by Madelyn Hill
Stories of the lairdship had been woven into his memories since he was a lad. And now it seemed a nearly impossible feat for one man to breach a keep and demand to be laird. He dragged his fingers through his hair and sighed. What he wouldn’t give for his da to be at his side.
Wolf, at sixteen hands, ambled toward him, more like a hound than a horse. Aidan rose and stretched the sleep from his thirty year-old-body, grabbed a piece of jerky from his sporran and bit into the leathery meat. On his pledge, come this evening, he’d have met with the council and strategized just how the lairdship would be transferred to him. The council was waiting for him, the letter had stated, and he was here.
Before the sun began to burn away the morning mist, he saddled and mounted his horse. The hillside was covered with a smattering of trees, yet great barren spots contained only hard, gray rocks. Although his horse walked surefooted, Aidan dismounted to lead him down without the hindrance of a rider. ‘Twould help him think as well. His mind reeled with thoughts and promises. But most of all he thought about being laird. The one who gave orders, not followed. The one who’d live in a dry clean keep, not shoved in the corner of a leaking barn. ’Twasn’t power he wanted, although he had to admit power was attractive. He longed to have a clan. To be amongst those who were his people. Aye, and to be honest, he dreamed of a good woman, kind, gentle, not to mention a beauty.
Wolf stopped and set his hooves so securely he ‘twouldn’t budge. Aidan looked to him. “Come on, you wee mule. You’re too grand a horse to be frightened of a mere hill.”
Wolf pulled from his grip, ears laid back and cropped mane standing as rigid as a stone fence. The hairs on the back of Aidan’s neck prickled with warning. He scanned the range of the small mountain.
Someone slammed into him from behind. They grappled. He tried to grab his sword. Another man punched him.
A third man joined the fray. Aidan struggled as strong arms circle his torso. He threw them off while his fist met one of the men’s jaw.
Wolf screeched and reared.
“Cease.”
The command broke through the fight like a guillotine cut through a neck.
A red-haired Scotsman strode forward. His height nearly matched Aidan’s and his brawn as well. A dangerous look glinted in his dark eyes. Aidan stilled, aware of the feral intensity of this newcomer’s gaze. He crouched low, not taking his eyes from the other three men. “State yer business,” the stranger growled. His brogue was so thick, Aidan had a hard time understanding him.
One of the attackers to his right punched Aidan in the ribs. “He said state your business.”
Aidan narrowed his gaze. He whistled. Wolf barreled through the men, Aidan grabbed hold of his mane and leapt into the saddle.
Men yelled. Chased after him. Aidan urged Wolf forward and glanced over his shoulder. The brawny Scotsman stood firmly rooted with his legs akimbo as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Aidan took one last look over his shoulder. The Highlander swung a sling stone with wide, arching motions. Aidan crouched close to Wolf’s thick neck. The man’s aim certainly couldn’t be accurate at this distance.
The base of the hillock came fast and hard as the horse stumbled and something hit Aidan’s head with a deafening crack.
When he grabbed for the saddle, its leathery material slipped through his fingers and he landed with a thud on the hard ground.
“Go, Wolf. Run,” was all he managed before darkness enveloped him.
They dumped him on her foot.
Hope bit the soft inside of her cheek as his weight nearly crushed her toes. She glanced down, the prisoner met her gaze with one as sharp as the steel of her claidheamh. The color of his eyes matched the deadly steel of her sword, altogether marking him as a stout enemy.
She fisted her hands at her waist and tapped her now freed foot. “Aye, and who have we here?” she questioned her cousin Duncan.
The prisoner spat on the dry ground beside her. Duncan kicked him hard in the side, pitching him forward against her bare legs. She jerked at the force of his weight, then regained her footing and glared at the intruder. Who the devil did the man think he was?
Duncan kept the man pinned with the force of his foot. “Show our laird yer respect, ye wee bastard.” Duncan tipped his head at her and continued. “’He says he’s a MacKerry. Been summoned, he claims--”
“A woman?” the prisoner mocked. His voice held disbelief as a mocking grin pulled at his broad mouth. “’Tis the truth? You have your women wearing tartans as if they’d help you defend the keep. Bollocks, man, are you such cowards as that?”
With a growl that shook the battlements, Duncan lifted the man from the ground and tossed him, then he pressed his foot upon the man’s chest. Not a bad feat, Hope observed, for the prisoner matched her cousin’s brawn. And if he had use of his hands, mayhap he wouldn’t have been as compliant. Aye, ’twas the truth of it, for certain.
While Duncan pinned the man, Hope glanced down at her tartan, pinching the wool between her fingers. What could possibly be wrong with it? Her plaits held creases that rivaled any other clansmen and the brooch on her shoulder, a prone lion with emerald eyes and four arrows beneath it, secured the drape of the familial tartan. ’Twas the privilege of the laird to wear it and with pride she did so. Aye, the man was daft, to be certain.
As much as she enjoyed the man being taught to respect her authority, she needed to keep him reasonably healthy until the council decided his fate, especially since she recognized his crimson and gold tartan. “’Tis enough, Duncan. We need him in one piece for the council. And,” she added, giving the prisoner a pointed look, “we are at peace with Clan MacKerry. For now.”
“I was summoned,” the man claimed with a scowl. ‘I have the missive in my belongings.”
She nearly took a step back at his glare.
She glanced about the bailey. The clan had gathered in interest, seeking a distraction from their mourning regiment, she imagined. Her stomach quaked with the tension taunting it. The council would scrutinize every word she spoke, every step she took. If Hope didn’t pass their observations, ’twould it be the end of her lairdship?
“And you are?” she questioned as she arched her brow and settled her fist at her waist.
The prisoner was lifted to his feet. When he stood, he surpassed Duncan by a few inches. She couldn’t help but appreciate the strength of him. He was broad shouldered, admirably so. And his face proved pleasing with a firm jaw, large expressive eyes, and a mouth that looked . . . appealing. She shook her head. By Saint Michelina, how could she even look at a captive as if he were a man?
She swept her gaze clean of everything but loathing. “You are?” she repeated.
“Aidan MacKerry.” He bowed, arrogant and mocking. “If you would find my things, you’d see I’ve told you the truth of it.”
None too pleased with his tone, Hope said, “Take him to the dungeons. Then bring his belongings to the main hall.”
“Aye, m’laird.” Duncan bowed and grabbed onto MacKerry. “Come ye wee scrub.”
Hope watched them drag the man away. Duncan tall with flaming hair, MacKerry taller yet with hair so dark, she swore it matched his soul.
He looked over his shoulder, a tuft of his hair fell over his brow, his gaze full of intense scrutiny. A shiver ran up her spine. He was not to be trifled with, the glance conveyed. Despite the unease MacKerry had wrought, she’d not allow this infidel to jeopardize her lairdship. Of that she was certain.
“Duncan,” she called, “make sure Honor or Nora sees to him. I think his head is addled.”
Chapter 3
Aidan sat on the crude stool in the cell and leaned against the damp wall. His plan had gone awry at some point and now he ’twasn’t quite certain the summons hadn’t been another ruse devised by the bastards of Clan
MacKerry.
’Twas probably Anne trying to rid herself of the sight of him. His former fiancée betrayed him, mayhap she wanted him gone so she wasn’t reminded of how she’d treated him. Regardless, he was glad to be rid of the conniving woman. He scowled at the iron bars, even if he landed in a pit of a dungeon. Aye, ’twas better than living in the daily presence of her betrayal.
Water dripped from the next cell, but otherwise, little sound permeated the thick walls. Certain he was alone, Aidan stood and paced across the small cage. Anger filled him as he stepped in a puddle. The arrogant laird had sent him to the dungeon. The arrogant female laird. Why hadn’t he believed the current laird was a woman? He wiped the back of his neck and sighed. Damn them all. He needed to escape and then approach the laird. She needed to ken he would be replacing her.
Light squeezed through thin cracks in the masonry. It did little to allow him a clear view of his prison, but a faint skitter in the distance told of the mice or perhaps rats that were his cellmates.
He rattled the cell door. The moorings didn’t budge. He gripped the metal harder and shook with all of his strength. The metal bars loosened.
Here he was, being treated as a burden.
Once again, all because of a woman.
“Bollocks,” Aidan swore as he kicked at the iron bars. Women weren’t to be trusted, especially this one. The way she looked at him down her straight, fine nose, aristocratic and aloof, ’twas too much.
Aye, her dark auburn hair was deep and rich enough to befuddle a man. Her tresses were pulled back from her face, allowing a clear view of her long neck, high cheekbones, and brilliant green eyes. Even Aidan had to admit she was lovely. Beautiful.
The vision of the woman walking the battlements came to him. Was she the laird? Nay, it couldn’t be. That woman had acted carefree as she let her hair wave behind her.
Aidan shook his head. The low sweep of her voice as she commanded her men, sounded anything but carefree. Strong, with the indelible crest of power in the tone. And they obeyed? How could they allow her to rule them? Had she bewitched their ale with a spell of compliance and then stolen their cods?
“Ah, Father, I’ve mucked it up.”
“That ye have, lad.”
Aidan spun toward the voice.
“Turn toward the wall, lad.”
He waited for an interminable moment, then curiosity had him obeying the request.
“Ye’ve been summoned, that be true. Doona be quick to show yer innocence to Laird MacAlister.” The voice sounded as if it were living within his head and the speaker breathing down his neck. “She’s a wily lass and we’ve plans to be rid of her.”
Be rid of her? Aidan scowled at the ominous words. What ‘twould be the purpose? Worse yet, how ‘twould it be done?
“If ye continue to act in our stead,” the voice continued, “you’ll gain rewards far past what you now seek. Especially when she asks for yer hand in marriage.”
He scoffed and started to turn toward the voice. Marriage? To her? Nay, he wanted a wife who was sweet, soft, obedient, not the harridan he’d seen in the bailey.
“Stay as ye are, lad.”
Aidan stilled and said, “And the laird? How do you ken she’ll be asking for my hand?” He tried to keep a rein on his anger, but it spilled over and coated his words with scorn. Marriage? To that woman? Again he thought he’d rather be with a maidservant than married to a woman of such power. Someone humble, loving, not apt to run him through with her sword.
“She’ll come to ye. O’ this I’m certain. Remember the rewards you seek.” The man chuckled. “The rewards that were stolen from yer father and you.”
His da. Aye, the man had suffered. It seemed this mysterious guest had him tightly by the stones. “How did you know where we were?”
The man gave a raspy laugh. “I’ve always kenned where ye were.”
Why didn’t he send the letter before his father died? Rage filled him. “You never wanted my father as laird,” he accused.
“After yer mother, the council decided to let yer father leave.”
Aidan clenched his fist. Anger, nay, fury filled him so much it nearly blinded him. “He died with regret in his heart, a hunger to be laird like no other hunger I’ve ever seen.” All the pain for naught. Bollocks, such a waste.
And now the council wanted him to do their bidding?
“You’re to be laird. Remember that, MacKerry. To make up for yer father.”
He rubbed the back of his neck as he faced the back wall of the cell. He clenched his fist. He wanted to punch the stone wall. They’d been used.
And now he was going to be the one in charge, the one who used the council and even Laird MacAlister to get his boon.
As I pledge.
“We need ye as laird. The clan needs ye.”
He was needed—they needed him. He’d have to accept the stranger’s words. He wouldn’t trust them, to be sure. But if he could gather more information, have the council share their plans, he’d be able to ensure he’d be laird.
“Warn her, and you’ll find yerself in the ground next to her, ye ken?”
Aidan nodded, but of course he promised nothing. The temptation proved too strong and he turned. Gripping the bars, he cursed when he couldn’t discern a figure in the shadowy alleys of the dungeon.
He’d have to do as they wanted. For now.
He’d also stay far away from the Laird of Clan MacAlister. Even as Aidan tried to visualize her, his mind wrenched out of his control and thought back to his wedding day. The day wrought a host of painful memories, almost unbearably humiliating.
Standing there, facing the crowd of well-wishers, waiting for his bride to walk down the kirk aisle and profess her love before the priest—
Nay, he thought, gaining control of the errant reverie. Aidan leaned his head against the cold iron he clasped near to crushing. How long would the tumultuous past of his family haunt him?
He spat on the ground as a talisman of his determination to make Clan MacAlister pay. No matter if the current laird attempted to stand in his way.
She’d suffer, just as his father had, just as he had.
As I pledge.
Hope paced the laird’s chamber, one she refused to call her own while her mother lived. The heavy presence of her parents still occupied the room with her father’s weapons and maps and her mother’s tapestries. The high-beamed ceiling enlarged the room without taking away the comfort. Thick, hand-loomed rugs warmed the stone flooring and two upholstered armchairs sat before the hearth, as if waiting for her parents to relax in their coziness.
“’Tis yer chamber now, m’lady,” Nora said as she folded the last of Catriona’s clothing and set it aside. Tears shimmered in her dark eyes and her voice trembled with each word. Sorrow added more wrinkles to her already ancient face, prompting pity for the hapless woman.
Hope shrugged her shoulders and struggled for the words to describe the loneliness and despair she felt over her mother’s death. “Doesn’t seem right, ’tis all.”
The maid nodded and hiccoughed.
A bit of guilt nudged up her spine. “Och, Nora. Don’t be carrying on so. There’s naught you can do.” Hope wrapped her arms around the maid and rested her chin on Nora’s gray-haired head. Stout, the old woman barely reached Hope’s shoulders. Nora quivered, then pulled herself straight.
“Aye, ye’ve the right of it.” With an apologetic glance, she left the large chamber.
As soon as she was gone from sight, Hope wished her back. The room was so empty without the presence of her mother--her smile, resolve, and perfume. The presence of the maid had steadied her.
Hope ran a finger along the counterpane covering her parent’s bed and looked to the fire smoldering in the hearth. Above the mantel hung her father’s ax
e and targe. A telltale gouge in the shield gave witness to the blow that felled his body and stole him from them. The weapons unsettled her, wrapping old memories and the events of the past two days into one painful twist.
Ripping her gaze away from the disturbing sight, Hope strode toward the far wall to a bank of windows. Men gathered along the barrier of the bailey, in serious conversation if their gesturing and stances were any indication. Most likely discussing the prisoner and wagering on her course of action. The women herded children away from the men’s discussion or labored over their chores. Regardless of the mourning, there was always work to be done.
As she watched out the window, Duncan stomped away from the group of men, his face set in a stern scowl. Her cousin’s broad shoulders were rigid as he crossed the bailey and the hue of his face nearly matched his wild red hair. That’s a lad. Surely he championed her cause. Always allied to his Aunt Catriona, Duncan would help keep the clansmen allied to Hope as well without the presence of her mother.
Panic stiffened her spine as she gripped her long fingers over the window casement. There would be a clan council and without a doubt, she’d be the conversation.
And Aidan MacKerry.
Action was necessary, but she kenned she alone could lead the clan as she’d done for the past ten years. Just as she knew the council would demand Hope wed since she had no one to guide her or fight for her. The council was perpetually vexed her mother never bore a male heir. ’Twas their vexation, never her mother’s or her father’s.
But worse was her father’s wish, truly demand, for his daughters to be wed while they ruled. Blast him, even when he was alive, her father had known her stubborn nature, mainly because it was much like his own. But he ensured she’d be following his directive years after his death when he decreed his daughters would marry when of age or not rule. It was her mother who’d stopped the council. Hope ’twasn’t privy to how or why, she was merely grateful. And while she wanted to marry—someday—and have children—someday—the fact her father had decreed, it felt as if she had no control of her life, when a laird should have control.
