by Madelyn Hill
“’Twas my thinking.”
The lad slapped his hands onto the table; the sound ricocheted off the stone walls. Then he leaned in close. Liam could count the whiskers on his face, he was that close. “I’ll no do it.”
The flash of anger in his gaze grew to one of fury. He pushed away from the table and tossed aside the chair. “I’ll no be yer puppet.” He scrubbed his hand over his face.
“Now, lad,” Liam started, “ye doona have to lose every match. Just give him enough so the laird can see what she is looking for.”
Duncan scoffed. “And just what is she looking for?”
Liam cocked a brow and said, “A reason to marry him, ye amadon.”
“They’re already pledged.”
He scoffed. “Aye, but she’s still warring with herself and I doona want her to change her mind.”
After a moment, Duncan nodded his head. But Liam could see the doubt in the lad’s mind. Aye, Liam knew of his ambitions, but that wouldn’t do. Liam had ambitions himself and if he didn’t hurry, he’d meet his maker before he completed them.
Liam cleared his throat and suppressed the cough tickling the back of his mouth. He needed ale to soothe the troublesome hacking and the time spent with Duncan would need to be concluded. “She doesn’t trust easy, that one. And this will help her realize MacKerry ‘twill be a good husband.”
“I canna understand yer logic, auld man. But if ye say it is so, I’ll comply for now.”
Liam stood and slapped the table. “’Tis the idea, lad. Doona worry, all will be grand.” They were on a cusp, so to speak. The lad wanted to believe, but he could see uncertainty and the desire to ignore what was said in exchange for a way of his own. To prove himself.
Duncan hesitated before leaving the room. “What of the dead lad? Do you think ’twas MacKerry?”
Liam rubbed his chin. “I canna see MacKerry killing the lad, but our laird is investigating.”
Duncan rolled his eyes heavenward. “Investigating, aye. She’s investigating how he kisses.”
Liam chuckled, he assumed as much when a lad was a virile as MacKerry. “Not to worry, lad.”
Again uncertainty flared in Duncan’s eyes. They told how he didn’t quite trust, but kenned he had to think of the good of the clan.
Aye, Liam had felt the same many years ago. But he had been caught up in the fighting of Clan Mungo. After that, all he’d planned had changed, not due to desire, but the vicious circumstance of life and death. Sympathy that pale, impotent emotion had shifted the minds of the other council members and Catriona and Hope had taken the reins to lead the clan.
Liam coughed into his hand and wiped the bloody spittle on his kilt. The dark colors would hide evidence of his sickness.
Aye, time was of the essence, he thought with regret as he left the laird’s chamber. He needed to meet with the others to determine exactly how the games would proceed. For now, Duncan was on his side, but if given too much time to rethink all Liam had said, the lad could recant.
All he had to do was ensure MacKerry played his role to perfection. With that last positive thought, Liam headed toward the kitchen to find some herbs to mix with ale. ’Twas the only way he could stomach the medicinal plants. He just hoped they’d work for a wee bit longer. If they did, he’d live long enough to see the culmination of his plans.
Aidan grabbed his sword, paced through the bailey toward the training yard. Many sparred, grappled, or stood cheering on those working up a sweat. Shouts and grunts filled the air and it reminded him of training with the MacKerrys. ’Twas always a time when the lads and men had to form a bond and begin relying on each other. Not that he’d ever felt the kinship. Nay, he was always an outsider, one they knew was not one of their own. One to watch and one to mock.
Ignoring the harsh memories, he glanced about to see how the fit the men were. Hope had trained them well. And as the new Sargent at Arms, he’d continue her work. Odd how a woman knew how to train the men. Mayhap, she watched her father or mayhap the council had advised her when she became laird. Regardless, he grinned, proud of her accomplishments with the men and how she made the clan strong.
His gaze found the laird’s cousin and he approached the large man.
“The laird has assembled a contest.”
Duncan lifted a brow. “Seeing if ye are worthy, aye. Testing ye, so to speak.”
Aidan eased his sword from hand to hand. He shrugged and feigned disinterest in Duncan trying to bait him.
Aidan arced the sword high, just barely missing the tip of the Highlander’s head. “We’ll meet in the ring, and then we’ll see who is tested.”
Duncan’s face reddened to a hue that matched his fiery hair. He sputtered and clenched his meaty fist. “’Tisn’t fair, MacKerry. I’ve no sword.”
“Would you care to get it?”
His words piqued the curiosity of those close to them. They stopped training and watched the men.
Aidan was aware Duncan was eager to prove his strength over his. It would suit to have the man eager and willing. The more his emotions ruled his actions, the easier it would be to force him to make a mistake in the contest. A mistake Aidan had every intention to take advantage of.
For he would prove his worth.
As I pledge.
The braw man crossed his arms before his chest and shook his head. “Nay, MacKerry. You’ll see my skill during the contest and no before.”
Aidan merely shrugged. “No matter. I’ll best you then as I would today.”
Duncan scoffed and then began to laugh. Other men nearby joined in. “Och, MacKerry thinks he can best me.”
“Well,” he said as he shifted his sword from hand to hand, “Hope did.”
All humor fled Duncan’s face and the growing crowd gasped then grew silent. He took a step forward. “What did you say?”
“Come, Duncan. The man was only jesting.” Duncan put his arm out and held off one of the clansmen from coming forward.
“Aye, Duncan,” another called. Some murmured in agreement and others said Aidan was speaking the truth.
“Truth? MacKerry wouldn’t ken the truth if it snuck up and bit his arse.”
Aidan cocked his brow. While he loathed deceit, he knew his very presence at Wild Thistle Keep was cloaked in lies. But he knew the man was speaking of the dead lad. And he’d never murdered another man.
“We’ll see, Duncan.”
Duncan came close to his face. “Aye, we will.” The man stalked off and some followed. Others went back to training.
Aidan watched him go, but didn’t speak further.
For now, he needed to prepare.
Chapter 12
Aidan relaxed from the intense training by swimming in the river which meandered along the back of the keep. Crisp spring water babbled along and washed over his body. Momentarily placated, he allowed the cool water to ease over taut muscles and the numerous cuts and bruises scattered about his body. In order to prepare for the contest, Aidan had trained as never before. Why? He wasn’t certain, but something deep inside him urged him to do well and prove himself worthy not only to Hope, but to the clan.
Or did he just wish to prove himself to Hope and the rest of the clan be damned? Hope. Aye, she was lovely, but more than that, she evoked loyalty, a trait Aidan envied and coveted for himself.
He stretched to remain limber and rose from the river. Grabbing the MacAlister kilt, one she gave him to don unaware of the pleasure it gave him; he dried off and quickly wrapped the length of material around his waist. Slipping on the tartan made him feel as if he were home. Comfortable, welcoming, a hot meal waiting on the hearth, and a willing lass in his bed.
He reached for his sporran and new dirk he’d hidden within it and headed toward the keep.
As he walked, Aid
an surveyed the landscape. Great pines flanked the palisade, nearly hiding the walls of the keep. He could hear the tumultuous waves of sound to the south and grinned.
’Twas ideal, the location of Wild Thistle. Near water, high upon cragged cliffs. Nearly impenetrable, although many had tried a time ago. Peace would remain for now and hopefully for years to come despite the rumblings he’d heard about Clan Mungo. He didn’t have the ambition to expand the clan’s holdings; just rule over what was already established and prosperous. Prosperous due to his wife-to-be.
Aye, Aidan thought with a rueful smile, Hope had done well in keeping the clan in order and even better at using God-given resources to ensure there was always enough food stores.
Aidan stopped before he entered through the stone palisade. Turning, he glanced at the river, conscious of being watched and wondering who felt he needed supervision. Despite what the council or Hope thought, he’d not be leaving.
A calm blanketed him, as he sensed ’twas not danger lurking in the shadows. How he knew this, Aidan wasn’t certain, but natural instinct would have warned him if treachery was afoot. One quick glance at the shrubbery lining the river and Aidan entered the keep and was greeted by a decorated bailey.
Flags draped along crofters and the main entrance to the hall, colorful arrays of the clan’s badge and that of their Sept clans. There were areas marked with oaken barrels and banners indicating the game to be contested in that area. Aidan noted the sword arena, archery range, and grappling location, all part of his repertoire. And he had a feeling Duncan’s as well.
If he did well, he’d be married by week’s end. The idea startled him, but not for the reason he’d assumed. Could he possibly be looking forward to the wedding?
Duncan paraded before him, all bluster and brawn.
Aidan hadn’t missed the blatant challenge of the man’s glare, or the numerous times he’d found Duncan behind him as he moved through the day. Sometimes the man would speak to him, others he’d merely remain silent. Since his power was limited at the moment, Aidan decided to ignore the taunts about how he’d best him in the ring.
Nay, Aidan knew he was safe as long as he wed Hope. Not that he was a coward, but he knew none would seek him out with such notions as killing him. If he’d refused to marry Hope, the council could have murdered him in the cell.
And he wanted to stay alive at the moment.
Although he loathed a woman with power, a woman who used her power over men, he’d rather infiltrate the clan beneath the cloak of her protection. With such he’d be able to reach his goal and that meant he’d be offering protection.
Nodding hello to Emma and her friends, Aidan stopped and watched them for a moment before proceeding. She was a lovely lass, brave too. He’d have several like her if he had any say in the matter. Bidding good day to the group, Aidan strode across the bailey and into the main hall. First he’d need sustenance, then to change into appropriate clothing for such festivities.
Although Hope was calling it a contest, the clan had gotten swept away with the idea of a four-day event. Food, dancing, and games created the hum of excitement even Aidan couldn’t ignore. In fact, he was beginning to warm to the idea of a contest. ’Twould be good for the clan to see him fighting to prove his worthiness of their laird. A fact Hope had been telling each and every person she passed. He’d heard her boast and did nothing to stop her. She’d realize, he thought with a grin, they weren’t mindless sheep, that he wasn’t a mindless sheep. But mayhap she was doing so to show her support.
The thought brought him to a stop. Ever since she’d caught him sewing the doll, her words were softer, encouraging. And when he’d ask about the investigation about the lad. Offered his insight, she listened with her head cocked slightly to the right and her lovely green gaze trained right on him.
Of course he hoped the clan would see he’d nothing to do with the lad’s death. As he trained for the competition, he kenned they were curious, watched him, judged him. So far, it appeared as if his innocence was winning as the men bet on the verdict. If only he could guarantee Laird MacAlister and the council agreed he was innocent as well.
After training, he greedily ate the arrangement of food in the hall. Venison, pork, game hen, and a plethora of vegetables to accompany the meat weighting the tables. It took one long table to hold the sweets alone. Black current buns, tayberry pies, and sugared fruit.
He grabbed roasted venison and a cream tart to sate his sweet tooth. Och, he’d never eaten this well.
After Aidan had quelled his hunger, he bound up the stairs with the purpose of changing into the formal tartan Hope had selected for him. ’Twas different than the one she’d given him earlier. Crisp in color and woven to perfection.
He thought it was strange she hadn’t spoken of this herself as she did his other tartan, but sent a message through the stalwart Nora. The poor maid had stumbled over the message, but Aidan had gotten the gist of what would be needed in regards to his clothing.
After the maid had left, he stood in the middle of his chamber holding the MacAlister tartan. He stared until the colors blurred. How long had he dreamed of the day to hold his clan tartan? If only his father was there to witness his progress.
Rounding the corner, he stopped when he noticed a figure leaving his chamber. He moved into the shadows permitted by the flickering sconces staggered along the passageway.
The lurking figure had a tartan draped over its head, so long it swept along the floor. Not overly tall, Aidan thought as he attempted to guess at the figure’s gender. Unsuccessful, he took a step out of the shadows. The scuff of footsteps alerted the intruder and Aidan heard a gasp. Something clanged against the flooring and the person stooped to pick it up. A luxurious hank of mahogany hair tumbled from beneath the veil of tartan.
He knew the owner of such lovely hair. Hair that had tempted him to enjoy its silkiness, inhale its richness.
The intruder ’twas none other than Laird MacAlister.
Hope hurried after hearing footfalls. Vexed it had taken her so long to go through MacKerry’s things, she cursed her clumsiness when she dropped the leather bag he’d brought with him. The sound of it hitting the floor echoed in the hallway, surely alerting all of what she was doing. By Saint Nicholas, she felt like a thief instead of a laird trying to protect her clan. But she had to ken, ken if MacKerry was guilty of killing the poor lad. No matter, this was the last of the investigation. ’Twas time to make a decision and time to approach the council on the matter.
She’d planned well, or so she thought. MacKerry was in the bailey and she’d stayed in the alcove until the passageway emptied. Beneath the cloak of her tartan, Hope had stayed close to the wall and had entered his chamber undetected.
’Twas an uncluttered chamber. The bed had been made and a linen shirt was folded atop a small chest. The leather bag, the coveted leather bag, hung from one of the posts of the bed.
Guilt squeezed her stomach as she snatched the bag, but no matter, she had to know more about this man. A man to whom she was betrothed, but more than that, a man who was quietly making his way into her soul regardless of her efforts to stop him.
Hurrying in the direction of her own chamber, Hope hid the bag beneath her tartan. In private, she’d inspect it once more in case MacKerry had added to the contents.
She wasn’t certain when she’d gone back to thinking of him as MacKerry instead of Aidan. ’Twas somewhere between the scorching kiss and the hint of something awry her instincts wouldn’t allow her to ignore. Not with the lad’s death. ’Twas someone else responsible, she felt it in her gut. But he’d secrets he wasn’t willing to share and she’d not trust him until then.
Aye, her instincts rattled and hummed when he was near, surely ’twas a warning.
After she reached the safety of her chamber, Hope barred the door.
“Oc
h, ye nearly sent me to an early grave, lass.”
Equally startled, Hope dropped MacKerry’s possessions as Nora exclaimed. Regaining her breath, she surveyed the chamber to ensure no one else popped out of the corners. “Aye, and you nearly did the same to me.”
Nora narrowed her eyes and bustled forward. “What’s that ye have there?” She snatched the bag from Hope’s grasp with a grimace. “’Tisn’t this the MacKerry’s?”
Heat blossomed over her face and neck. “Aye.” She had never been able to lie to Nora. ’Twas vexatious, to be sure. Straightening, Hope said, “’Tis my right as laird.”
Sagely shaking her head, Nora grunted. “He’s your betrothed, lass. Do you want to live your life with him always second guessing and mistrusting?”
She handed back the bag, but the weight of disapproval filled the room and Hope felt like a little girl earning a firm chastisement.
“Yer mother would have told ye to give him time. To be a woman, no’ a laird.”
Aye, Hope knew Nora had the right of it. She glanced upward and sought her mother’s council. She still felt her as surely as she felt her own skin. But any advice Hope was seeking lay unsaid. Hope patted Nora on the arm. “I ken what you’re saying. But ’tis hard to trust him. I know nothing of the man.”
The maid went about straightening the chamber. “Och, I’ve seen the two of ye. Trying so hard not to let the other ken yer attracted. Just the other day he watched ye with some of the clansmen and there was pride in his gaze, lass. Pride for all ye do for yer people.” She continued to fold linen, and started to hum before Hope could answer her. The soothing sounds of her actions lulled Hope to a time when she was but a lass and had both her mother and father. ’Twas such a sweet time for them all and Hope longed for the contentment to claim her once again. Feeling foolish and overly sentimental, she sat by the fire. Och, what had happened to the woman who fought side-by-side with the men of the clan? Had she lost her ability to be laird?
