by Madelyn Hill
After a moment, he stepped out of the dungeon and stretched. Sunlight pierced his eyes with brightness as he left the shadows. Spring struggled mightily to warm the air with a gentle wind and he soaked up the elements. Surmising he was fine to wander about, Aidan rounded the corner, ignoring the blatant appraisal of the clan’s men and women. Children ran from him, fear read like an open book across their faces.
“Call the guard, the prisoner has escaped,” an auld man called from his crofter. Clansmen moved toward Aidan, leery, yet with fierce scowls on their faces.
“Nay,” Aidan said as he held up his hands. “I was freed by Laird MacAlister, to be sure.” The lie slipped easily from his mouth. Well, ’twas a MacAlister who set him free.
“The laird set you free?” one of the women questioned. A few grumbled and nodded. After a few moments and he assumed consensus from the group blocking his way, the woman said, “Stand where you are. Ferg, go and ask m’laird if he’s to be wandering about.”
Several men paced toward him. Circled him.
He glanced at each of them. Cornered again.
“Connor,” one of them called. “He says he’s free of the dungeon.”
An auld man came toward them. His gaze summed Aidan up. He tipped his head. “MacKerry.”
“Aye.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “’Tis no harm in letting the lad wander about.” He came closer, leaned in close. “Leave or cause any harm and yer a dead man.”
Duly warned, Aidan nodded.
No matter, he was free. Aidan grinned toward the woman and mocked a salute to the rest of the onlookers.
The man watched him and women pulled their children close to their bosoms. Mayhap he should have stayed in the dungeon and not frightened the clansmen.
Behind him shouting started. He paced through the bailey and head long into a group of men, ready with their swords.
They crowded around two men in the center who were sparring with swords.
Aidan stood near, attempting to blend in with the other bodies. He recognized the red-haired Highlander, the man’s face awash with fury and his chest heaved. Sweat trickled down his face, drenched his liene. The man held his sword prone and ready to strike. The two men in the middle began to move, circle about.
The smaller man held his own, blocking each strike with strong, confident movements. Then he swung back, the red-haired giant backed away. Aidan was surprised at the strength of the smaller opponent, the bravado. He enjoyed the way he didn’t allow Duncan’s growling to distract from his mission.
The smaller opponent shifted, circled around the brawny Highlander, and came into view.
Bollocks. What an eejit she was.
His wife-to-be raised her sword and lodged a flesh-connecting blow. Sweat sheened her brow as concentration narrowed her eyes. She wore a tartan still. Her luxurious hair was stuffed into the back of her linen shirt masking her identity from behind and keeping it confined. Aidan nearly tore through the men to reach her when he saw blood stained her shoulder.
How could they allow her to participate in such madness? This was a prime example as to why women shouldn’t be in such an exulted position. Yet, he held back, wary if he should voice objection he’d be thrown back into a cell. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and watched. Aidan marveled as Laird MacAlister parried with the man, each step calculated, strong. He admired as she fought off each blow that would fell a number of men he knew.
Bollocks. Why did she take such risks? He’d never seen a woman partake in sparing before and he was certain this would be the last time he allowed her to do so. ’Twasn’t a woman’s place to be training the men and wielding weapons.
The fight went on for what seemed a tortuous length of time. She’d cut her opponent once. Probably vengeance for the injury she’d received. Blood began to saturate her left sleeve. No matter how intensely she fought, the laird’s face was pale. Her breathing more labored with each moment.
Aidan stood rigid as he watched his betrothed execute a move that placed her opponent at the tip of the sword, on his knees before her.
The crowd, silent and edgy, broke out into roars of support and mockery for the fallen Highlander.
With steely determination Aidan watched her remove the sword, slightly quivering, and step back.
“That, my dear clansmen, is how you defeat your enemy.” Her voice rang through the bailey, confident, yet Aidan heard the strain of weariness.
The men who had captured him just a few days ago came forward and helped their comrade to his feet. The fallen man knocked their hands away and pushed through the crowd with nary a backward glance.
The crowd dispersed casting speculative glances in Aidan’s directions, leaving him and Laird MacAlister. She watched him with the intensity of a hawk bearing down on a field mouse. Her sword slipped from her grasp, clanking against a rock. Still, they observed each other. He opened his mouth to speak, yet remained silent as she wobbled. Aidan ran to her side and caught her before she collapsed onto the hard ground. She trembled in his arms as he lifted her and carried her toward the main hall. The laird averted her gaze, but he’d have given his horse to know what was on her mind.
“Lady Honor?” she said.
“Aye.”
“Too soft, that one.” She watched him. “Behave, MacKerry or I’ll send you back to the dungeon.”
Aidan held her tightly, enjoying the feel of her in his embrace. To his dismay, her blood now stained his shirt, wet his skin. What type of woman did he hold in his arms? She was so contrary to any other women he’d met. Strong and fierce, but a bit of softness now filled her gaze.
Clansmen scattered as they neared the steps leading to the bedchambers.
Nary a sound, save the growl of a wolfhound vibrated through the hall. As he mounted the stairs, Aidan’s footfalls echoed, reiterating the screeching silence of the bystanders. Laird MacAlister closed her eyes and leaned her head onto his chest; despite Aidan’s efforts to remain aloof, he couldn’t help but feel empathy for her. Entering the second floor, he said, “Where’s our chamber?”
Without opening her eyes, she responded, “At the end of the hall.” Pain echoed in the tightness of her tone and he felt her relax further into his chest.
He entered the chamber and without hesitation laid her on the bed. He ripped her sleeve from her shirt.
“Jaysus,” he muttered as he knelt by her side. A deep gash cut into her skin, its rough edges puckered over the round of her shoulder. He’d meet with the man who’d done this, the man who dare strike his betrothed. ‘Twould need to be sewn, but he doubted she would appreciate his awkward stitching.
“Nora and Lady Honor,” she whispered, her face blanched and her mouth tightened.
Aidan lifted from his knees and poked his head out the doorway. A lad stood near the stairwell.
“Fetch, Nora and Lady Honor.”
The boy hesitated, fear and uncertainty marking his wide eyes, then he scampered down the dimly lit corridor.
Aidan gripped the door latch. His heart beat rapidly, pounding against his chest as if it were trying to break through his skin. To complicate the situation further, his head swam with indecision.
He was here to redeem his birthright. He hadn’t planned on becoming part of Laird MacAlister’s life. Aiding her when she was injured nearly overwhelmed his pledge to seek vengeance.
A groan drew his attention to the figure on the bed. Her eyes were closed, yet he kenned she was awake since her jaw flexed in rhythm to the pulse in her neck. Aidan sighed and went back to her side. Sweat coated her brow and dampened her hair. He reached to brush a strand from her face then pulled back. Detached, uncaring. He must treat her with those ideas in mind.
“Och, lass.” A woman, stout and very old, bustled into the room with a wooden b
ucket. Water sloshed over the sides and soaked the front of her woolen skirt. She glanced at him, her dark eyes narrowed. She could only be Nora.
Lady Honor stood at the door with a basket in her hands, her face pale. Then she straightened her shoulders and strode directly to her sister.
Her gaze skittered to Aidan and he tipped his head.
Laird MacAlister tried to sit up. “I’ve a bit of a scratch.”
“Doona fash yerself,” the old woman scolded. She eased her patient back down. “Get me some rags, lad.” She tipped her head toward a large chest. “From over there.”
Relieved to be doing something besides standing there, Aidan opened the chest. Laundered scraps of cloth filled the freshly scented trunk. He picked up several and handed them to the woman.
“Here,” Lady Honor said as she handed Nora a bowl of water and herbs.
She dipped the cloth into the water and patted the laird’s arm, muttering beneath her breath as she did so. “Hurts, I ken, but keep still.” She tsked then continued, “I’m Nora, lad. Ye must be MacKerry.”
“Aidan,” he said, his voice oddly hoarse and gruff.
Nora raised her brow at him. “What do ye think o’ the laird?”
Lady Honor’s brow rose, then she started threading a needle.
He shifted his weight as he leaned against the wall. Most of his opinions he could never voice. They were either too personal or would appear too harsh.
“I think she’s an amadon, meself,” Nora confessed.
“Nora!” Lady Honor chastised.
Aidan suppressed a smile as his betrothed scoffed and glared at Nora.
“Och, Hope, ’tis very deep. I need more water to cleanse the wound.”
Laird MacAlister flinched as Lady Honor poked the needle through her skin. Deftly, she stitched the deep cut. The laird made nary a sound.
Aidan watched, then turned away as he began to feel sympathy, she was a braw lass, to be sure. He grudgingly respected her strength. Bollocks, no matter the pain etched sharply into the laird’s face, sympathy was for fools. And Aidan had learned by watching his da play the fool to his mother.
Instead of watching, he inspected the chamber. Large, most definitely the laird’s. Clean, with enough room for him and his betrothed. They certainly wouldn’t stumble over each other.
Aidan raked his fingers through his hair, not knowing what to do in the situation. “Do you spar often, Laird MacAlister?”
“Och, I mend her cuts more than the lads,” Lady Honor said then she gasped as Hope glared at her. “’Tis the truth of it.”
Hope turned toward him, her eyes narrowed as she watched him.
Annoyed, Nora threw him a disgruntled look. “Take a seat, lad. I need her still.”
“We’re betrothed. Call me Hope.”
Chapter 6
Hope.
Despite her grudging tone, he liked the sound of her name. The inspiration of it. He glanced down at the woman in the bed. Her mussed hair spread across the pillow in a deep amber wave. Her skin seemed a bit pallid, but smooth as it covered the graceful line of her jaw and high cheekbones.
A pulse beat at the base of her long neck in a fluttery movement. He clenched his hands, his fingers itching to trace the hollow at the apex where her neck joined her body. His gaze wandered further. A tear in the fabric revealed a linen chemise pulled tautly over a full breast. He imagined the creaminess of her skin and the rosy ripeness of the nipple peeking through the fabric.
A throat cleared. Aidan snapped his attention to Hope’s face. Her gaze was flushed with anger, she cocked a brow and said, “Now that you have sweet talked Lady Honor into releasing you, Nora will show you to your chamber. You’re in need of a bath.”
Embarrassed at his brashness and a little sheepish for being caught staring at her, Aidan ripped his gaze from the angry green of her eyes. He was certain thunderclouds raged in the dark depths as they pinned him with ire.
Lady Honor finished wrapping the wound and gathered her supplies. “I’ll have broth sent for the both of you.”
He turned to leave as Nora and Lady Honor came to his side to escort him. Aidan stopped and laid his hand upon Hope’s bed. “Soon, Hope. We’ll be sharing this chamber, soon.”
A smile tipped his lips as she leaned forward and practically growled, “On my terms, MacKerry. My terms.”
Hope grit her teeth as Aidan MacKerry left her chamber. His arrogant swagger incensed her further. If she wasn’t in such pain, she would have challenged him. Made sure he knew his place within the clan.
God in heaven, her shoulder hurt. Hot, searing pain radiated from the wound. Honor’s patient sewing was sure to diminish the scar, yet it would still stretch over the cup of her shoulder and would take too much time to heal.
There was too much to do. Too many to care for and certainly with MacKerry and the council, too many worries.
Hope shifted beneath the coverlet for a comfortable position. The large bed afforded her room, but she still wore her clothing and it proved bulky and dirty.
Rising so she leaned on the headboard, she paused a moment until her vision cleared and her heart stopped racing. She was going to kill Duncan for this wound. How many times had they’d sparred before without injury? And he chose the precise moment when MacKerry was watching?
Sweat trickled down her brow and back. Her entire body felt overheated by the indignation she suffered at the hands of men on this day. First the council, then her cousin, and the final insult of MacKerry’s intrusive gaze.
The way her betrothed looked at her . . . ’twas, ’twas something she didn’t want to entertain. Even though he hadn’t touched her, it felt as if the man had caressed her from head to toe, warming her skin with his touch. His intrusive inspection caused such an unexpected reaction. Heat deep in the pit of her stomach, a quiver even lower, and a tension throughout in which she’d never experienced.
Hope smoothed the counterpane with her uninjured arm. A patchwork of material stitched by her mother. Her parents shared this bed, and her father’s parents before them.
Soon, she recalled the mellow, sensual tone of MacKerry’s voice, soon they’d be sharing the chamber. The message abundantly clear. A tingling of awareness shifted over her. Hope snatched her hand from the aged material of the coverlet, despising the train of her thoughts as her eyelids drifted downward. MacKerry’s intent eyes entered her dreams, probing, hazy with need. The strength of him, how he’d held her, carried her to the safety of her chamber, the way her body seemingly curled into his heat and muscles. He intruded on her thoughts until darkness overtook her into a painless sleep.
For a moment, Liam thought to call a council meeting. ‘Twould make things difficult if the laird heard of it, but he was troubled by the way MacKerry took care of her. Carried her through the bailey, up to the laird’s chamber as if he were king of the castle. ’Twas possessive, protective, and husbandly, all things Liam didna’ want to happen.
All the clan was in a dither about MacKerry bringing Hope to her chamber and helping Lady Honor and Nora with the laird’s injury. And he’d witnessed the look of the man’s face when he swept her up the stairs. A bit of softening and sympathy, blast his hide.
Liam struggled to rise from the chair, his old bones creaked and resisted, but finally he was on his way to Connor’s crofter. He’d visit each member of the council and determine if MacKerry could still be trusted.
They needed a man who had nothing to lose. They needed a man with the taste of revenge on his tongue. They needed a man strong enough to snatch the lairdship away from Hope.
Liam remembered MacKerry’s father. The poor man was cuckolded by his wife. Though, she had strived to better his position, she’d gone too far, trifling with men she had no business being with and in a sad twist of fate MacKerry’s father had l
ost any opportunity to claim his seat, worse still the clan had turned on them all.
Aye, Liam thought as he ventured toward Stephen’s crofter, they had to ensure MacKerry was still theirs before all the plans crumbled into a pile of dust. The fact a woman was still at the helm gnarled his insides. If only his own son hadn’t died so young. He’d be strong and want to expand the clan’s territories. Each time the council had pushed to take more land, conquer other clans, she’d fight them. And then with her sweet tone and gift of the gab, their laird would talk the council into being happy with what the clan had.
Weak. The woman was weak. And when he pointed that out, she’d look down on him, one of the best warriors the clan had ever known. It festered, deep within him, like a poison.
If it took until his dying breath, he’d see a man in the laird’s chair.
And that man would be Aidan MacKerry.
Chapter 7
Aidan planned to wait as long as he could before returning to the Laird’s bedchamber. He’d festered in his chamber until he saw men training in the yard. The day was ripe for training. The sun was high, the wind was a mere whisper. Aye, he could do with some sparring.
As he approached, the redheaded giant paced toward him. Others followed suit.
“Do ye mean to train with us?” he asked with a chuckle and glanced at the men around him.
“Aye.”
The man blocked his way.
Aidan glared at him. “Are you afraid I may retaliate for the injury my betrothed sustained.”
Some of the men chuckled, shuffled to get a look at the giant’s face.
The man tipped his head back and laughed. “Och, a man as small as you?” He leaned closer so Aidan could see each pore on his face. “Never.”
Aidan took a step back and slipped his sword from its sheath. “Never?”
Bets were placed and two sides were drawn.
