by Jackie Ivie
He lifted his hand as if to ask for silence again. She watched it tremble for a moment before he dropped it again.
“You’re drained again?” she asked.
He nodded. Juliana giggled.
“And . . . this is not the usual?”
He sucked in on his cheeks and twisted his lips as if considering either the answer or if he should give it to her. He finally shook his head. Juliana was glowing. It was probably visual. If he looked. He didn’t.
“Aidan.” Her tone warmed . . . lowered.
“Aye?” he whispered.
“You’ve feelings for me.”
“Lass—”
“Admit it.”
He gave her a huge intake of breath before his long, drawnout sigh, probably trying to sound harried and put-upon. It didn’t work. He was too visual. Stirring. And with the flicker of the oiled wick, it was impossible not to note the shadows and dales that delineated him with every breath he took. Especially the large ones. She roved her eyes about him. Such power. Such presence. Such a man.
Drained?
“Aidan.” She tried again using the same exact tone.
“What now?” he asked.
“You’ve feelings. For me. Admit it.”
“You will na’ let a man rest. Will you?”
“Aidan.”
“He works into a massive tired pleasing you, and you just jaw him to death as a reward. This is what you do.”
“Aidan,” she tried again. “Your feelings?”
“All right, lass. You win. I do. I’ve feelings. Most of them tired and blurred and getting stepped on.”
“You . . . have feelings for me?” She couldn’t help it. She hadn’t truly expected him to admit it. The surprise colored the words.
“Of course I do.”
Her eyes went wide, and her mouth nearly split with the absolute joy of what he’d just admitted.
“What man wouldn’t? You’re a bonny wench. With a bounteous frame.”
Her face was frozen in place. Then it started settling into a blankness she had to work at. Her breath was another problem, burning at the way she held it.
“Aidan.” She said his name in exactly the same tone and inflection as before.
“And a penchant for jawing a man’s ear at the worst times,” he continued.
Now it was her turn to sigh. She watched how much that pleasured him. It was in every bit of his smile.
“You need to seek rest, lass. We leave on the morrow. First light.”
“That is not what you told Arran.”
“First light is na’ much time.”
“You’re impossible, Aidan Niall MacKetryck!”
She slapped at the mass of muscled belly he was exhibiting. Her hand bounced. His smile widened. Not much else happened.
“You are na’ the first lass to say so,” he informed her.
Juliana didn’t answer. It hurt too much. There wasn’t any way to disguise it.
“Does your silence mean you’ll leave a man to rest?”
“Aye,” she croaked, and then swallowed. He smirked. It was still endearing. Juliana watched as he shimmied himself into a more comfortable position, although it appeared to be by flattening the mat to match the ground level. He folded his arms atop his chest, making everything even larger and more muscular-looking. He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t turn back to her.
He went to sleep.
Chapter 14
They came upon the Killoran crofts toward dusk. Juliana didn’t have to be told. There wasn’t a hint of rain in the heavy cloud hanging about the deepest darkest section of this glen. Her nose was alerted well before they’d got beneath the overhang of cloud carrying the faintly sour smell of dredge mixed with a bare whiff of rising bread odor, and that was blending with wood smoke from their kilns. It was easily recognizable and unmistakable for the ale brewing industry it was.
As were the fields they’d traversed through since midmorn.
As chatelaine of Fyfen Castle, she’d overseen the brewing of ales, including the perfect dredge to mix with water. And perfect dredge required barley wheat . . . fields and fields of it. The size and scope of this particular glen was jaw-dropping. If Juliana hadn’t been watching Aidan’s back and feeling the most unsettling knot of worry start an ache at the base of her belly, she’d have probably had the jaw-dropping affliction as they passed from field after field of ripening wheat interspersed with fallow fields.
All of it belonging to the laird of MacKetryck.
Arran was a font of information during their midday stop, settling amid one of the tilled fields that wouldn’t be harvested until late in the season. Juliana hadn’t asked, but it hadn’t stopped his mouth.
Killoran ale was the finest in Scotland, and the barley grown the best, as well as the oats that were added to make wort. As vassal and clansmen to Laird MacKetryck, the Killoran owed Aidan a portion of every hogshead brewed and sold. As well as supplying any number of oaken kegs the castle needed. And a household the size of Clan MacKetryck required a lot of ale. But she’d soon see for herself. They’d be at the castle about midmorn. They could continue over the next two drums, and arrive during the night, but Aidan had already given the orders. He wanted the time to regroup, bathe properly, and dress for the ceremony of arrival at his castle. And he also had to import the sad tale of their only son, Beathan Killoran’s demise at the hands of the English dogs.
That was going to be difficult. Killoran had more than eight daughters to his credit, but Beathan had been the lone son. Arran didn’t know how the old man would take the news. He didn’t envy Aidan the telling of it, but as liege, it was his responsibility and his bane.
All this information affected her more than she wanted to admit. A man owning all the land and lakes and forests they’d been in since she and Aidan had fallen from the horse was a very rich man. Powerful, too. Frighteningly so.
Arran’s tales added to the knot of worry until it pressed against her backbone as well. No wonder Aidan acted so arrogantly and assertively. As if he owned the world. The sound of a lone pipe filtered through the low-hanging fingers of fog, giving an eerie feel to everything. It was difficult to tell where the notes were coming from. Once that piper was joined by more of them, it was impossible. They were probably sending word of MacKetryck’s arrival. Or something.
It appeared Killoran had several lovely, lush daughters who weren’t afraid to show it. He also had more than a score of other lasses working for him. Juliana sat atop Rory’s horse and watched the mass of clansmen and women surrounding Aidan’s group once they arrived in the cleared area comprising Killoran’s compound. Since it was at the bottom of the valley, it felt darker than it actually was. The reason was apparent as soon as she saw the mill. A heavy fringe of trees loomed throughout the opacity, outlining the far bank of what looked to be a good sized, fast-running, and deep river. All of which made it feel darker and more mysterious. Perhaps if the sun were shining, it would temper the impression.
She already knew Killoran claimed eight daughters and they were easy to spot. It was apparent by their clothing, since their dresses were crafted of finer materials, with embroidered necklines, while at least two of them had made an effort to conceal their hair beneath veils, although the veils were atop their shoulders with the effusiveness of their greeting. All were very lovely girls, with very obvious charms, and not immune to showing them off. Nor were the other women, if the amount of wagging hips beneath low-necked bodices was any sign.
Juliana watched and listened as more than one of Aidan’s men called out greetings from behind her, recognizing Alpin’s voice. She didn’t note who the others were. She was watching Aidan to see if any of these women were the women he’d claimed he’d dismiss. She wondered if she’d have to assert herself already, and not only how to go about it, but if she had the daring. The knot loosened just slightly as he didn’t appear to do more than tip his head and smile before ignoring all of the women about him.
It wasn’t returned. Juli
ana intercepted more than one sly glance toward her after failing to catch his eye. She sat atop her borrowed horse and waited. And then she started surmising again since Aidan dismounted and left them to greet a large, robust, white-bearded fellow who was shoving through the crowd to him.
The Killoran family compound appeared to have five crofts of varying sizes. Two had lean-tos extending out the sides, for protecting their horses. Those buildings were probably housing for all his workers and kin. She turned a bit in the saddle. There was an odd-looking structure built right into the side of the hill. Grass covered the roof and one side. From the amount of people coming and going from either door at the end of it, she’d assign it their living abode. The design probably made it easy to cool and heat as well.
“Nae! Please, my laird! Tell me ’tis a lie!”
Juliana’s heart pumped painfully with the amount of anguish in the voice that canceled out all the other sounds in the clearing. And then she heard the rumble of crowd noise as the news was disseminated, over and over again, catching phrases now and again that she preferred to ignore. Juliana wasn’t going to be affected by their grief. Not at all. It was their fault. If a Highland clan hadn’t taken Fyfen Castle in the first place, they wouldn’t have dead to mourn over. Nor would she.
Juliana turned her attention to the kiln building, easily tagged due to the amount of smoke coming up from the roof to mingle with the mist, creating the thick overhang of fog. They’d also use that building for cooking. To save time and wood . . . or whatever they used for fuel.
Then she heard the unmistakable sounds of weeping. Wailing. Lamenting. From all about her. Displaying the emotions she hadn’t been allowed to.
Juliana blinked at the blur in her eyes and moved to consider the building just decipherable through the mist beyond the kiln. This one looked easily as large, but had a sloped thatched roof. That sort of roof would have the perfect conditions for starting the malt process. Grains had to be moistened and spread in a cool dry place that vented . . . exactly like a loft beneath that roof would allow. Such a building would also be easy to keep warm, since that stage of the process generated heat. If she didn’t miss her guess, the interior would be filled with oaken kegs being stored, aged, or readied for transport.
“You show me the Sassenach! I’ll carve out his heart! I’ll cook it for me sup!”
The old man was brandishing a wicked-looking sword, using both hands. Juliana had seen one before. It was called a claymore. It was an ugly weapon, unwieldy, much heavier than an English-made sword, and usually crafted from inferior steel. It was still capable of hacking a man’s head from his body. As long as the man brandishing it had enough strength and stamina for the task. And enough hate.
“Then show me any Englishman! I want blood! My son will na’ rest without blood!”
There were more words to the threat, said in a loud, sob-filled voice that cracked occasionally with the depth of the man’s emotion. Juliana started humming to herself, and then rocked in place atop her saddle. It was still their fault. They’d started it. As far as she was concerned, they’d gotten what they deserved.
She had to blink quicker, however, and focused on the indistinct shape of the large waterwheel of their mill. She’d been right about the size of their river. It had to be deep and fast-running to spin a wheel of that size.
“My lady?”
“Yes?”
Juliana’s chest went concave with indrawn air, bowing forward with the shock. She held it from a gasp by sheer will. Her eyes went wide with the horror, allowing a lone tear to escape, while her hands shook where she had them holding on to her saddle.
“The laird . . . has told us of your plight.”
“He . . . has?” Juliana watched the fingers of fog for a moment longer and then swiveled to the other side to face the woman standing at the side of the horse. She wasn’t one of the daughters. And she wasn’t alone. There were four of them.
“Aye. It be a sad day when the MacDonal clan gets such a thorough drubbing. Near wiped out, I hear. And at the hands of the Sassenach. ’Tis just terrible. Terrible.”
“Aye,” she replied. The woman was right. It was terrible. All of it. Juliana wiped at the tear on her face, and smiled shakily. She was being tagged as MacDonal clan. It was almost amusing.
“We’ve got a spot for you to freshen yourself and get a bite to eat.”
“What . . . of Aidan?” And curse her tongue for asking it! Juliana felt the warmth of a blush from the other’s regard, as well as the raised eyebrows.
“Laird MacKetryck?” one of them asked. And then she giggled, which started them all to it.
“Aye. That Aidan,” Juliana replied in a tight voice.
“The laird is with Killoran. At the burn. ’Tis where the men go. To drink and bathe. And prepare themselves. As usual. Women would na’ be allowed.”
“Prepare for what?” she asked, shrugging slowly and carefully, while she blanketed every emotion and expression she might have. She hadn’t forgotten how, she’d just ignored it. Love had changed her.
“Sup. But will be a subdued affair. Due to Beathan’s passing.”
Juliana moved her far leg across the saddle preparatory to sliding off by herself. Highlanders! If any of them had possessed manners, they’d have seen she had an assist, or at the very least, a stepping-off point. Juliana rolled her eyes, putting her distrust and bias about them back to the fore of everything, and jumped to her feet.
If sup was subdued, there was a distinct speech difference here.
Juliana sipped at a tureen of broth one of the women had fetched for her and licked at the drop leaking through a bottom hole before it reached her borrowed shift. They didn’t worry over bowls that leaked since good porridge had the consistency of bog, and no one else needed the stock broth heating on the fire for tomorrow’s stew. Or whatever they planned on cooking. It hadn’t been given to her in a gracious fashion, but Juliana hadn’t cared. If she didn’t get something other than what they were eating, then she was going hungry. And that was that.
Only a pig could stomach the table load of steaming entrails they’d heaped atop huge flat chunks of bread that served for a platter. The food was covered in a shine of grease that reflected the torchlight scattered about, and it was still entwined exactly as it had been when they’d taken them from the animal belly. Juliana had watched from her long stool against one wall as the fare was applauded and then attacked from both sides of the common table. If a diner didn’t have a knife, they bit off a portion, or pulled at it until it split, scattering the rough-hewn table with more grease, and gaining laughter that had a drunken tone to it.
Everything in the large croft built into the hill had a drunken tone to it. From the loud slapping and clapping and voices, to the belching and cursing, and laughter. Everything. It was clear they had well-brewed ale, and weren’t immune to partaking of it. Juliana had glanced once from the safety of her stool and requested water. And it better not be a goblet from the pail set atop each table to water down the ale. The same pails that weren’t getting more than a hand or fist dunked into it, although one at a neighboring table had been dumped atop one unfortunate fellow, amid guffaws and general hilarity. He’d taken it well, after getting another tankard of ale and a wench at either side. Juliana told the woman serving her that she wanted her water fresh drawn from the well, and if the woman serving her wouldn’t fetch it, then Juliana was prepared to do it herself. That was a threat that worked. Not much else did.
The bathwater had been slimed with use. The shift smelled stale and well used, and self-pitying tears were hovering so near the surface she had to consistently swallow and blink to send them back, and that was accompanied by unpleasant shivers that raced down her arms and then her legs joined in. She was surrounded by humanity, and had never felt so alone. She missed her chamber at Fyfen. She missed her father. She missed the woodcutter’s croft. She missed Arran.
And she especially missed Aidan.
Something j
ostled her elbow, sloshing soup onto her fingers, and she quickly licked at them before her dress received any further stain. This experience was everything she’d heard and believed and had described for her in her worst memories. And more. She couldn’t believe she’d been ready to toss all her upbringing and sense of decency aside in order to fit in with such a race. She finished licking at a finger, swallowed, and then Aidan walked in, ducking beneath the doorframe, while a piper filled the room with sound.
Juliana forgot to breathe. Think. Exist. There was the most horrid, low-pitched buzz in both ears, overriding all the other sounds in the room, including the piper. She held the bowl at her chin level and stared as everyone seemed to be doing. The only difference was that Aidan wasn’t looking at anyone else but her. As if he knew exactly where she’d be sitting and what she’d be doing.
Moments passed, feeling like sennights of time, while several heads started turning her way. It didn’t change anything. She loved him. Totally and completely and with a breadth and scope that altered everything. Then he turned his head, releasing her. She watched him shout and clap some clansman on the shoulder before moving farther into the crowd, greeting so many clansmen if it hadn’t been for his height, she’d have lost him.
She caught a glimpse of red and black plaid and then the bench beside her shifted slightly. “Aidan asked me to check upon you.”
“Good eve, Arran,” Juliana said.
“Alpin. Jesu’. Arran stutters. And is a failure around women. And has little resemblance to me.”
Juliana couldn’t prevent the smile at how put-upon he sounded. She had it stifled before turning to him. They truly didn’t know how much they favored each other?
“I would guess he looks just as you did at that age. And exactly as Aidan,” she replied.
His face fell and he looked toward the ceiling before returning his gaze to her. She’d been wrong. He wasn’t going to be as full in the chest unless he started soon, and the size of his waist probably rivaled hers. The legs sticking out from his plaid also needed a good bit of muscle added to them. He didn’t have the same mouth as Aidan, nor the same length of eyelashes. And as he sat, looking bored and harassed, she noted that he didn’t have the same amber shade to his brown eyes either. Alpin MacKetryck hadn’t been slighted, though. He was a very handsome man . . . as long as one hadn’t seen his elder brother first.
