Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 03]

by Wedding for a Knight

  Half-turning aside, he stared into the wildly sparking flame of the nearest wall torch. Nigh guttered, its hissing lent a macabre note to their discourse, but he strove to ignore the infernal crackling . . . just as he paid no heed to Janet’s fully inappropriate adulation.

  In an effort to restore the easy camaraderie they’d shared as children, he swung back around and reached a quick hand to tweak her nose. “And you, cousin mine, have too good a modicum of wits to let such prattle as ancient curses and predictions of doom pass your lips.”

  “You ken how tongues will wag.” She shrugged. “The lightning did strike the very tower Reginald of the Victories’ lady wife is said to have jumped from.”

  “Hoary maledictions and stones that bear such sorrow they canna even warm beneath a summer sun’s sweetest heat!” Magnus shook his head. “’Tis all twaddle spun by the seannachies on cold and dark winter nights and naught else, I swear you.”

  “Never you mind what the storytellers put about,” Janet said, her lilting voice going breathy. Excited. “All will be good now you are here again.” She reached for him, gripping his hands despite the sooty grime on them. “Tush, but it is overlong you were away. Aye, here is a grand and notable night.”

  Schooling his features lest a smile encourage her or a grimace tread too heavily on a heart he’d rather not injure, Magnus disentangled himself from her grasp. “And you are looking bonnier than ever, Cousin.” He laid especial emphasis on their blood connection, however remote it might be. “It grieves me that I have not done better for you.”

  “Oh my soul! And you say I speak babble and nonsense?” She waved a dismissive hand. “The bards have been singing your praises throughout the Isles these past years,” she countered, tipping back her head to stare up at him. “The tales are innumerable. All are in awe of your prowess on the tourney field . . . your feats of valor at Dupplin Moor.”

  “Nevertheless, I stand before you without a handful of silver to call my own,” Magnus said, the weight of what he must tell her heavy on his tongue. “The modest fortune I’d amassed in ransoms and prize goods on the tourney circuit was robbed from its hiding place while I fought a battle doomed to failure before any of us could shout our war cries.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, wished he had not just sounded like an embittered, battle-weary graybeard.

  “Hear me, lass, I even bartered my best jousting mount to pay mail to more black-hearted cateran toll collectors than I care to remember.” He did not mention that the fine-blooded beast had been his only such mount. “The last of my coin went to a lesser MacDonald chieftain for passage on his galley.”

  Janet didn’t flinch, but a trace of sympathy flickered across her pretty face. On seeing it, Magnus knew a near-irresistible urge to throw back his head and roar with impotent fury.

  Instead, he ran sooty fingers through his hair and took a deep breath of stale, dank air that still smelled thinly of smoke and burned timber.

  “God’s eyes,” he swore, glancing up at the corridor’s stone-vaulted ceiling. It, too, bore greasy streaks of thick black soot. “Do you have any idea what those thieving clansmen charge for the privilege of crossing their Highland territories?”

  He clenched his fists, blew out a hot breath before he looked back at her. “Do you not see? Saints, had I not been in possession of such prime horseflesh, like as not, I’d not be standing here this moment.”

  “But you are here . . . and well.”

  Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose. A persistent ache pounded behind his forehead, and if one more person, man or beast, gave voice to how well he appeared, he would not be responsible for his actions.

  Thinking he heard footfalls, or mayhap the telltale click-clicking of a dog’s nails, he stared round, scrunching his eyes to peer into the darkness, but naught moved in the long passage save inky shadows and the intermittent burst of sparks from the smattering of poorly burning wall sconces.

  His scalp prickled nonetheless. Turning back to Janet, he let out his breath on a long, weary sigh. “See you, lass, I lost the moneys I’d hoped to use to dower you,” he blurted before he lost his courage as well. “Nary a siller remains.”

  To his amazement—or mayhap not—she evinced nary a sign of dismay. Indeed, she stretched up on her toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek!

  Magnus lifted a hand, wiped away the moistness of her kiss. “A God’s name, Janet, do you not ken the gravity of what I am telling you?” He tried again. “I do not have a crust of bread to bribe a beggar to wed you much less a man worthy enough to call himself your liege husband.”

  “It matters not,” she said, shrugging again.

  Magnus stared at her, now wholly convinced his world had run mad. One woman, and a most desirous one at that, had been set in his lap with more gold-filled coffers than he could hope to win in five years of tourneying, yet he wanted nary a coin of her riches.

  And the lass whom he had so hoped to dower came up empty-handed and claimed not to care!

  Cooing and petting him she was, her face all aglow like a room full o’ candles. “Never you worry,” she said, her tone almost coquettish. “Your fortunes will change now that the MacKinnon fleet will soon be plying the waves again.” She threw her arms around his neck, pressed so close the small rounds of her breasts mashed hotly against the hard links of his mailed shirt. “To be sure, all will soon be well.”

  “I shall endeavor to make it so,” Magnus agreed, setting her from him. “So soon as I—”

  Feel a man again, he’d almost said.

  “You shall feel better after you have had a bath,” she encouraged, echoing his thoughts again—if only superficially. “That is why I came looking for you.” Her eyes lit at the notion. “Dagda ordered bathing tubs filled for you and your friend in the kitchens, near the warmth of the cook fires. She will tend your friend, and I—”

  “You shall bathe Colin. He is more in need of gentle hands than I, and will welcome your attentions,” Magnus amended her plan. “Dagda can assist me . . . or better yet, I shall see to my own needs.”

  “But I have always helped you bathe.”

  “Not since I was a beardless stripling, you haven’t,” he reminded her.

  She drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height. “You would rather have her wash you.”

  Och, but you err greatly, lass. Amicia MacLean is the last woman whose hands I am about to let light upon my naked flesh.

  Knowing the unspoken words must surely be stamped in glowing red letters across his forehead, Magnus folded his arms and waited.

  And not for overlong.

  The slight narrowing of Janet’s eyes revealed how swiftly she’d read them. “You ken I would ne’er wish to make trouble for you,” she purred. “But neither do I see why her concerns matter . . . considering you will soon be sending her away.”

  “I have not yet decided what to do with her.” The confession startled Magnus as much as it appeared to vex his cousin. “As for you making trouble for me, I vow you already have,” he added, seeing no point in telling her he’d just caught sight of a tall, lithe form slipping from the shadows at the far end of the passageway.

  His proxy bride had shot one hurt-filled glance his way before vanishing into the blackness of the turnpike stair.

  The look old Boiny had aimed at him before traipsing after her did not bear recounting.

  Feeling utterly wretched, Magnus MacKinnon, paladin of the lists and poorer than a pauper’s emptiest purse, had just been demoted to the level of a lowly earthworm.

  Of a surety, mayhap he’d no longer need to convince the lass of the futility of staying.

  Good were the chances she’d leave anon, and of her own good devices.

  Pondering such an outcome, Magnus didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

  Someone else suffered no such difficulties.

  They enjoyed his misery.

  For long after Janet left him, the future MacKinnon laird remained rooted to the sp
ot, staring in turn at the smoke-blackened walls of the vaulted passage or the great empty void that had once been his bedchamber.

  “Sweet Christ God!” His voice cracking at last, he gave full rein to his frustration and kicked the charred door frame.

  His distress caused a malicious smile to curve someone else’s lips as they watched from the shadows.

  Vengeance tasted sweeter than imagined.

  Aye, ’twas a rare delicacy, and one that would only improve if someone’s suspicions proved true and Magnus MacKinnon’s pride was all that kept him from rejoicing in his fool sire’s choice of a bride.

  Someone’s keen eye and ever-alert ears had gleaned what few kent: MacKinnon the Younger had been sweet on Amicia MacLean since long afore his voice broke and deepened!

  And even if the lass had naught to do with a certain someone’s need for revenge, she would make a fine instrument to gain blissful recompense.

  A fine instrument, indeed.

  High atop Coldstone Castle’s crenellated parapets, Lady Amicia paced the wall-walk, her new fleece-lined cloak clutched tight about her. Rain clouds were racing in from the west and a knifing wind stung her cheeks, but its chill blast did not gust powerfully enough to chase Janet’s words from her heart.

  The roaring of her own blood in her ears had kept her from catching more than a few snatches of the younger woman’s breathy cooings, but what little she had heard only sealed the opinion she’d been forming of the fairylike blonde who clearly fancied Magnus MacKinnon for her own.

  Blood cousin or no.

  A bath, she’d crooned, batting thick, gold-tipped lashes at him.

  Why I came looking for you, she’d simpered as she’d twined her arms around his neck.

  And most damning of all: But neither do I see why her concerns matter . . . considering you will soon be sending her away.

  Those last words laid weighted fetters on Amicia’s every breath. Worse, they undermined her faith in her ability to win a place in her husband’s heart.

  Increasing her step, she tried to close her ears to the echoing litany, to unhear the silky purr of her rival’s voice. Tail of the devil, just remembering the woman’s blatant coyness made her want to give a loud huff of indignation that any man of sound wit would fall for such artful conniving.

  Like as not, she would have hooted with laughter right there in the dank passageway had that man been any other than Magnus MacKinnon.

  But it had been him, so she’d held back any such urges. And now she made do with grinding her teeth and taking ever-longer strides along the deserted battlements. She’d pace even faster if her new mantle, a wedding gift from Devorgilla, Doon’s venerable wisewoman, didn’t prove so cumbersome. But its heavy folds warmed her and, the saints knew, she was built sturdy enough to carry its weight and more.

  Much more . . . as she meant to prove to a slip of a chit half her size.

  To that end, she drew a deep, cleansing breath of the chill night air.

  Air heavily laced with the scent of the sea and cold, damp stone.

  Old stone, and peat smoke, and family.

  Air so like that of home, her eyes watered . . . or would have if she’d been of a mind to allow such an indulgence.

  And of a certainty she wasn’t, so she leaned against a square-toothed merlon in the parapet walling and blinked back the hot sting of tears before they could fall.

  Beside her, Boiny dropped to his haunches and gave a deep-chested, elderly-dog grunt. He leaned heavily against her, well-pleased to sit even if his milky gaze revealed his sympathy for her troubles.

  Fighting the hollow feeling inside her, Amicia stroked the dog’s soft, floppy ears and stared out to where the moon cast a silvery pathway over the night-blackened sea.

  That was what she needed . . . a magical path out of the darkness she’d awakened in. A path she’d need to forge for herself, that much she knew.

  But how?

  Her new husband was loath to keep her.

  And a wee wisp of a fawning she-cat was bound and determined to keep him!

  “You will soon be sending her away. . . .” Amicia mimicked Janet’s trillings, her cheeks hot as flame despite the night’s cold.

  She looked down at Boiny, knew heart-swelling gratitude for his company. “Did you hear her?” she asked him, her hand moving to knead the loose skin of his rough-coated shoulders. “Have you e’er seen such a display of well-honed wenchy wiles?”

  Her pulse kicking up in agitation, she fussed with the fall of her cloak, silently cursed its heaviness. Pest and botheration, ne’er could any female save an undergrown, great-eyed beauty of delicate, nymphlike proportion pull off such an exhibition without appearing ludicrous.

  Ire churning inside her, she leaned harder against the icy-cold granite of the merlon. Constricting bands of ne’er before experienced doubts and inadequacies clamped fast round her rib cage, squeezing with a vengeance.

  Over and over again, the younger woman’s simpering echoed in her mind, taunting her.

  “A plague on her,” Amicia mumbled, frowning out at the tossing seas.

  Faith, with her handsome height and bold form, as her brothers were fond of describing her, she could never coo and simper at a man—any man—without looking, and feeling, an utter fool.

  An ungainly and awkward fool.

  Sighing, she dashed a stray raindrop from her cheek. How could she compete with a nemesis whose waist she could span with her own two hands?

  By being yourself and trusting your heart, the wind seemed to whisper, pausing in its racing fury to caress her cheek most gently.

  Amicia blinked.

  She tilted her head to listen, but naught else came. Too much of an Isleswoman to discount such an urging, however faint or fleeting, she lifted her chin, shoved back the hood of her cloak. The wind, once more speeding across the ramparts, tore at her hair and cooled her flushed cheeks, its buffeting might a welcome relief to the hot MacLean blood coursing through her veins.

  A legacy she held in tight rein . . . most times.

  Curbing it now—as best she could—she trailed her fingertips along the cold, damp stone of the crenel’s edge and considered her options.

  Since time beyond memory, MacLean men were known to be blessed with all manner of traditions and enchantments to smooth their way to finding the ladies of their hearts.

  MacLean women enjoyed no such boons.

  They had to craft and hone their own devices.

  They had to be strong.

  So Amicia stiffened her spine. Without doubt, nary a one of her ancestresses would have cowered before the silly posturings of a wee snippet of a lass who ought have a care lest a good Highland wind blow her from the field of competition.

  Feeling better, she pulled in another great, greedy gulp of the bracing night air, savoring its salty tang. She might be made to walk along a black precipice, but she would not tumble over the edge.

  And if any fool sought to accost and push her, she wouldn’t be the one to lose her footing.

  “Nor will I be set aside,” she announced to Boiny . . . and the plaudits of the keening wind.

  “And I, my lady, have not yet decided aught about a-setting you anywhere.”

  Amicia’s heart near leapt from her throat. She spun around, spied him standing just outside of the faintly lit arch of the tower doorway. He came forward with long strides and she nigh swooned at the sight of him . . . despite the unsmiling grimness of his handsome face.

  He’d bathed, and his damp hair gleamed in the moonlight while the wind lifted the lower edges of his clean, newly donned plaid, each sweet glimpse of his legs revealing how powerfully muscular they had grown in the years since she’d last seen him.

  Not that they’d not been well-muscled enough to melt a lass even then.

  Most unnerving of all, the gusty wind carried his scent, teasing her with tantalizing little whiffs of damp leather, peat smoke, and whate’er unidentifiable soap he’d used. Traces of the wild night clung
to him as well, and a wee touch of pure and earthy maleness.

  Just enough to make her senses whirl, set her stomach all aflutter, and send her resolve to stand proud before him flying to the stars.

  “A good eve to you,” she managed at last, raising her voice above the pounding of her heart. “I am pleased you came to join me.”

  “As well that I did, I am thinking—if only to encourage you to abandon such an inhospitable corner of this cold, wet night and seek your bed, my lady,” he said, stepping up to her. “Though I will not lie to you . . . I did not come here seeking you. I simply felt a sore need for solitude.”

  The words no sooner left his mouth than a burst of chill, damp wind hit Amicia full in the face, its wet slap underscoring the wisdom of doing exactly as he’d urged. But her MacLean determination held her in place.

  “You are full blunt, my lord.” She met his gaze straight on, blinked a few raindrops from her eyes. “Know you, I value honest words and set them high above affected speech, however sweet upon the ears such might fall.”

  “Saints be praised for that,” he said, ignoring—or mishearing—her true meaning, that of the wee jab at Janet that she couldn’t keep herself from saying.

  “To my sorrow,” Magnus resumed, “I am not as adept with words as my youngest brother, Hugh. He has the golden tongue of the family as you have surely noticed if he still strolls about with his lute slung o’er his shoulder. I am none so gifted, but I try to speak my mind.”

  Pausing, he glanced up at the night sky overspread by heavy, fast-moving clouds. “Just because I sought a quiet moment does not mean I am not gladdened to find you here.”

  Amicia hugged herself against the cold, couldn’t stop one doubtful brow from arching. “So you could hasten me to my bed?”

  “Hear me, lass, for I would not unduly hurt you,” he said, his ill ease almost pouring off him. “What you saw . . . or heard about my bath . . .” He broke off, rammed his fingers through still-damp hair. “Janet means naught to me. Not as you are thinking. I esteem her greatly, aye, and I owe her loyalty and more, for she is kin. But I love her as a sister only, that I swear to you.”

  His bath.