by Cathy MacRae
“Set a watch at the gate,” he ordered.
“There is always a watch at the gate, Laird,” Finlay reminded him in a mild voice.
“For Riona. She isnae to leave without an escort or my knowledge.”
Finlay pursed his lips and nodded. “The lass dinnae take the news well?”
Ranald snorted. “Ye could say that.” He flexed his right arm. “Have the men finished practicing for the day?”
“Aye.”
“The field is clear?”
“D’ye find yerself in need of exercise?”
Ranald grimaced. “Aye.”
Heading toward the cleared area on the other side of the bailey, they crossed the cobblestone path and strode to the hard, packed earth. With mirrored movements and the deadly music of drawn steel, they faced each other.
Finlay caught the fierceness of Ranald’s first strike with a look of surprise. He slipped quickly to the side and gave Ranald an appreciative nod. “She dinnae say aye?”
Ranald parried Finlay’s tentative riposte with a flash of heavy steel. “She said nae.”
Steel clashed, echoing off the walls of the castle as the well-matched pair advanced and retreated the length of the field. Ranald immersed himself in the rhythm of parries and thrusts, avoiding Finlay’s attack with practiced grace, banishing Riona from his thoughts as he focused on meeting Finlay’s advance.
Their swords collided, the vibration sliding down their lengths to their hilts with an unearthly screech. The two men paused, face to face, sweat beading on their skin, their breathing deep and measured.
Finlay spoke first. “Why the watch on Riona?”
With a snarl, Ranald swung his blade in a downward arc, stepping nimbly from Finlay’s quick stroke. “She wants to challenge the marriage.”
“With who?”
Ranald turned his sword tip down and thrust it into the dirt with disgusted force. “The king.”
* * *
Riona paced her room, Ranald’s words echoing in her mind.
He’d said, Me.
Him?
What madness was this? Ranald’s arguments seemed plausible enough, but, in reality there were surely no two people less suited for each other in either Scotland or the Isles. His boyish pranks had not endeared him to her. In truth, she’d been most glad to see him leave. His brother had been the one to laugh and allow her to join them. Ranald had pushed her to her eleven-year-old limits.
She spun on her heel and paced in the other direction, her hand drifting over the fixtures in her room. The smooth, iron-bound wood of her clothes chest blended into the plush softness of the velvet coverlet on her bed. Riona drew up sharp, snatching her fingers away. Her eyes snapped to the bed at her side.
By Saint Andrew, she’d have to allow him into her bed!
Panic she’d kept buried for so long threatened to rise to the surface and she fled to the window, taking deep breaths of crisp, cool air. The tightness in her chest eased and she forced herself to face the huge bed.
She chided herself for her panic. There were no bad memories attached to this bed. Many nights she’d spent sheltered in her mother’s arms as a coastal storm swept over the castle. Many nights she’d lain awake listening to the sough of the breeze bringing the scent of the ocean on warm summer air. She could hear the waves from here, the rhythmic crashing lulling her to sleep.
Gilda.
Hesitantly, she allowed herself to remember the man who’d stolen her innocence and left her with a bairn to raise. Not once in five years had she spoken the man’s name, though her father had tried to force it from her, first in anger, then in sympathy. But she’d remained terrified and mute.
At fifteen she’d believed the man capable of any or all the repercussions he’d threatened when he finally released her, and to confess his identity would have plunged the entire clan into violent feud and death.
Though she pretended a bodyguard wasn’t necessary, she no longer went about as though she was a careless maid, and she took great pains to see Gilda was watched closely. The Macrorys treated Gilda like the lichtsome lass she was, and only her sweet temperament kept her from being outrageously spoiled. Tavia and Fergus knew Riona had a special fear of the MacEwens, though neither knew for certain who fathered her child.
The four-posted bed took on a hulking menace as the light dimmed, casting it in shadow. With a shudder, Riona hurried to light a lamp, biting back a curse she shouldn’t know, much less speak. A gust of wind blew the flame out. Her hand shook, and she took a deep breath to steady it.
Women married all the time and many none the worse for it. A panicked sound rose in her ears at the memory of iron-like fingers pressed into her flesh. Another blast of cold air lifted the hair on the back of her neck, baring her skin, and Riona jerked with a cry of alarm. Calling on her strength of will, she turned her memories to anger as she’d learned to do.
Lighting the lamp with a brisk, efficient touch, she set it on the mantle over the fireplace and bent to poke the banked embers to life. Sparks flew from the coals and swept up the chimney. The wind keening against the castle walls was not the gentle swell from earlier in the evening. Riona’s head came up, realizing for the first time the storm brewing outside over the one seething deep inside her.
She’d been terrified of storms as a lass. So was Gilda.
* * *
Ranald shifted his chair closer to the roaring fire in the great hall. The unprecedented sunny weather had come to an abrupt end. A brisk wind off the firth, the harbinger of a storm, shrieked through the slats of the shuttered windows and billowed the heavy tapestries hanging on the walls.
The mood in the hall was peaceful. A cluster of men in the corner played a game of dice on a folded blanket, their low murmurs reassuring him of the halfhearted attitude of their game. A burst of laughter from the long table against the wall, was for a tale well-told as those gathered finished their mugs of ale. After worrying about mingling his Scott soldiers with the Macrorys, Ranald was pleasantly surprised with the results.
“A right skirl out there, aye?” Finlay slid nonchalantly into the chair at Ranald’s side. He grabbed a mug of ale from the bench next to him and downed half of it in a single gulp. He burped with great relish and wiped the back of his hand across his lips, removing the drops clinging to his short-cropped beard.
“The wind’s picked up speed.” Ranald twitched his shoulders beneath his padded jacket.
Finlay lifted a hand to the plaide draped over his shoulders. Moisture beaded lightly on the surface of the woolen cloth, and he unfastened the hammered silver brooch, letting the cloak fall to the back of his chair.
“Och, aye. ’Twill brew up a right storm soon. The guards have already locked the gates tight. ’Twill be hard to see an advance once ’tis dark.”
Ranald threw his captain a hard look. “Expecting one?”
Finlay shrugged. “Perhaps not this night. The lords are still nursing their mingin heads. But another night, who knows?”
“Ye think they simply minded their host’s hospitality last night, and ’twas all that kept them from turning on us after the funeral.”
Finlay snorted his laughter. “Last night not a one of them had more of a mind than a stookie standin’ in a field, wardin’ ravens off the garden.” He downed the rest of his ale in a long gulp and dropped the mug back to the bench. “I’m not so certain they could stand the clatter of blades this day, either. For Highlanders, they couldnae hold their whisky worth a damn.”
Ranald frowned. “Dinnae take last night’s banquet as an indication of their abilities as fighters. They drank many a Scott and Macrory under the table. They’re fierce fighters and verra clannish. Dinnae forget we’re the ones who dinnae belong.”
Leaning his head onto the back of his chair, Finlay closed his eyes. “Aye. I’ll set the guards to a double watch for the next few days. Nae need to let the beggars slip right through the gate.”
Ranald gestured to the room in general. “There seem
s to be a solid feel to the men tonight. I’m glad they havenae come to blows to establish their pecking order.”
Finlay lifted one eyelid and peered around. “Och, they’ve cracked a few heads, but ye bade yer men blend in as best they could. Once the Macrorys realized there wasnae a Scott easily beaten in a fair fight, they changed their tactics.”
“Tactics?”
“Aye. I’d say young Donald is about to lose whatever coin he has in his pockets. He’ll learn not to gamble this night.”
Ranald eyed the men playing their dice game. “They’d cheat?”
“Not so ye’d notice, but, aye. There’s probably more than one set of dice in that game. Dinnae fash yerself. Young Donald needs to learn a lesson or two. He’s a wee bit brash for his own good. Humility looks good on a wean.”
Regarding the tall, broad-shouldered youth, Ranald raised an eyebrow in question. “He’s hardly a wean.”
Finlay tapped his head with a callused finger. “He isnae a man yet up here. Let him learn.”
The door to the great hall banged open and a gust of wind guttered the flames in the fireplace, extinguishing the candles in their sconces near the entrance. Swords drawn, Ranald and Finlay faced the unknown threat at their door.
Her heavy woolen cape dripping water on the rushes, dark red hair plastered to her pale skin, Lady Caitriona bore down on them like an enraged water wraith, ready to drag them beneath the sea to their death.
* * *
How could he! How could he deny her! Enraged at being thwarted and terrified she would not be able to make Ranald see reason, Riona strode quickly across the floor, her wet arisaid flapping about, leaving a glistening trail of rainwater on the stone floor. Her resolve faltered at the sight of him poised like a warrior, sword in hand. Her brow furrowed as her anger snapped back. Let him prepare. She was ready.
“How dare ye set yer guards on me?” she hissed, coming to an abrupt stop mere inches from his chest. She had to tilt her head up to meet his questioning stare, and the lack of sympathy on his face only fueled her anger further.
“I want to leave the castle. Ye have nae right to keep me from going out!”
“We had this discussion earlier. Ye are a target and I dinnae have time to track ye down if someone kidnaps ye.”
“Ye amadan! There will be no one waiting to kidnap me in this weather. No one with a brain in his head would be out in this!”
Infuriatingly, Ranald lifted another eyebrow at her.
Riona clenched her fists and set her jaw. “I want to go to Tavia’s cottage. I must go. Now.”
Ranald’s face cleared as if in understanding. “She’ll be fine. The cottage has stood for many . . ..”
“No! The storm blew up too quickly. I must go to them!”
Ranald’s face reddened and Riona knew she’d angered him, but she didn’t care. The only thing she cared about was Gilda.
“I’ll send someone after the old woman and the lass. Though they’ll likely be more inconvenienced by the wetting they’ll get coming up here than by staying in the cottage this night.”
Riona ignored his frown, latching onto his words. “Now. Send someone now.”
She knew he didn’t understand her urgency. This was not the time to confess to her betrothed she was not a virgin, and had a child as well. The need to go to Gilda overwhelmed her. What would he think when he found out about Gilda? They’d been safe here at Scaurness under her father’s protection and the care of the Macrorys. But her situation was different now, and she could well find herself and Gilda turned away in shame.
Damn him! If he’d not set the guard to stop her at the gates, she’d be at the cottage now, holding her daughter, calming her fears of the storm. She needed time to gather her thoughts and determine the best way to introduce such news.
But suddenly her time had run out. There was a cry from the doorway and Riona whirled at the familiar sound. Flaming red hair whipped out behind Gilda as she ran full-tilt down the length of the hall and hurtled herself into Riona’s arms.
“Ma!”
Chapter Seven
The room dimmed around him. No sound from the people reached him, no breath of the storm outside the castle walls registered. His shocked gaze met two sets of large gray eyes. Different fears pooled in their identical depths and fueled unexpected flames of anger.
Ranald saw red.
Riona murmured into Gilda’s ear, clutching the child to her breast, smoothing her hair with slow, soothing motions.
Ma?
Ranald said the first stupid thing that came to his lips. “Ye have a bairn?”
Riona’s gaze picked up the merest trace of defiance. “Aye.”
Something jabbed Ranald in his back, and he jerked, reluctant to shift his attention from the pair before him. Finlay drew even with him, a smile on the big man’s face.
“Why, yon’s the wee mermaid from the tidal pool.” He stared pointedly at the lass’ booted feet. “And she has shoes today.”
Gilda sniffed, her attention diverted. She swung the appendage out where she could see it better. With a grin, she ducked her head against Riona’s shoulder, offering Finlay a shy smile.
“This conversation is best continued in private, Lady Caitriona.” Ranald’s teeth clenched tight as his rage refused to fade away.
“Come, mo chroi. Perhaps Finlay would tell ye a wee story. Auntie Tavia could sit with ye.” She looked over her shoulder. The old woman stood a few feet away, her lips drawn tight, eyes narrowed in disapproval.
Setting Gilda to the floor, Riona transferred the child’s hand to Tavia’s. Hesitantly, Gilda stepped forward, pausing to gaze up at Finlay. Ranald ground his teeth as he fought to keep his temper in check. Finlay squatted on his haunches, drawing face-to-face with the lass.
Ranald sucked in a startled breath. Did the man just wiggle his eyebrows at the bairn?
Gilda giggled and Ranald spun on his heel, leaving Riona to follow him as he stormed from the room.
* * *
Ranald stared at the tapestry on the wall. The bright colors blurred and the whimsical scene of dragons and knights could have been jagged lines stitched by an untalented lout for all the notice he paid. He gathered his thoughts and did his best to rein in his anger. There was an impatient shuffle of feet behind him, but no other sound penetrated his focus.
With great deliberation, Ranald folded his arms across his chest and faced Riona, a large writing table between them. He wondered if she thought it protection from his ire.
“I think ye have something that needs tellin’.” Surprisingly, his voice sounded calm to his ears.
Riona’s gaze held steady, her chin high. “Gilda is my daughter.”
“Aye. That much is obvious.” Ranald blinked once and returned her even stare. “Who is her da?”
Silence beat down on them as surely as the rain pounding the castle’s slate roof. Riona did not reply.
He tried again. “What did ye tell yer da?”
Riona’s face blanched and she looked away, breaking eye contact. But the silent admission to shame was brief, and when her gaze snapped back to his, Ranald witnessed both anger and fear in the stormy depths.
“He dinnae press me.”
“That would be a lie. No man would watch his daughter grow round with child and not demand to know the father.”
“He asked, but I dinnae tell him.”
“Tell me.” Ranald’s tone was implacable.
Riona flinched, but she visibly rallied her courage. “No.”
An impasse. If Riona had spent the last several years denying her own father the truth of her daughter’s parentage, how could he expect her to simply answer the same question from his own lips?
Perhaps a different tactic . . .. “When were ye going to tell me about the bairn?”
Riona tossed her head, sending her wet braid slapping across her shoulders. “I only found out we were betrothed this afternoon.”
“It had to have crossed yer mind.”
“And ye have no bairns to call yer own?” Riona scoffed.
Ranald took her challenge in stride. “None as have been brought to my attention.”
Whether or not he had fathered a child was beside the point. As the laird’s unmarried daughter, the fact she’d borne one was clearly an important thing to have mentioned.
“Ye either still wish to marry me or not. Gilda is part of the bargain.”
Ranald unfolded his arms and took two steps toward her. Placing his hands firmly on the table between them, he leaned over until his face was only inches from hers.
“Nae. She is not.”
* * *
Riona paled. What does he mean? She shivered, the wetting she’d received from the rain chilling her skin as thoroughly as the hollowness she felt inside. Her chest ached as if she’d taken a mortal blow. I willnae allow him to raise Gilda.
Another thought, more vicious than the last, shot through her, nearly sending her to her knees. What if he sends Gilda away?
With an effort, she steadied her racing heart. “Ye cannae be so cruel. My da wouldnae have been so blind . . ..” Her voice hiccupped as her breath stuttered past a throat swollen suddenly with fear. “He wouldnae have allowed the king to send ye here if he thought . . ..”
Ranald’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a piercing stare. “What the hell are ye talking about?”
“Gilda.” Her brief attempt at composure deserted her and she shook her head, unable to form the words screaming in her mind.
“What about Gilda?” Ranald’s gaze burned along her skin as she struggled to regain her voice.
No longer cold, anger filled the hollow place in her heart. “She’s mine. As long as Da lived, we had a life here. We were cared for and loved. ’Tis our home.”
His stare became a glower. “And?”
“Just because I’m to marry ye, doesnae mean ye can send her away!”
“Are ye daft? She isnae a pawn to be used between us. I wouldnae send the lass away. What are ye thinking?”
