted his feet, flexed his wings and locked his jaw. He inclined his head once more and crossed his arms over his green breastplate. The hilt of his sword brushed one palm.

  At least he was ready for anything, and would save her—if she needed it.

  Alana nodded. Couldn’t find her voice. With one last fortifying look at her cousin, she swept into the room without waiting for Seamus to call out after she’d knocked.

  The wretched Irish Prince was lounging on the oversized bed instead of in the sitting room, and wearing nothing but a diaphanous green robe covering his arms and shoulders, but the rest of the material was lying at his sides on the plush mattress.

  Completely open.

  His green eyes went from surprised to smug much too fast for her liking, and he made no efforts to cover himself. If anything, when Alana looked at him, the bastard preened.

  Her urge to vomit was reborn, despite the vast expanse of defined muscles on display. His body should be pleasing to the eye, but this was Seamus, so it was not.

  She avoided looking at his manhood, which she’d had the unfortunate opportunity to notice was a hard length, standing at attention. He was aroused.

  Had she caught him about to touch himself? Or was he awaiting a lover?

  Alana shuddered, but that seemed to please him more.

  “Do you like what you see, dear princess?”

  She rolled her eyes and didn’t honor him with a response, but his answering smirk said that was what he’d expected—or desired.

  Seamus smiled, flashing his dimples and sat up. His hard pectoral muscles flexed, and his abdominals rippled with his movements. “I was lying here, thinking of you, my sweet princess. See what you do to me?” He had the nerve to gesture to his erection.

  Was he about stroke himself?

  Alana scoffed. Wanted to demand he cover up, but that would let him know his nakedness bothered her, and that was the last thing she wanted to admit.

  Like most Fae, she usually had no qualms about nudity—and he needed to assume she was comfortable with all that bare flesh; immune to his good looks would be even better.

  She strode forward, but kept her body out of grabbing distance. She didn’t believe he’d try to snatch her to him, but the memory of being pinned by his big form was at the back of her mind.

  His anti-magic medallion was still in place at his neck, gleaming red in the light as if the deep stone dared her to try a spell.

  “Not talkative today, are we?” The prince cocked his head to one side and shifted the dark waves of his hair.

  His looks were wasted on him, but the fact she could see his beauty just irritated her. Alana wanted to picture him as shrived and ugly as he really was.

  She took a breath. There was no reason to dance around the Acana tree. “You get your way, Seamus.” For now, until I can figure a way out. “I’ll sign a contract, but ‘tis betrothal only. ‘Twill be worded that it can be ended at my behest.” She narrowed her eyes at the triumph on his visage.

  He could be so handsome if he wasn’t such an awful person.

  “Nay.”

  “Nay?” Her heart thumped. She planted her hands on her hips and straightened her shoulders.

  “When you sign a parchment for me, ‘twill be seen through. We will wed.”

  Alana sucked down a calming breath when she’d rather scream at him, but Seamus would enjoy that too much. “Don’t forget, we have our fathers to contend with. As you know, most royal betrothals are at least two years long. You may decide on a great many things, but not that. Both kings will have a say. And I will plead with my father that I have one, too. That I can say when.” It would do little good with King Fillan, but Seamus didn’t need to know that.

  The prince wrung his hands, and his indignation rolled off her empathic magic.

  It was the first time she’d managed to make him angry, and even though it was a result of mostly the truth, Alana held back a smile. “Something wrong?” she asked in her brightest tone.

  Her father would want to negotiate with the Irish King, and Fae lived a long time. Especially in nobility, let alone royalty, long betrothals were common, some longer than the two years she’d cited. Her dowry wasn’t set in stone. The king would want to release as little wealth as possible.

  King Fillan had been betrothed for five years before he’d married her mother—and although noble, the queen had not been born a princess. He was a greedy man, and would take all he could wheedle from Ireland for Alana’s hand.

  Even if she’d wanted to marry Seamus, the terms of when weren’t really up to her. No doubt her father would exercise all his rights and level all the power he could.

  There was no love in these types of arrangements. Royal marriages were for alliances, and King Fillan had had his eye on
an agreement with Ireland since she was wee.

  He’d be delighted that she appeared to want to marry Seamus. Perhaps so much so that he would let her make decisions regarding the wedding—not that she’d tell the idiot prince that.

  “I am in control.” Seamus thumbed his bare chest.

  Ah, she’d hit a nerve by pointing out what King Ciaran must hold over his head. He was a prince, not the king. He’d always been arrogant, but so was his father. They probably clashed about such things. That was possibly why he had no apparent desire to go home—trying to scheme for Alana aside, of course.

  She wanted to grin, but managed not to. She could handle his petty emotions, but needed to watch herself. He could still go to her father about Alex, even if he did get his way.

  “Here ‘tis how it ‘twill work,” Seamus mocked her, but she told herself not to react.

  “And how is that?” Alana tried to make it sound like a quip, as if she was unconcerned, but her voice had too much of a hard edge, and his expression told her they’d both recognized it.

  “You will sign the contract, and I will not be designated as only your royal consort, but as king along your side…when the time comes, of course. Provided…our fathers agree.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Instinct flared. There was more left unsaid. Mayhap he did have evil plans for her father.

  Could she voice concerns to King Fillan to get out of this mess?

  Alana would have to have proof. She’d have to watch him—or have him watched. “Of course,” she made herself echo.

  “I shall indicate the same for you, concerning Ireland. My father will not disagree.”

  Don’t offer me any favors.

  She cleared her throat. “I would expect nothing less.”

  Seamus nodded, as if the little concession was out of his sense of generosity. Even if he didn’t truly have the power to make such a designation, despite his confidence King Ciaran would agree.

  The bastard.

  “We shall marry, and you shall provide me with heirs.”

  Alana trembled and had to talk her shoulders into remaining straight. She stood taller.