by Cathy MacRae
“’Tis time he wed,” declared a buxom older woman to Hanna’s right, her bosom swaying as her hands firmly kneaded pastry dough.
“’Twould dash Agnes’ hopes, it would,” quipped the woman across the wooden table as she gave the woman next to her a dig with an elbow.
“He needs an older, more experienced lass to warm his bed,” the one named Agnes retorted. “He’d cold comfort enough afore his wife died.”
“Dinnae speak ill of the dead,” the first woman admonished. “The woman did her duty.”
“Aye, but with only a wee lass to show for it.” Agnes clucked her tongue and bent to her work.
“Our Agnes has a soft spot for our laird, she does,” Hanna’s nearest neighbor confided, her eyes twinkling. “A verra soft spot!”
Agnes’ cheeks flared bright pink. “I havenae slept with him,” she croaked, clearly sensitive about her feelings for the MacLean laird.
The elder woman dusted the flour from her hands with an air of finality. “One of the lasses here tonight will, mark my words. ’Tis a bevy of bonny maids awaiting to give him the heir he needs, his bright wee lass notwithstanding.” She flashed Hanna a look. “’Tis the reason for our extra work today. Laird MacLean has finally settled in from his travels and the elders have arranged the bonniest of our lasses to tempt him to remarry.”
A dark-haired girl, likely no more than five or six summers old, skipped into the room, angling unerringly for the large preparation table, her nose tilted up as if scenting the air. Her eyes danced merrily as she approached the older woman.
“Lachina, are the pasties ready?” Her piping voice wheedled playfully, her tiny fingers dragged down the woman’s rolled sleeve and tapped against the flour patterning her lower arms.
Lachina fisted one hand on an ample hip. “Ye know they are, a leanbh,” she said, a broad smile on her face. She wagged a finger at the girl. “And ye also know I’ll not spoil yer supper by giving ye one beforehand. Off with ye, now. ’Tis a good broth ye’re needin’, not an extra pasty.”
Lachina ladled berries onto the rounds of dough, folded the pastry once, then placed them on a platter. With a pointed look at the lass, she carted the uncooked pasties away. The girl dabbled a fingertip in the flour scattered across the table, then turned to the other women.
Hanna caught her breath at the longing in the girl’s eyes. Wide and dark, they were the opposite of her daughter’s, but something about the child held Hanna’s interest. Dark hair escaped willy-nilly from the braid down her back, and a raveled thread marked the edge of one sleeve. The hem of her gown was inches above her sturdy but stained boots, and Hanna wondered if she’d dressed herself that morning.
An orphan, mayhap? Or the youngest child in a large family, dressed in hand-me-downs and not missed until bedtime if her chores were completed? Against her better judgement, Hanna laid her knife on the chopping block and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Is your belly empty?” she asked, fighting the urge to get too close, yet unable to deny the lure of the forlorn girl. The child nodded quickly.
“Aye. And I never—hardly ever,” she corrected herself, “get one of Cook’s best pasties.” She sent Hanna a virtuous look. “I try to eat my vegetables, truly I do!” Her face fell. “But Peigi doesnae always agree.”
Hanna imagined an older sister, vexed with the care of a child scarcely old enough to care for herself, imposing strict restrictions on the girl. She strode to the cooling rack near the ovens where the already baked pasties rested, beckoning the girl to her side. Slipping a scrap of linen around a robust pasty, she handed it to the child.
“Do not burn your mouth, and be certain to eat everything on your trencher at supper.” She patted the girl’s head, smoothing strands of thick black hair from her face.
The child nodded. “Thank ye!” She cocked her head to one side. “Ye are new here, aye?”
Hanna nodded, sudden alarm prickling along her skin. She hadn’t meant to attract notice, and yet the bright eyes of this girl seemed to notice much.
“I know everyone in the kitchen. I’m Gillian. What’s yer name? Would ye be my friend?”
“I am Hanna,” she replied, seeking to halt the child’s chatter. “And I must get back to my duties. Do not tell anyone of the pastie.”
“Och, I willnae,” the child assured her, eyes dancing merrily. “’Tis certain Peigi wouldnae let me have another!”
With a glance back at Hanna and a wave of her hand, the girl scurried between the tables and through the kitchen door. Lachina strode to Hanna’s side.
“Her da will have his hands full once that one is of age,” she noted with a heavy sigh. “God bless his soul.”
* * *
Alex stared at the young women interspersed down the tables with various family members in attendance. Some smiled openly, some fluttered glances from beneath lowered eyelids. All were comely. All were young.
“Remind me whose idea this was?” he invited Edan, biting his lip against a scowl. The last thing he needed was a concerted effort to entice him to remarry. Once had been enough, God rest Annag’s long-suffering soul. He’d spent long months aboard ship and in foreign countries, sampling what was offered. He’d be damned before he was shackled by duty again.
“A few of the elders still believe ye should remarry and produce an heir,” Edan replied. He swept his gaze over the crowd. “Plenty for ye to choose from.”
“They’re young enough to be my daughters,” Alex snorted in disgust. “I dinnae see why we cannae settle on Arbela’s son—or even Gillian’s husband once she is of age.” He made a vague gesture with one hand. “This is ridiculous.”
Edan rose and bent near. “Try a few out, Laird. Ye dinnae have to keep them.”
With a broad grin, Edan strode away, leaving Alex to his plight.
To Alex’s relief, Gillian streaked across the room before any of the more ambitions fathers could step to his table, skillfully dodging her nurse’s efforts to stop her. Her dancing eyes echoing her grin of triumph, Gillian dove into Alex’s lap as he scooted his chair back from the table. She planted a resounding kiss to his cheek then settled against him, surveying the simpering mass of maidenhood with all the subtle confidence of a well-loved six-year-old.
She stuck her thumb in her mouth and wiggled her shoulders more firmly against Alex. “They’re staring, Da.” She attempted a whisper around her abbreviated digit, but attained only a rasping quality, the volume loud enough to carry.
Alex smothered a laugh. “Aye, leannan,” he replied, leaning his mouth close to her ear, her black hair tickling his nose. “None are as bonny as ye.”
Gillian jerked upright and removed her thumb. “They’re staring at ye,” she corrected him with a frown.
He nodded sagely. “I’ll wager they cannae believe such a bonny lass has such an auld, crepit da.”
His daughter sighed. “Ye arenae auld,” she reassured him. “Ye have only a wee bit of gray hair, and Auntie Bela has lots more gray hair than ye.” She leaned her cheek against Alex’s chest, her eyes observing the dwindling crowd.
“I imagine I will gray as ye grow. And I wouldnae repeat that about Auntie Bela’s hair if I were ye,” Alex said, grinning as he imagined his sister’s response to Gillian’s truthful remark. He looked forward to the years ahead with his precocious daughter. Bright, bonny, and self-assured, she reminded him mightily of her Auntie Bela, and Alex wondered how his da had survived his sister’s clever skills as a child.
He nudged Gillian’s elbow. “They are certain ye need a ma and have come to see if they could stomach living with me. We’re a pair, ye know.”
Gillian’s head tilted in interest. “I dinnae need a ma,” she declared. “Do ye wish a wife?”
Her nose wrinkled with her question, and Alex swallowed a laugh. “I dinnae believe so,” he replied. “But if I change my mind, we will pick one out together.”
“I like her,” Gillian said, sitting forward and pointing to a woman clearing one
of the tables. “She’s nice.”
Alex followed his daughter’s gaze, startled to discover his Valkyrie from earlier wiping down the worn boards. It was unlikely he would have remarked her appearance had Gillian not pointed her out. Her hair, pulled back from her face and twisted around her head in a thick braid, glistened gold in the torchlight. Her movements were concise, with the grace of a lean lioness, and he found himself wishing he’d seen her take down the ruffian in the alley that morning.
His lips quirked in a half-grin. What a bloody thought to have of a woman I scarcely know—and who could stand trial for murder, should I wish it. His gaze lingered on the woman’s—Hanna, wasn’t it?—slender back, recalling her almost feral attitude earlier. Such a difference a bath and change of clothes made. His smile kicked up a notch and a purely male interest rose.
Giving Gillian a nudge from his lap, he rose. “Why dinnae we speak to yer new friend?”
CHAPTER 8
Hanna slanted a glance to the head table, taken aback to see the dark-haired child she’d met earlier curled in the laird’s lap. Her heart missed a beat. The girl’s easy, assured nature should have alerted her, but she’d been taken in by the child’s sweet nature and untidy appearance to heed the warning signs. Now, dressed in a fetching gown of fine wool—not a tattered or bespattered hem in sight—she radiated the charm of an indulged laird’s daughter.
Gillian. The MacLean’s daughter. A low rage simmered in her belly. The Scot’s daughter lived, whilst Signy lay beneath a pile of charred rubble. Darkness hemmed the edge of her vision, as she pondered the possible change in her plans for revenge.
It would be easy to strike at the laird through his daughter—and how fitting his loss should echo hers. Hanna’s nostrils flared in distaste.
She snatched a platter from the table, slamming the trenchers she’d gathered onto the broad surface. Gripping the handles with white knuckles, Hanna braced against the overwhelming waves of grief.
It mattered to no one when my daughter died. Or my son. No one hesitated to destroy my family, my life. Nay, the cursed Scots relished the task.
Tears slipped from burning eyes and she blinked to clear her vision as she bore her burdens to the kitchen.
Something tugged at her skirt.
“Hanna?” a small voice chirped.
Hanna whirled. Her platter slammed against a broad chest mere inches away, and the trenchers crashed to the floor. She released the platter, freeing her hands, the tip of a dagger appearing magically from her sleeve. Her gaze slid from the child to the man immediately in front of her. He grabbed her forearm in a bruising grip, immobilizing her, rendering her threat ineffective. His dark eyes pierced hers, reminding her the man did not succeed as laird by being weak.
The tense line of his jaw echoed the taut muscles of his body, weight poised slightly forward, ready to counter her next move. Forcing back her anger, she relaxed, tearing her gaze away to indicate at least partial surrender. His grip loosened, though she knew she’d bear the marks for a few days, yet he did not completely release her. His touch burned her skin. His half-step closed the remaining distance between them, trapping the threat of the dagger between them.
“Are ye well?” he asked, his voice sliding smooth as aged whisky through her ears.
Hanna eyed him warily. Her heart raced. “I was told ye did not tolerate abuse of women.” With a supreme effort, she kept her tone barely within the range of civil. Something flashed in his eyes, but was quickly gone.
“’Tis understandable ye wish to protect yerself. And fortunate none has seen the glint of steel between us.” A moment of tense silence slid past. “Put away yer dagger,” Laird MacLean growled. “Yer safety is assured. And the mess easily put to right.”
The dagger disappeared into the narrow sheath beneath her sleeve, Hanna’s hesitancy brief and unremarked. She remained of half a mind to plunge the blade into his chest and be finished with her torment. Joining her family in the afterlife held great appeal, and she’d no doubt she’d not last long once her vengeance was sated. But a quick death for the laird weighed against his lifetime of the same sorrow and loss she felt? She needed more time to plan her revenge.
He straightened, releasing her as he gestured to a passing lad. “Gather what has slid beneath the tables,” he ordered. “We cannae have Hanna crawling where a lad goes best.”
“I apologize,” Laird MacLean said, turning his attention back to her. “Wee Gillian said she met ye earlier, and I wished to ask how ye fare. ’Twas not my intent to startle ye.”
“I am well,” she bit out, furious to owe her current home and food to a despised Scot. “I will return to my duties.”
The laird smiled. Hanna shoved away an impulse to return the gesture, refusing to let the light crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes sway her opinion of him. He was the king’s man, and therefore aligned with those who had destroyed her family and friends. A bonny smile and friendly manner could not change the tilt of his allegiance.
She vowed his smile would soon be a thing of the past.
* * *
Alex’s gaze followed the Norsewoman’s retreat, her shoulders square, head high. He sighed. Too many people—widows, orphans—fled the Isles, seeking refuge from the battle between the two kings. A few escaped just ahead of the culling axe—most arrived bearing blood-stained clothing and dark hearts.
Something about Hanna tugged at him. Her grief was fresh, yet she pursued her tasks without hesitation. She carried herself like a queen, even as she blotted food stains from the scarred tables. He’d seen her quick to defend a helpless lass, knew her to be capable of violence. Yet Gillian had seen something more amenable in Hanna and liked her—perhaps there was a more welcoming side to his Valkyrie.
His Valkyrie? His cock twitched agreeably.
“Do ye like her, Da?” Gillian asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Hanna disappeared into the hall to the kitchen and Alex reluctantly pulled his gaze to his daughter. “I believe Hanna is a good woman,” he said. “And her heart is heavy. Go easy on her, aye?”
“Och,” Gillian said, dismissing his concern airily. “She needs me. Mayhap ye, as well.”
* * *
Hanna tossed fitfully on her pallet in the hall. Unused to sleeping amid so many, each breath, each snore, every rustle of straw combined to scatter what little semblance of peace she’d managed to pull together after her exhausting day.
She lay awake long into the night, musing over the past hours. Laird MacLean’s mercy was a bitter dreg to swallow. She felt no remorse over the killing of the man at the dock who’d arrogantly thrust his attentions on a young girl. And it confused her when he’d sentenced the other two to their deaths, meting out impartial justice.
She’d meant to make an example of the Scot. Hurt him as she’d been. Force him to understand the depth of her pain, loss that bit so deep nothing but her own death could end it. A small voice she did not wish to hear whispered Laird MacLean was a merciful man, and wronging him was not honorable. Hanna closed her eyes and pulled the thin blanket higher over her shoulders and fell into a troubled slumber.
CHAPTER 9
Alex scraped a hand through his hair in frustration, caught by Gillian as he perused the list of provisions for the Porpoise. Though it would be some weeks before he was due to meet the king, his daughter refused to be put off. “I cannae take ye with me this time, Gillian. Dinnae fash. I will only be gone a sennight or so.”
“I want to go, Da!” she insisted, dark eyes brimming with tears. Alex inhaled deeply. This trip would be no exciting travel full of different ports, and merchants hawking wares to delight a young girl’s fancy. It likely meant a long, drawn-out siege, and his hopes for a week’s time away seemed overly optimistic.
“I know ye do, lass,” he soothed. “And I would be pleased to have ye with me—another time.”
“I want to go with ye this time,” Gillian pouted.
“’Tis no trip for a wee lass,” Alex rep
lied. “I will take ye to the dock and see the Porpoise today—before I leave,” he added, hoping the bribe would be successful.
“I dinnae wish to stay behind. Peigi isnae well, and I dinnae have anyone when ye are gone.” This time her lower lip slid forward as the corners drifted downward.
Alex’s resolve slipped a notch. He scooped Gillian into his arms. “Battle isnae a place for a lass, and I will be too busy to attend ye.” He chucked her beneath her chin, coaxing a hint of a smile as she ducked her head. Alex tried a new tactic.
“Mayhap we should spend an hour or two thinking of a name for yer new puppy.”
Gillian’s face lit as she jerked upright. “Da! Do I truly have a puppy?”
“I think ye are old enough to have the care of one. Would it please ye?”
“Och, aye!” She nodded vigorously. “I will take the best care ever! I will even give him my carrots,” she added solemnly.
Alex threw back his head, laughter erupting. “Ye will eat yer own carrots, Gillian MacLean. Puppies dinnae eat them.”
Gillian shrugged, blithely unconcerned to be caught in her ploy to avoid the one vegetable she disliked most. Setting his daughter from his lap, Alex took her hand.
“Let’s see if he is in the kennel.”
Gillian skipped beside him, and his heart soared at her cheerfulness. The past year had been difficult for the lass, but he was pleased to see her spirits blooming.
They approached the kennel, Gillian’s excitement doubling, then trebling, until she clung to his arm, scarcely able to refrain from jumping up and down.
“What is the first lesson around animals, lass?” Alex asked.
Gillian immediately sobered. “I dinnae wish to frighten him,” she whispered. “Am I being good, now?”
“Aye, ye are perfect,” he replied. Unlatching the half-door, he pushed it open. Gillian’s hands flew to cover her mouth, her eyes wide and shining.
