When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  Now she could tell the laird she had a name.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The lass’s freshly washed shift was spread out on the table, and Fergus regarded it with a scowl. ’Twas indecent to have such an intimate garment here in the hall, but they were searching for clues as to who the lass might be. She had no recollection of even her name. The shift was all they—and she—had.

  “The lace is French, or so Malcolm says, and he’s more worldly than we are about such things,” Dougal said. “Who hereabouts is likely to be able to buy French lace for a lass’s nightgown?”

  “A chief?” Beitris suggested. Fergus scowled at her, since this was a meeting of men, but she didn’t depart. She moved closer, stood behind Dougal, her husband.

  “A Frenchman?” William suggested.

  “Glenna thinks she’s a selkie,” Dougal said.

  Fergus rolled his eyes. “You don’t really believe that.”

  Dougal rubbed his chin. “If she’d come by land, I’d say the fairies left her.”

  “She’d make Malcolm Ban a lovely wee wife—’tis the first step in holding a selkie. Ye have to wed her, give her bairns,” Beitris added.

  Fergus rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb. “That’s a fine way to choose the next lady of Dunbronach—pluck a waif out of the sea and marry her.”

  Malcolm entered the room and regarded the huddled elders and the lacy gown laid out on the table. “Sit ye down, Laird. We’re discussing the lass. We think ye should keep her,” Beitris said. She crossed to the cupboard to fetch a pewter cup, which she filled with ale for him.

  Fergus glared at her. “Have you no housework to be doing?”

  Beitris drew herself up and glared right back at him. “If ye’re talking about the fate of a woman, a lass who’s lost and injured, ye need a woman’s opinion. If the laird keeps her, it will affect us all.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “We can’t keep her. She isn’t a lost coin, or a stray cat.”

  Dougal smiled patiently at him, as if he were an idiot. “’Tis Highland tradition to steal a bride—ye handfast with her, and she stays for a year and a day. If she—and ye—wish for a longer union, she stays for good. If she has bairns, she’s more likely to say ‘aye’ after the handfasting is up,” he explained. “’Tis good sense. If ye don’t suit each other, then ye part ways. Don’t they do it in the Lowlands?”

  Malcolm looked stunned. “No.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table, and regarded them patiently. Fergus rolled his eyes and braced for the wee sermon he knew was coming, on the right way of doing things, the civilized way, the Edinburgh way.

  “Many Highland customs are not laws. Laws are based on logic and consideration for what’s right for all parties,” Malcolm said. Fergus watched his face flush with frustration as William, Beitris, and Dougal simply regarded him with gentle smiles. “I—we—cannot keep her, force her to, to . . .’Tis kidnapping and ravishment! What if she’s already married?”

  William’s smile widened. “Och, if he shows up here, this husband of hers, we’ll kill him!”

  “That’s murder!” Malcolm said.

  “Maybe and maybe not,” Dougal said. “In the Highland way, if he’s from an enemy clan, then we’re well within our rights to see him off. After we relieve him of his property, of course.”

  “Robbery too?”

  William nodded hard, as if Malcolm finally understood. “Aye, Laird, that’s it—the Highland way,” William said. He finished his ale and rose. “I’d best set someone to watch the bay, just in case someone comes sailing in to look for our lass.”

  “She is not our lass!” Malcolm called after William.

  Dougal patted the laird’s shoulder as he rose to leave the room. “’Twill all turn out as it should in the end, Laird. Much easier to believe she’s a selkie and leave it for now.”

  Once the others had left, and Beitris had taken the gown away, Fergus sat alone at the table, considering. He looked at Archie’s great claymore, hanging over the fire in a place of honor. It was the sword of a warrior, a man of deeds and action. He wondered if Malcolm Ban even had the strength to lift the weapon.

  “Ye were wrong, Archie. He isn’t the one to lead us,” he muttered to the air, as if Archie still sat in his chair with a cup in his hand.

  But Archie was dead, and Malcolm Ban was a stranger and a weakling, in Fergus’s opinion. That meant it fell to him, Fergus, to rule the clan. But as the ache in his joints reminded him, they needed a younger, fitter man, a warrior, someone who respected tradition and understood Highland ways. Not a lawyer, or a gentleman.

  He got to his feet and left the room. He knew what had to be done, and the others would come to thank him for it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “The lass is much better,” Beitris said as she served porridge for breakfast the next day. She addressed the comment to Malcolm as she filled his bowl. “I think it’s time we brought her up to the castle and gave her a proper room here.”

  “Has she remembered that she’s—” Malcolm paused. “Who she is?”

  Beitris sighed. “Nay. Her head’s as empty as a broken creel. Bringing her here would save me running down to Diarmid’s to check on her a dozen times a day. She’s not getting any rest there. Everyone in the clan visits, just to stare at her. She needs a quiet, private place to get well, and I can apply salve and dose her with willow bark as easily as Diarmid can. She can’t stay with him forever—he needs his bed.”

  Malcolm had been to see her that morning and had found it rather difficult not to stare himself. Her complexion was pink, her eyes bright, and she’d looked happy to see him, as if she knew him.

  “We can put her in the lady’s chamber.” Dougal winked at his wife. “Very fitting if she’s going to be the next Lady MacDonald.”

  Malcolm set his spoon down. “She’s a guest under our care, nothing more.”

  “Ye can’t put her there,” Glenna said through a mouthful of food.

  Finally, an ally, Malcolm thought. He smiled at Glenna. “Because she isn’t Lady MacDonald.”

  The girl frowned. “Nay—the lady’s chamber overlooks the sea. It would make her long for the water.”

  “She’s quite right,” Dougal said. “Can’t have our selkie jumping out the window and swimming away.”

  “It’s at least thirty feet down, and there are rocks,” Malcolm began, but Glenna interrupted.

  “She’s called Ronat,” Glenna said.

  “Ronat?” Malcolm liked the way it felt on his tongue, but it sounded warning bells in his head as well. “Did she tell you that?”

  “Nay, but she needed a name. It means seal,” Glenna said.

  “And it’s a fine name—until we’ve a better one to call her,” Dougal said.

  “Like Lady MacDonald,” Beitris suggested. “She could have the room across from the lady’s chamber.”

  Fergus frowned. “Cormag’s room? Ye’d put her in there?”

  Dougal set his cup down. “Why not? It faces the land and the hills. The view is very pleasant.”

  “It’s a warrior’s chamber,” Fergus grumbled. “Filled with manly things. Surely there are plenty of other rooms.”

  “We can move a few things from Lady MacDonald’s room for her,” Beitris said. “Pretty cushions and such to make it welcoming for her. Ye don’t mind, do ye, Laird? Your mother brought some very fine things when she wed your father, and left them all behind when she sailed away. Perhaps she thought she would return some day. There’s really no point in letting them go to waste now.”

  “That would do very well in my opinion,” Dougal said before Malcolm could reply. William nodded, and Fergus scowled. Beitris took it for unanimous agreement.

  “Then I shall prepare Cormag’s room for Ronat,” she said. She grinned at Malcolm. “’Tis a good name.”

  Much better than her true MacLeod name for the moment, Malcolm thought.

  “I’ll take a cart and fetch her,” William said.

&nb
sp; “Nay. The cart might jostle her poor head too much,” Beitris objected.

  “Then I’ll take a garron for her,” William said.

  Beitris frowned. “The seabirds are nesting and apt to be a bit unsettled. If they dove at the garron, the horse might bolt, harm the lass.”

  “Besides, I don’t think selkies are used to garrons,” Glenna said.

  “True,” Dougal said, as if the child had said something wise.

  “Ye’ll have to carry her, Laird,” Beitris said.

  Malcolm remembered how she had felt in his arms, the feminine shape of her body outlined by her plaid and the fine, wet linen, her hair splayed wet across his shoulder. Her eyes had been closed, her lips parted, like a woman in the throes of passion. Malcolm frowned. This time she’d be awake, looking at him, stiff in his arms, embarrassed, perhaps, even afraid of being carried by a man she didn’t know. And if she’d recalled her identity, she’d be horrified indeed to be so intimately handled by her enemy. Except he wasn’t her enemy—in truth, he was her only friend at Dunbronach.

  “I’d wager she weighs less than a feather,” Beitris said. “We’ll wrap her warmly, and ye can carry her up from Diarmid’s cott, and she’ll be as safe as can be in your strong arms, Laird.”

  “She could walk on her own two feet,” he suggested.

  “Nay—she came without shoes,” Beitris insisted. “And her poor ankle is still healing.”

  “She’ll be more used to swimming. Her feet will be tender on the rocks,” Glenna added. “Perhaps she’s clumsy and slow on land.”

  Malcolm sent his niece a sharp look, and the imp tilted her head and smiled at him with food on her chin and her hair uncombed. Should one indulge such wild fantasies in a child? Nancy would say no—she’d insist Glenna should be locked in a nursery with a strict governess, her hair tamed, her frock clean, her feet in proper shoes. She would be made to read improving books, learn neat embroidery stitches, long Bible verses, and proper table manners. Truly, the dogs had better manners than Glenna did. Still, she was his half-brother’s natural daughter, even if Cormag had refused to acknowledge her, and therefore she was now Malcolm’s responsibility. And she was happy. Malcolm wondered what such a childhood might feel like, full of freedom and play.

  Glenna wiped her mouth with her sleeve and rose. “Don’t worry, Laird. I’ll find her sealskin, and then you can keep her forever,” she promised. “I’ve already started searching.”

  Malcolm felt a bolt of panic rush through him. Searching? What if she found the MacLeod plaid?

  “Ye promised ye’d come and hunt with me today, lass,” William said. He grinned at Malcolm. “She’s like her da—Cormag was a born hunter. He never came home from a hunt empty handed.”

  It was one more thing Cormag could do that Malcolm couldn’t. Malcolm belonged to a gentleman’s shooting club in Edinburgh, where he shot at targets, or at grouse and pheasant. He fenced with other gentlemen, but he could not wield the kind of Highland weapons designed to cleave an enemy in two with a single blow.

  Still, he could carry an injured woman who was as soft and light as a wren and make it look easy. He rose to his feet and picked up his bonnet—he found he didn’t miss the tricorn he’d worn in Edinburgh, or the wig that went beneath it, though he still wore breeches, a neck cloth, and a proper coat every day, as a gentleman should. “Prepare the chamber for her. I’ll go and fetch her,” he said in a tone he hoped conveyed lairdly command.

  The whole clan followed him—women, old folk, and children traipsed behind him, down the steep stairs of the keep, across rocks, meadow, and beach, all the way to Diarmid’s hut where they waited respectfully outside as Malcolm knocked on the door and entered.

  His breath caught at the sight of her. She was sitting on a stool by the fire, wearing the loose saffron gown with his plaid around her hips, combing her hair. He thought of the drawings of mermaids he’d seen, felt a chill shoot up his spine. Her long, dark locks were as straight and smooth as silk, midnight against the ivory of her skin. She turned at the sight of him and blushed like the sun rising over the sea. Her eyes met his, locked, and he felt his heart slam against his ribs.

  Her lips parted slightly and she rose to her feet, and the plaid fell to the floor. The fire behind her illuminated the shape of her body through her borrowed gown. Dhia, she was beautiful.

  Diarmid stepped between them and broke the spell. “Feasgar math, Laird. Good afternoon to ye.”

  Malcolm shook himself, returned to good sense. He began to bow to her out of polite habit before he remembered the gesture wasn’t required here. He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back instead. “I’ve come to inquire after Mistress Ma—er, the lass.”

  “In truth, we’ve come to escort her up to the castle,” Beitris said, pushing around Malcolm. Others followed her, slipping inside the wee hut to look at the lass from the sea.

  “We’ve a gracious chamber made ready for ye, Mistress Ronat,” Dougal added, bowing low as he entered. She blushed at the sound of the temporary name.

  “Ye’ll be more comfortable there, have some privacy,” William added, ducking his head as he stepped into the wee hut. That meant that Malcolm was forced to step outside again, for there wasn’t space for so many people inside. He stood in the sun like an anxious bridegroom on his wedding night, waiting while his bride was prepared for him.

  “Now will ye keep her?” Glenna asked, and he turned to find her standing next to him.

  “I’m sure she has a home of her own.”

  “We need a lady here, a mistress. The Sickness took a terrible toll. The old ones who are left will die, and the younger ones will leave Dunbronach. But they’d stay for her. Selkies have a rare magic. She’d bring us luck,” Glenna predicted. “We should keep her.”

  “Civilized folk don’t keep other people against their will,” he said sharply. “It’s bad manners, and it’s against the law.”

  She tilted her head. “Then ye’ll have to make her want to stay.”

  “I have a fiancée.”

  “Och, aye, I’ve heard. A Sassenach major’s daughter. No true Highlander would marry a Sassenach. ’Tisn’t right to marry outside yer species.”

  Malcolm felt his face heat. “You’ve got a sharp tongue. I can arrange to snip off the end of it.”

  “Aye? Do civilized folk do that to their children?”

  He took a step toward her. “They spank them, at the very least, when they forget their manners.”

  She laughed and danced back a step or two. “Ye’d have to catch me, and I can run like the wind, swim like a fish, and climb like a squirrel.”

  He found himself tempted to laugh. Would he have grown up like Glenna if he’d stayed here at Dunbronach? “You’ll live at the castle from now on and help Beitris.”

  She shrugged. “If ye wish. I will while Ronat’s there, at least. I’ll go and catch some fish for her supper. She’s sure to like that.” He watched her dash off across the beach like a lad instead of a girl. He wondered if he could ask her to teach him things, things he might have learned from his father or even his half-brother, like how to set snares and track game, how to tie knots and climb trees.

  “Laird?” He turned to find Dougal behind him. “The lass is ready.” His clan filed out the door and stood aside to let him in.

  She stood next to Diarmid, her hand on the old man’s sleeve to save her injured ankle. There were tears in Diarmid’s eyes at her going. “I’ve put some salve into the basket for the bruises, and some herbs to brew for pain, and there’s something to help her sleep. She has dreams but canna quite recall what they’re about,” the old man told him.

  The girl’s hand tightened on the old healer’s arm for a moment, and he patted her hand. “There now, lass. You’re young and strong and ye’ll be right as rain in no time. I’ll come and see ye in a day or two, if that’s all right, Laird?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Ready, lass?”

  “Ronat,” she said softly.
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br />   “Ronat,” he repeated, and smiled as he bent to lift her, one arm under her knees, the other cradling her back. He could smell the soap Beitris had used to wash her hair, something with flowers and perhaps a touch of honey, and the sharper scent of Diarmid’s salve. Her eyes were as gray and soft as fog, and she regarded him trustingly, her face inches from his. This time, her body was warm and alive in his arms, and the fullness of her breast pressed against his chest. She put her arm over his shoulder and curled her hand around his neck. Malcolm waited as Beitris drew the plaid more carefully around her for warmth. Ronat’s eyes never left his. She scanned his face as if searching for a clue, and he smiled reassuringly. “We’d best go,” he said, and ducked slightly to get through the door. The movement brought her cheek into contact with his, sent sparks sizzling through his body. For an instant she tensed, as if she was aware of him too. He felt his skin heating.

  “Am I too heavy?” she asked. Her voice was soft, low timbered, a cat’s purr.

  “Not at all,” he said. “I’ve carried books heavier than you.” Law books were heavy, and it was one of the first jobs his uncle had given him—to bring him the books he required and then put them away properly when he was done with them.

  Something lit in her eyes. “Books?”

  “Lass, we need to talk,” Malcolm said in a voice too low for his following clan to hear.

  “I’m listening,” she said, her eyes brightening with interest.

  “No, not here. In private. Have you—have you remembered anything?” he asked.

  Her lashes fell, and her mouth tightened. She shook her head.

  “Do you recall your kin? Were you—are you—married?”

  Her eyes opened again, found his, as if the question surprised her. “I recall something about a wedding. There was dancing, and—” Her frown deepened. “A pitchfork.”

  “A pitchfork?” He smiled, despite himself.

  “Oui,” she said in French.

  “Are you French?” he asked her in French.

  “I don’t think I am,” she replied, also in French.