by Madelyn Hill
The sun began to nestle behind the cragged hills bordering the keep. Amber rays spread over the forest and spilled onto the water of the sound. Tranquil, yet it offered no peace to her.
No merriment was planned for the evening, so Hope decided to stay in her chamber. Mayhap she’d stay ensconced in her chamber until the councilmen attempted to force her to leave and relinquish her birthright.
For Hope was loathed to marry and allow a man to try and control what she’d worked so hard to accomplish. She didn’t take directives easily. For a man to take all she’d done and then rule as if it were his own, ’twasn’t acceptable in her eyes. Unless she chose the right man, one she’d control and not the other way around. For she’d never find a man who lead as fairly as her father or a man she’d trust as she trusted him. Tradition would force the man to be a MacAlister, but the council was tricky and this far in the Highlands, ’twas anyone’s guess if they’d follow tradition.
A light knock seeped through the oak of the door and Hope bade entry.
Honor peeked in, tear eyed and grief stricken. She leapt into Hope’s open arms and cried until her linen shirt was sodden with salty tears.
“There, there, a luaidhmo. Crying won’t be helping Mother anymore, my love.” Hope pulled away from her sister and swiped away her tears.
“But,” Honor said between sniffles, “first Father, now Mother. And what of you? Won’t they be making you leave?”
Hope shook her head. “Nay, lass. I have a plan they won’t be turning down.” ’Twas madness, no doubt. But it had to work. She’d vowed to protect her mother and sisters. And with Lady Catriona gone, she could depend on no one since the council often proved untrustworthy.
Her sister’s face grimaced into a frown. “Those men. They won’t be listening to a lass.”
“I’m no lass. I’m Laird of Clan MacAlister.”
Honor grimaced, wringing a frown from Hope. “Liam has their ear, Hope. You must ken this.”
If her sister felt this way, would the rest of the clan as well? Was her authority diminished now that her mother was gone?
Honor pulled back and gazed at her sister as if waiting for her to respond to her disrespect. Despite her current attitude, such a beauty she was. The long dark hair flowed down her back in a riot of curls and made her look more like a doll than a precocious Highlander. Forever the sweetest of the three of them, Honor would tilt up her face and smile and all would be forgiven. And she’d a talent with herbs. Often curing maladies and healing injuries. What a trio they made with Hope as laird, Faith the huntress, and Honor the healer.
Hope would have no problem finding a match for this sister. Unless her sister loathed marriage as much as she did. Hope had always skirted away from the subject of marriage when her mother posed it. The irony of her present situation prodded her into action.
“I’ve much to do, lass. Why don’t you go enjoy your meal and have Nora send mine?” Her head ached with all she had to plan. But she wouldn’t let her sisters down. She’d promised.
Honor nodded and left the room.
The arrival of the stranger had sparked an idea. On the morrow, she would put her plan, the likes of which the council had never seen, in motion.
They kenned not whom they were dealing with and with that sliver of satisfaction; Hope smiled for what seemed the first time in days.
Chapter 4
The laird held the torch high as she navigated the alley of the darkened prison. The light flickered against the stone walls, the silhouette of Lady Hope. When she reached his cell, he moved from the back toward the iron bars.
Arms folded before his chest, his stance unyielding, he remained silent.
“Have you broken your fast?” she said briskly. She’d interrogated men before, ’twas obvious in her bold tone.
Aidan shook his head. He wouldn’t give an inch, not for this woman. No, for any woman.
She sighed. “I’ll have bread and cheese sent down to you.” Her brow lifted. “After we’re finished.”
He took in the sight of her. She was taller than he first thought, reaching almost to his chin, although it was hard to tell through the iron bars. She still wore the blasted tartan and the laird brooch, but he reluctantly admitted it suited her confidence. The flickering flames of the torch haloed her, making her hair shine with rich auburn highlights and gave a cast to her eyes that were as green as spring grass. Their expression changed to one of challenge when she noticed his inspection and Aidan held back the chuckle he knew would incense her. She’d have to be a strong laird in order to have the men obeying her. A strong laird, indeed.
“You have need of me?” He wasn’t willing to stop watching her, but he wanted to break his fast to ease the rumblings of his stomach and of course demand to be released.
“Lady Catriona passed away just a few days ago.” As she spoke, she straightened her spine and met his gaze. There was tension around her eyes, pain. Och, she was grieving. Nay, he wouldn’t soften because the woman lost her mother. “My mother had been my main supporter in leading the clan and I’ve need of help since she is gone.”
Her voice mingled with the dripping water and the sound of his own breath. Aye, there was pain beneath her commanding tone. She took a step back, as if she were trying to remain in control of the situation. He waited for her to continue, interested in her ideas, although the visitor of the night before had given him warning.
Her shoulders straightened. “My father decreed I was to marry by a certain age or not rule. It appears I’m in need of a husband.” She looked directly into his eyes. “And he will be you.”
All air left him and his head was awash in ire. He’d been warned, but hearing the words, arrogant and without emotion, forced him into memories Aidan longed to hold at bay.
Woman seeking power, like his mother and his betrothed. Ordering men about as if they were commanders, demanding their will be done.
If she were a man ordering him about, he’d surely have attacked her through the bars.
“You’ll have no control, to be sure,” she continued as she stepped forward and gave a flippant swat of her hand. “I’ve led the clan well and will keep doing so. You’ll be there to soothe the council.”
Soothe the council? Surely, she understood they meant to undermine her? Did everyone think he was a fool? Had no cods?
“No control?” He growled. Fury filled him. Spiked to a fervor, he was surprised he hadn’t ripped the iron bars from their moorings. “A willing servant? Is that what you want?” he demanded roughly.
Anger knitted her brow as her hands fisted at her waist. “You don’t have much of a choice, do you? Either you rot here in the dungeon, or you agree to my plan.”
Aidan wrapped his fingers around the iron bars, in his mind, they were wrapping around Laird MacAlister’s neck. Mayhap it was his normally easygoing nature which led others to believe him weak and caused them to strike against his very manhood. But this woman had gone too far. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve no right to imprison me,” he countered.
“Aye,” she conceded with the tip of her head. “But I could take my time releasing you.”
He chuckled humorlessly. Aidan then reached through the bars with his other hand and lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers. “And what of the marriage bed?” he rasped, enjoying the pink hue blooming over her cheeks. Why it made her look maidenly and not like the over-bearing laird she was.
She held his gaze as her jaw tightened and flashes of anger flared in her green eyes.
“Am I allowed to share your bed?”
She tore from his hold, then scoffed.
She pointedly ignored the way he wrangled the iron bars. “Nay, we’ll not be husband and wife in the traditional sense. My father may have decreed I wed, but I’ll not sell myself in the process.”
> He grunted. “You are daft.” He’d lowered his voice, trying to keep his rage from ebbing out of control. Not husband and wife in the traditional sense? Did she realize there’d have to be heirs? More of the MacAlister line to sit in the laird’s chair? Her plan was poorly created and in the end she’d be hard pressed to keep an even keel along such a plan as they wed and began to rule together. Regardless of what she’s said, he’d not sit by and do nothing as she ruled.
“Laird MacAlister?” a voice called out, one Aidan recognized, one he knew would be coming. If only the man would come into the light so he could see his face.
“Aye,” she said with a hint of annoyance as she turned toward the voice.
“’Tis no place for ye, laird. Let me speak with the prisoner and bring his food.”
Aidan watched as her spine snapped straight and she visibly bristled at the suggestion. She cocked her head at the voice. “I’ve the right, for now. I’ll keep interrogating the prisoner until I’m satisfied with his answers.”
“As ye wish, m’lady.”
Blast it, the voice had stayed afar and Aidan had never seen his face. Of course he knew it was intentional, a reminder and warning in itself. But he was vexed, nonetheless. Laird MacAlister turn to him, and he nearly laughed at the outrage on her face. It must surely mimic his own. He admired her spirit. And her bravado. She’d asked a stranger to marry. He knew it had cost her. Mayhap this was the answer . . . her cost would become his fortune.
Mayhap he would agree. For now. Then he’d tip the circumstances to his advantage. Aye. He’d gain her trust, all the while moving his goal forward. For he’d be Laird of Wild Thistle.
As I pledged.
With an arrogant tilt of her chin and a challenge set in her gaze, she said, “What say you, MacKerry? Have we an agreement?”
“Why me?”
Her eyes widened, then she shrugged.
There had to be a reason. The clan was filled with men. The laird hadn’t decided to wed until the moment she saw him? Not very likely, she seemed too intelligent for that.
She remained silent for a moment. “The men of the clan see me as laird. Not as a woman.”
He smirked. A beautiful woman like her, not bloody likely. They saw the woman she was along with the laird she was. The combination mayhap too much for most men—a strong, independent woman. “They are afraid of you.”
A flash of irritation lit her green eyes. “Mayhap. Or they do not like me besting them in the practice yard.”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “Aye,” he said as he took note of her complete surprise at his laughter. “I’ll marry you.” Aidan would keep her thinking he was compliant.
And then, we’ll see how long it is before I’m in charge and in the marriage bed.
Chapter 5
Hope rubbed her eyes, weary and aggravated. What a beast of a man. Each time he looked at her, his gaze, a mix of grayish-blue sky tumbled with a coming storm, a quake would erupt in her stomach, and sweat moistened her palms. Mayhap, she’d made the wrong decision. Her mother’s death and the arrival of the stranger were clouding her thoughts and making her uncertain.
Shaking her head, Hope made her way to the main hall. Fresh thatched rugs swathed the floor, weaved together with lavender, pine, and a hint of rosemary. The floor coverings scented the area nicely and nudged some of her weariness away. She sat at the empty table on the dais at the head of the room, wanting to keep to herself. Knowing the clansmen would respect her state of mourning, she could be guaranteed a few moments of peace.
A leather bag landed on the table before her. “Here’s the man’s bag.” Duncan moved to the chair across from her. “’Tis no letter.”
She cocked her brow. There goes my peace. “You looked through it?”
He gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Aye, just a wee bit.”
“’Twasn’t your place. You ken?” Her mood soured further. “And I asked to see it yester eve.”
Duncan sometimes stepped above himself. And his arrogant manner didn’t soothe her in the least. Mostly, it reminded her of MacKerry in the dungeon. Men, she thought with heavy exasperation, were just lads in a body of brawn, they were.
“I’ll see what the bag holds myself.” She went to lift the bag from the table, yet Duncan placed his meaty hand upon it, deterring her action.
“The council is waiting for ye, laird.” He grabbed the bag. “They want to be seeing ye.”
“Did any of them look in the bag?”
He frowned. “Not that I ken.”
Hope suppressed a sigh and followed her cousin. The earlier pleasure she wrought from the freshened hall shifted into a crushing headache. God save her from the council. She’d let them hold their meeting, then she’d announce her plans.
As they strode toward the upper level of the keep, she walked with heavy steps. Her heart overwhelmed by grief and responsibility. She must put these melancholy thoughts aside. For the good of the clan, she must remain as laird. Hope shuddered to think what would happen if the council proclaimed someone else as Laird of Clan MacAlister. The council was ruthless and responsible for so much death in the past and she feared more would die. Just as she worried their folly had contributed to her father’s death. She’d been able to keep them in line, albeit with the help of her mother, but they wouldn’t decide against their laird, the clan would reject such actions.
And with Clan Mungo once again making threats and encroaching on their borders, Hope kenned they needed to remain strong, but strong didn’t mean the clan needed to go to war. Her men were trained, ready if needed. But she’d not mindlessly engage their enemy.
The sound of the clash which felled her father filled her mind. Metal against metal. Agonizing screams. Lightning strikes. Booming thunder. Her mother’s cries. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Never would she forget those sounds, they’d haunt her until the day she died.
No, she thought with a firm clench of her hands, they mustn’t gain control. Hope would not allow them to remove her from the lairdship. No matter what her father’s decree demanded, she still had time.
“I’ll stay here, laird.” Duncan stepped to the side of the broad doorway. He tipped his head, then handed her the leather saddlebag.
She accepted the bag, inhaling the scent of leather, horse and a hint of soap. This belonged to MacKerry. They truly had no right to inspect it. Aye, they did, she corrected. She was laird. Mayhap, he had nefarious goals or was a spy. And if a spy was about, that meant an enemy clan was ready to challenge them, such as the night her father died. Clan Mungo had raided and Clan MacAlister had responded with vengeance. Yet, the vengeance led to the death of many including her father. Even though MacKerry wore the MacKerry tartan, it didn’t mean he wasn’t spying for Mungo. She’d have to investigate further to ensure the safety of her clan. Having the man close, the man she was to wed, would make things easier.
“Ye may enter,” a grave voice said.
She rolled her eyes heavenward-aye, she had the right to enter regardless of what Liam thought. She held the leather bag tight in her grip. Liam MacAlister sat at the head of the long table with Connor, Ian, and Stephen flanking his side. Pewter cups of ale before them, the men’s ruddy faces looked as if they’d been in intense discussion.
Connor, the youngest at five and forty, ran his thick fingers through his graying hair. His gaze avoided Hope’s. Unease settled within her as she caught her lip between her teeth.
“Ah, m’laird,” Liam said with a sardonic edge to his voice. “Please sit.”
“If you would kindly get out of my seat, I will,” she said with a heavy dose of disapproval. “’Tis the Laird’s chair, Liam.”
Ian and Stephen blanched as Connor chuckled. Liam rose and motioned toward the chair with a broad sweep of his arm. The nerve of him, she fumed. H
er father had once reigned from the Laird’s chair.
Oak with a tall back and thickly carved arms and legs, the chair represented strength and endurance. Traits she lived for, traits engraved deep within her very character. She straightened her shoulders and looked over the group of men.
Hope cocked her brow, waiting for one of them to speak. As usual, she was left without a drink or even offer of one.
“Have ye inspected the bag?”
She glanced at Connor, relieved it ’twas him who spoke and not Liam. Liam made her nervous. She always looked behind her as she paced the corridors of the keep, walked the battlements. As if she expected him to lurch out from behind and topple her over the edge, her distrust of him was so strong. Connor, on the other hand, had been her father’s most trusted man. In battle, they’d fought as a team and almost died as one. Her father’s friend still bore the grotesque scar traveling from his temple to the base of his strong jaw. The strike had nearly cleaved his head in half and miraculously, he’d lived where her father had died.
“Nay.” She lifted the flap of the bag and emptied its contents onto the distressed table. A hunk of dried meat, a quill, a linen shirt, and a lone piece of parchment piled before her. Not much to call belongings, but she couldn’t fault the man for traveling light. She was disappointed there wasn’t more, but she fingered the paper, enjoying the tension emanating from the men. With a peek beneath her lashes, Hope watched each of them attempting to appear uninterested, but failing miserably with eager gleams highlighting their eyes.
