by Cathy MacRae
Tavia took the comb from her and plied herself to the daunting job. “Unless ye want to go far from here, there are only the Macraigs and MacEwens to consider,” she reasoned.
Tavia sighed at Riona’s dark look. “Och, accept what the king has commanded and do yer best.”
“So ye’ll take his side?”
Tavia set the comb on the table and began to braid Riona’s hair. “Nae, lass. I willnae take sides. Certainly not against ye. But the clan loves Gilda and she has known no other home. She’ll be safe here.”
Riona sighed. “I want the best for her. But what about me? I tell ye, Ranald doesnae want me.”
“Gilda was a surprise to him,” Tavia agreed breezily.
Riona whirled in her chair, grasping the back rungs, her grip whitening her fingers. “He said he’d always see another man atop me . . .” She swallowed against the hateful words.
Tavia cupped her chin in her palm. “Can ye love him without being afraid?”
“Can I let him—”
“Nae, lass. Can ye love him?”
Riona’s eyes, round and dark, echoed her inner battle. “I dinnae know, Tavia.”
Tavia nodded and swept Riona’s braid over her shoulder. “That, lass, is the difference.”
* * *
Gilda’s breakfast disappeared in a trice, and she bounded to her feet, pulling at Ranald’s sleeve. “Come on, Ranald! Let’s go to the beach.”
He pointed at her chair. “I dinnae know where ye hid yer manners, lass, but ye’ll sit in yer chair until the meal is done.”
Gilda slumped her shoulders, dragging her feet until she regained her chair. She slid half her bottom onto the seat, scuffing one foot back and forth on the floor.
“I also heard a rumor that petulant wee lasses dinnae get to go to the beach this day.” Ranald took another bite of his bread. From the corner of his eye he watched her consider how serious he was. Quietly, she tucked her feet in front of her and placed her hands in her lap.
She beamed a bright smile at Finlay. “Thank ye for the story last night, Finlay. ’Twas verra good, and I liked it.”
Looking over Gilda’s head at Finlay, Ranald rolled his eyes in an exaggerated plea for patience.
Riona approached her chair and Ranald immediately snapped to attention. A fragile air lingered about her, and her eyes, though downcast, were rimmed in red as though she’d been crying. Or had lost sleep. Or both.
Ranald stood and swept her chair back for her. With a nod of appreciation, she sat, filling her plate from the remains of the platters at the table.
“A drink?” Ranald’s hand poised above a flask of watered ale.
Riona shook her head. “Water, please.”
He corrected his aim and filled her mug. Leaning close, he murmured, “A bad night, Ree?”
Her head shot up, her gaze startled. Ranald touched his own eyes briefly in comment.
Riona frowned. “I dinnae sleep well.”
“We need to talk about our betrothal.” Hope leapt in her eyes. “It needs to be announced,” he clarified firmly, tamping down his frustration as the light in her eyes faded.
But to his surprise, she nodded. “Announce it when ye are ready. I willnae gainsay ye.” Riona returned to her breakfast, but ate little.
“Ma?”
Riona smiled at her daughter. “Aye, mo chroi? What have ye been up to this morning? Pestering Cook?” She picked Gilda up, settling the wean on her lap. Brushing back her glistening hair, Riona placed a kiss on the lass’s forehead.
“Ma, Ranald said he’d take me to the beach today. Can I go? Please?”
Riona blinked in surprise at Ranald, who shrugged. “I dinnae remember it quite so, but, aye, if she’ll put on shoes, I’ll take her to the beach for a while.”
Gilda whipped around in Riona’s lap. “I dinnae like shoes, Ma. Tell him I don’t have to wear shoes on the beach.”
“If the laird is taking ye, he will decide.”
Ranald preempted Gilda’s next words. “No shoes on the beach—ye’d only get them wet. But ye will wear them down and back.”
“Huzzah!” Gilda jumped from her mother’s lap and darted away. The rumbling sound as Ranald loudly cleared his throat drew her to a halt. She pivoted with a demure air, spoiled by the impish look on her face, and retraced her steps.
Stretching up on her toes, she kissed Riona’s cheek. “Can I be excused, please, Ma? I need to find my shoes.”
Riona made a play of looking over the lass’s plate. “It looks as though ye’ve eaten enough.” She nodded. “Ye must ask permission of the laird, first, though.”
Gilda turned her eyes on Ranald. He leaned forward. Bracing her hands on the carved arms of his chair, Gilda placed a resounding smack on his cheek. Eyes wide, her hand flew to her mouth, not quite stifling a giggle.
Ranald gave her a mock-stern look. “Ask before ye get down next time, lass.” He waved a hand at her in dismissal. “Go and get yer shoes. Be quick. I dinnae have all day to wait on ye.”
Gilda fled the room, her feet a blur beneath her as she pounded up the stairs. Finlay snorted and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.
“What?” Ranald snapped.
“She’s got ye twisted around her finger—and ye dinnae know it.”
Ranald shifted, uncomfortable. “She doesnae.”
“Och, aye. She’ll have ye carrying her sea cubbie for her.”
Muttering under his breath, Ranald quirked an eyebrow at Riona. “With yer permission, my lady?”
“Ye dinnae have to take her to the beach, Ranald.”
“She’s a sweet lass. I should get to know her better.”
* * *
Gilda wasn’t at the door when Ranald left the great hall, so he ambled to the stable to saddle Hearn. Senga and Pol danced around, tails wagging as they anticipated a run. Ranald eyed the great beasts, remembering Gilda’s lack of fear earlier. Then, she’d been safe in his arms. Today, she’d be on the beach with the dogs if he allowed them to come. He’d let Gilda decide.
By the time he saddled Hearn and returned to the main gate, Gilda waited, craning her neck as she searched for him. She waved, bouncing with excitement.
He guided his warhorse to the lass and leaned over, his arms crossing over the pommel of the saddle. “What d’ye have there, lass?” He nodded at the basket in her hands.
“My sea cubbie.” She held it up for him to admire. “I can put lots of shells in here.”
Ranald dismounted and looked in the basket. He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like fish.”
Gilda frowned and peered inside the empty basket. “Aye. It used to have fish in it.” She brightened. “Auntie Tavia gave it to me.”
Pol and Senga bounded over. Gilda started and grabbed Ranald’s hand. At a motion from Ranald, the pair stopped and sat, tongues lolling from their mouths, matching canine grins on their faces.
“They’d like to go with us. Will ye allow it?”
Gilda regarded the dogs solemnly. “Can I pet them?”
“Aye.” Ranald stepped forward with Gilda, encouraging her to approach the dogs. Senga and Pol rolled their heads and scooted their rear ends in the dirt, but remained sitting, and Gilda’s wary approach turned to glee as Senga offered a paw for the lass to shake.
“Can they come with us?”
“Aye,” Ranald chuckled, though he picked her up and swung her onto Hearn’s back before he released the dogs. True to his word, Finlay sent two young soldiers to accompany them, armed to the teeth and awed by their duty. Ranald nodded to the guard and started to swing up behind Gilda who perched precariously on the warhorse’s back.
“Wait!”
Ranald stared at Gilda, questionably. She pointed to her basket, still on the ground. “Don’t forget my cubbie!”
Though he did not see him, Ranald swore he heard Finlay laugh.
Chapter Nine
Gilda leaned against Ranald as Hearn’s front quarters dipped into the first plunge down the trail to the
beach. With his arms on either side of her, there was scant risk she’d fall, but her short legs were unable to gain a purchase on the big saddle. Her fists tightly gripped Hearn’s mane, but no word of complaint or fear passed her lips.
Ranald chuckled. “Rest easy, lass. I’ve got ye.”
Gilda didn’t reply, but the tension left her body, and color returned to her whitened knuckles.
“I like horses,” she said, though Ranald suspected it was more to bolster her courage than to inform him. He doubted she’d ever been on a horse as large as Hearn. Fortunately, the big gelding took an extra rider in stride, though he would scarcely notice Gilda’s slight weight.
Ranald reined Hearn onto a steadier trail, careful to assure tree branches did not brush against Gilda’s fair skin. The lass relaxed further.
“Look! Sea goo!” She flung an arm in an upward arc and Ranald’s gaze followed. Gulls wheeled overhead, dark silhouettes against a cloudy sky, shrieking their hunger to the wind. Ranald laughed at her enthusiasm for the very birds that had pestered him that morning.
“I can feed them.” She bounced happily, twisting toward him in the saddle. “Did ye bring bread?”
“Nae. But now I know why they’re so bold.”
“Hurry! I want down.” She squirmed in her seat.
“Wheesht, lass. Dinnae try to get down now. ’Tis too far for a wee lass to fall.”
Gilda leaned cautiously forward and peered over Hearn’s shoulder. His massive hooves trod the stony trail, scattering pebbles to the side. She snuggled back against Ranald. With a grin he knew she couldn’t see, he urged Hearn to a faster pace.
They drew to a halt at the bottom of the cliff, guardsmen and dogs right behind them. Gilda wriggled in anticipation, but Ranald stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
He nodded to the two young men who reined in beside them. “One of ye stay here and watch the lower beach. The other ride back to the top and keep an eye on the trails along the cliff. Finlay has a guard posted between here and the castle.” With a nod, he dismissed them and urged Hearn to a shaded area a short distance down the beach beneath a small cluster of trees.
Swinging his leg over his horse’s back, he dismounted, leading him deeper into the shade. Reaching up, he caught Gilda as she plunged trustingly from the height of the horse into his arms. As her feet hit the ground, she plopped to her bottom, pulling her shoes off, leaving them scattered thither and yon.
“My cubbie!” She scrabbled for the basket tied to the back of Hearn’s saddle.
“How about askin’, lass, not demandin’?” Ranald rested one hand on the ancient, woven basket, his other fisted on his hip.
“May I have my cubbie, please?” Gilda wheedled, batting sooty lashes at him.
St. Andrew’s teeth, she has the wiles of a young lass, and has scarce passed her fourth year. Saints have mercy on us.
He untied the basket and handed it to her. She accepted it with a gracious thank ye as she broke into a half-walk, half-run to the water.
“Hurry, Ranald!” The basket jostled against her shins as waves crashed over the rocks, sea spray all but soaking her.
“Watch out!” Ranald caught her in two strides, pushing the dogs away as they loped beside her.
“’Tis sea bree, Ranald. It willnae hurt ye.”
The spray misted over him, plastering his shirt to his skin. He sighed, wondering what sort of sprite Riona had birthed. Gilda darted across the shore, stopping every few moments to inspect something at her feet. Realizing it was hopeless to try to keep up with her bird-like movements, he stopped and kicked off his own boots, following her tracks in a more straightforward manner.
He studied the cliffs, scanning the rim for signs of danger, but all he saw were images of himself and the other children playing happily on this same beach so many years ago. A smile lit his face, remembering the pranks they’d pulled on each other.
Chasing Riona with the sea crowl they’d caught, making her believe they’d pinch her with its claws. The sea swine they’d spotted in the distance, breaching the waves in graceful unison. He’d never seen one up close, but the old sailors had told tales of them, describing the almost human-like smiles on their faces.
“Look, Ranald!” Gilda’s shout brought him back to the present and he hurried to her side. Long red hair, darkened by the water, clung to her neck and shoulders as she crouched on the shore.
“A sea fallen star.” She pointed to the creature before her. “It’s still alive.” She looked up at him, concern pinching her face. “Will ye throw him back?”
Ranald picked up the prickly sea star and heaved it far out into the water, past the breaking waves. Gilda jumped to her feet, clapping her hands, sending wet grit flying, happiness radiating from her.
“Now he’ll live and not be a n’angel.” She tucked a damp hand trustingly in his. “Let’s find some shells.”
* * *
Riona paced the floor of the kitchen.
Cook cleared her throat. “Is summat botherin’ ye, lass?”
Riona jumped, startled at the interruption. “Nae. I was just going to fetch the herbs for the stew.” Striding off in the direction of the storeroom, she wiped the palms of her hands on her skirt.
Entering the cool, dry room, she breathed the spicy aroma, perusing the neat bundles of herbs hanging from a beam, the packets of seeds lining the shelves. Making her choices quickly, she spread a clean piece of linen on a long table in the middle of the room, placing the herbs and spices she needed on the cloth. She tied the ends together with habitual movements as her thoughts wandered once again.
What sort of man was Ranald? She found it difficult to reconcile him with the pest of a boy he’d once been.
Aye, I can admit he’s grown up. And grown up quite nicely, too.
A smile played about her lips as she pictured Ranald in her mind. Always the thinner of the three boys, he now stood tall, with a muscled body that bespoke hard work and long hours training. She’d seen his skill with a sword and knew he did not lack courage. His hair was a dense, dark brown and though he wore it neatly clubbed, she wondered if it was as thick as it appeared. In her mind his face turned to hers, and she noticed again that his eyes weren’t black, but the darkest, deepest blue . . .
“My lady?” Cook sent her a puzzled look.
Riona started guiltily at the voice at the door. “I’m tidying up. I’ll be right there.” She checked her bundle and eyed the table, making sure she’d replaced the containers. Irritably, she noticed she’d not set the packets in their usual orderly rows and pushed at them until they were neatly tucked away.
Leaving the room, she handed her bundle to one of Cook’s helpers and locked the stillroom door behind her. Glancing about to be sure no one noticed, she slipped out the door into the kitchen garden where the end of summer flowers bloomed along the walls.
In the far corner stood a twisted oak tree, its gnarled branches once a favorite hiding place. Picking up her skirts, she climbed onto the lowest branch, scarcely three feet from the ground. Winding her way carefully up the trunk, she settled onto a broad limb, away from prying eyes.
Would Ranald be a good father to Gilda? The lass certainly seemed taken with him. How long would his tolerance for her last? Would he change when his first bairn was born?
Riona’s chest tightened. In a few days she would belong to him. He’d said he would not touch her against her will. Would he even want her? His words from the night before rose to taunt her.
‘. . . grunting atop her . . .’
Was that what all men did? And Tavia asked if she could love him.
She took a deep breath. Could she love parts of him and will herself to accept the rest? She liked the way he looked, admired the way he sat his horse, agreed with the way he commanded the soldiers of Scaurness, and was pleased to see the interest he took in her people. Gilda liked him. Riona sighed. No, Gilda already loved him.
She leaned against the trunk of the tree. She’d been wrong. Rana
ld wasn’t cruel. He’d been angry, and rightly so, she admitted. She remembered his other words, his value of her help with the people of Scaurness. How this marriage would not force her to leave her home—something she knew would affect Gilda far more. He had promised her much from this marriage.
And she’d promised him nothing.
* * *
“Tavia! Tavia!” Riona’s voice rang through the solar. Receiving no reply, she whirled to leave the room, nearly running over the object of her search. “Tavia. I need to start planning my wedding.”
The old woman nodded. “Aye. A rowin stane gaithers nae fog. ’Tis best to keep busy. Ye’ll worry less.”
“I want to look pretty. And I want Gilda to have flowers in her hair, and a new dress.”
“She’ll outgrow it in a week, she will.”
“There’s beautiful fabric in the wardroom.”
“A new overskirt, one with laces at the sides.” Tavia’s lips pressed in a tight line. “We have nae time for more.”
“Done,” Riona replied happily. “I’ve just the thing.”
Tavia picked up her skirts and hurried after Riona, muttering under her breath with every step. “And none o’ that fancy cloth, either. Linen is good enough for the bairn. She’ll like as not get it dirty or torn before she has it on a full minute.”
Riona laughed. “It’s not every day her ma gets married. I want it to be special for her.”
“What about ye, lass? How can we make it special for ye?”
Riona stopped, her hand on the wardroom door. “Dinnae press me, Tavia, please.”
The seer touched her fingertips to Riona’s cheek. “Ah, lass. I’ve loved ye since ye were born. I was in service to yer ma and I’ve had the raisin’ of ye since she died, and ye but a wean yerself. She’d roll in her grave to see what’s become of ye. Put the past behind ye. As much as he deserves to be reminded now and again of the way he treated ye as a wean, the laird’s a good man. He could make ye forget.”
“I told ye, he doesnae want me. I’ve been spoiled by another man.”
