by Amy Tolnitch
Tears stung the backs of her eyes at his unexpected kindness. “Have you heard?”
“Aye. All at Castle MacCoinneach have heard that you are to wed with Angus Ransolm.” He sat the bundle and flagon on the window seat. “I brought you food and drink.”
“I am not hungry.” In truth, she was starving, but her belly was in such knots that she couldn’t bear to eat.
“Starving yourself will not change things, lass.”
“At least my death will arrive sooner,” she snapped and rose. “I cannot believe this is happening to me. I hate Grigor!”
“He has made an interesting choice of husband, no doubt.”
“Interesting?” Freya realized she was shrieking, but couldn’t stop herself. “’Tis not interesting; ’tis vile. Angus Ransolm is an old, foul man who is legendary for his cruelty.” The last came out a sob, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Och, lass, have some wine.”
“I do not deserve this,” she said. “Look at me, Huwe.” She threw out her hands. “I deserve a young man, someone strong and kind who will cherish me, not that … that filthy whoreson. Father always promised me that I would have a say in who I would marry. He promised!”
“Your father is dead.”
“I well know that, Huwe,” she said with a sniff. “If Grigor were any kind of man, he would honor my father’s memory by keeping his promise.”
“’Tis a shame your brother is not here.”
“Why would you say that? Are you not loyal to Grigor?”
Huwe shrugged. “For the moment.”
Freya widened her eyes in the kind of pleading expression that had always gotten her whatever she wanted. “Padruig is not here. There is no one to aid me.”
He met her gaze, then shook his head. “I cannot change Grigor’s mind.”
“But he trusts you. He relies on you.”
“Aye, but I tell you in this his mind is made up. You shall wed Angus Ransolm. Unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Well, it might be different if Padruig returned. Do you know where he is?”
“Nay.” Freya let out a long sigh. “’Tis as if he vanished. We have had no word from him in more than a year.”
“Och, weel, then you must accustom yourself to the idea of wedding the Ransolm laird.”
“Oh, God, I cannot do it,” she wailed. “I have done nothing to earn such a fate.”
Huwe patted her on the shoulder. “I must go. Drink some wine.”
“There isn’t enough wine in all of the Highlands to make this any more bearable.”
Huwe’s only response was the sound of the door closing and the bar sliding into place.
Freya’s hand shook as she poured a cup of wine. For a moment, she’d thought, hoped that perhaps Huwe would aid her, but she could see in his eyes that he would not go against Grigor. She couldn’t really blame him for it. Grigor would just respond by killing him.
In despair, she looked around at the stone walls of her chamber. Long ago, her father had told her stories about secret passages within Castle MacCoinneach. When she was younger, she had spent days and days searching her chamber for such.
How I wish I had found one, she thought. I would take my chances out in the woods rather than face being bound to the likes of Angus Ransolm. The very thought made her stomach clench, and she took a long drink of wine.
There was no hope for it. Her life would be over soon. She would never willingly submit to Angus, and when she refused him, he would kill her.
“Damned beast,” Aimili muttered as she dragged herself toward the hall. Loki absolutely refused to listen to her, refused to communicate with her at all, and persisted in launching her into the air over and over again.
She could swear he was laughing at her.
Her whole body consisted of one large ache. Dusty and bedraggled, she plunged into the hall, intent on finding a cup of cool ale.
In her rush, she headed straight for the kitchen.
And slammed into a body.
The force of it pitched Aimili backward onto her already sore behind. “Oh!” she cried, and glared up at the person who’d stopped her progress. She felt as if she’d just run into a stone wall.
The man stared down at her from what seemed a great height. His silvery blue eyes were wary, as if he sought to determine what had just run into him. Lines of whitish scars etched a pattern into his rugged features. He took a step back, frowning slightly.
Those eyes, she thought. I know those eyes. An unsettling tremor shivered down her spine.
“Forgive my sister, Padruig,” Wautier said with a glance of disdain. “She has no doubt come from the stables.”
Aimili’s mouth dropped open. This huge, grave man was her Padruig? She awkwardly scrambled to her feet, and brushed ineffectively at her boy’s garments. “Padruig? Of the MacCoinneach clan?” she sputtered out.
He nodded, and before Aimili could smile in welcome, turned his back on her and walked away with Wautier, dismissing her as if she were no more than an annoying child.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her father’s disapproving frown.
“Morainn, perhaps you could assist your sister in”—her father frowned—“attiring herself more appropriately in light of our guests.”
Aimili felt the blood rush to her face as her sister took her arm and pulled. With a sniff, Morainn said, “We shall stop in the kitchen for water first.”
Though Aimili opened her mouth to speak, her words stuck fast. Padruig, here after all this time? How could it be? And why? As Morainn tugged her from the hall, Aimili could not take her eyes from him, though he spared her not a glance.
One thing became very clear. This man bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Padruig MacCoinneach of her dreams.
Morainn was quiet while she helped Aimili clean the dust from her face and hands, an unusual event, for which Aimili was thankful. Her head spun with the discovery of Padruig MacCoinneach himself at de Grantham Castle, and her belly clenched with the sight of the man he had become. There was no kindness or gentleness about him now, only serious reserve. And he had dismissed her presence as if they’d never shared … Well, Aimili had to admit, they truly had not shared all that much, although it had meant everything to her.
“Aimili, quit dawdling,” Morainn said. “I want to get back to the hall.”
Aimili scrubbed a last bit of dirt from her cheek. “Why is Padruig here?”
“I do not know.” Morainn frowned. “I do not like the looks of him.” She made a face. “All those horrible scars.”
Aimili had not found them all that horrible, but she didn’t refute her sister. “I wonder where he has been all this time,” she said as she drew on a deep green bliaut.
“No doubt hiding in shame at how he thrust his clan into a bloody feud.”
“Padruig did not kill Brona or Malcolm.”
“He may as well have. He didnae believe his own sister, God rest her soul. It was his duty to protect her and instead he favored a man who murdered her.”
“’Twas a terrible tragedy,” Aimili said. “But—”
“Hurry. The only way we shall find out what he wants is to be.”
But they learned nothing during the long course of supper in the hall. Aimili sat between Morainn and their brother Colyn and tried to keep from staring at Padruig, who engaged in low-voiced conversations with her father and another man he had apparently brought with him.
She had hoped that the sight of her in her fine green bliaut with her hair carefully braided might cause him to look at her differently, might bring a gleam of recognition to his beautiful eyes. There was nothing. Either he didn’t remember her at all or didn’t care enough to consider her presence.
Still, she stared, hiding her gaze behind her cup of wine and forcing herself to eat bites of the fine supper Cook had prepared. Padruig looks like a warrior of old, she decided. Battle-scarred, with a heavy weariness about him. His mouth never curved in a smile,
and his gaze was intense.
Still, he drew her, touched emotions so deep within her that it seemed they belonged only to him. She realized with a sinking heart that they had lain dormant for years awaiting his return.
“We shall continue this discussion in my solar,” her father suddenly said and rose, cradling his cup of wine. Padruig, his companion, and her two brothers also rose.
Aimili knew she would learn nothing this night. The uncomfortable feeling of being shut out washed over her. You are being foolish, she chided herself. Even if you have long thought of Padruig as yours, clearly he is not. Nor is he the man you once knew.
She gazed at him and, to her surprise, he finally looked at her. Really looked at her. For an instant, something flashed in his eyes, and his expression softened.
Then he turned and followed her father.
Aimili simply stared after them. He did remember, she thought. He did remember.
Padruig followed Laird de Grantham and his sons and strove to quell the disquiet that coiled in his gut. The laird was up to something, he would swear it. Padruig and Magnus had been welcomed, yet the laird had yet to give any indication of how he viewed Padruig’s request for aid. Padruig set his jaw. If the laird refused, he would find another way. Somehow.
On his journey back to the Highlands, he had come to some realizations. He could not stand by idly and watch Freya being wed to a man such as Angus Ransolm. His responsibility to stop such a horror went beyond his love for his sister. Though he had banished himself and foresworn his position as laird of the clan, the fact that he was laird was bred into his very bones. Along with that position came duty to the clan, a duty that called to him now even though he doubted he was up to the challenge.
Above all, he had a duty to protect the innocent. He had failed once, but he swore he would never do so again.
For a moment, his thoughts went back to the girl who’d sat so silently at the high table. Clearly, she thought she was being circumspect, but he’d caught her staring at him time and time again through her big, dark eyes. No doubt shocked and repulsed by his scarred appearance.
He remembered her from a lifetime ago. It was on one of his father’s visits to the de Grantham holdings. Padruig had accompanied him, but quickly found himself with little to do as his father and the Laird of the de Granthams talked. He’d wandered onto the training field and found a young girl attempting to take on two older boys with some ridiculous excuse for a sword. She’d ended up flat on her back, with her arm splayed out at an odd angle, but still she taunted the boys.
Even though she was down, they would have struck her again had he not intervened.
From her earlier dash into the hall, it was clear the child had lost nothing of her recklessness. Her appearance, though, had changed mightily, he thought, stamping down the sharp swell of awakening in his nether regions, appalled at his body’s reaction.
Smooth, unmarred skin; pink lips; even white teeth; clear brown eyes slightly tilted up at the corners. Childlike, he reminded himself. Long legs, the gentle flare of hips, a hint of round breasts. A woman, the man inside him declared.
Forcing his thoughts to the matter at hand, he walked into the solar and leaned against the wall.
The laird eyed him steadily. “You ask a great deal of us, Padruig.”
“I ken. The situation at Castle MacCoinneach demands immediate action, and I do not have time to secretly gather those loyal to me into an army.”
“Twould no doubt gain Grigor’s notice if suddenly a good part of his clansmen went missing,” Wautier observed.
“That, as well.”
“The question is whether there are still clansmen loyal to you,” the laird said, a question in his gaze.
Magnus stepped forward. “There are many, Laird.”
“How do you know?”
“I am one of them. When I am not traveling, I live within the castle walls. ’Tis true, Grigor has a loyal following, but many of the clan are unhappy with his rule.”
“Enough to fight against him?”
“Aye. And the lass is a favorite of the clan.”
“We must either find a secret way in or draw Grigor out,” the laird said. “I cannot leave my own holdings unprotected, and I have not the men to mount a siege and protect my own at the same time.”
“There are ways into the castle that few know of,” Padruig said, recalling the many hidden passages his father had shown him.
“Or we could invite Grigor on a hunt with us,” Colyn suggested. “Ambush him.”
Though to use stealth and betrayal went against Padruig’s code, he had to admit the idea had merit. “’Twould allow me to face Grigor directly without risking too many others.”
“Aye.”
“It may work,” Magnus agreed. “Stores at Castle MacCoinneach have been lean for some time. The prospect of fresh meat should bring Grigor outside the safety of the castle walls. But he will not be alone.”
“Would he trust you?” Padruig asked the laird.
The laird shrugged. “He has no reason not to. I have not involved myself in matters of your clan. I do this out of my fond memories of your father.”
His message was clear. Padruig had yet to prove himself worth the trouble. “I thank you.”
The laird slowly smiled. “You have not heard my condition yet.”
So, here it is, Padruig thought.
“In exchange for my aid, you shall wed my daughter, Aimili.”
Padruig’s mouth dropped open as the girl’s face shot into his mental vision. “She is but a bairn.”
“Nay. She is of an age to marry.”
“Nay. I cannot.” He clenched his jaw, determined not to shout out his anger over the laird’s request.
“Once you have reclaimed your place as laird, you shall marry her.”
Padruig’s thoughts flashed back to the girl at supper, and his anger deepened. The very idea was beyond ridiculous. She is far too young, far too innocent for one such as me, he thought. Far too tempting, his inner voice mocked, to his shame. “I have no need of a wife.”
“You will eventually. If you succeed.”
“Laird, I mean no disrespect to your daughter, but I have man’s work to do. ‘Twill be some time afore I can even consider taking a bride.” And when I do, it will be a full-formed woman who can tolerate my sorry visage, give me sons, and otherwise leave me be, he thought.
“I am in need of a match for Aimili.”
“Surely you can find a man more suited to a young girl.”
The laird let out a sigh. “Aimili follows her own path. Ofttimes, ’tis not one most ladies would trod.”
Wautier laughed. “Dinnae coat the matter with honey, Father. Aimili is a willful termagant, who spends nearly all of her time either in the stables with the horses or in the woods doing only God knows what.”
“She has a good heart,” the laird countered. “And she is skilled with the horses.”
Padruig could scarcely take in the fact that the child’s father and brother were arguing her merits to him, let alone that they actually expected him to wed her. “Laird, I cannot agree to this.” In truth, the very thought sickened him. A young lass deserved someone young in heart and spirit, not a man scarred both without and within by the past. Memories shifted through his mind. The glint of a dagger in firelight, the burn in his face as the blade struck true, the rage in the eyes of the MacVegan clansman. The broken body of his sister, Brona, barely over the threshold between child and woman. No, he could not wed a tender lass.
“Then you shall not have the aid of the de Granthams,” the laird said. “Think on this, Padruig. With us, you have a good chance of regaining Castle MacCoinneach. Of saving your sister from a truly horrible union. Without …” He shrugged. “Twill be much harder. Agree and you gain a pretty young bride to warm your bed.”
Wautier and Colyn started to laugh, but the laird quelled them with a look.
Padruig could not imagine bedding the girl. Could he? An image
flashed into his mind of Aimili lying atop a bed of thick furs, all soft and silken skin, her dark eyes gleaming up at him. No, he told himself.
His mind whirled in search of options, but he knew the laird’s words to be true. An alliance with the de Granthams was his best chance. Damn it to hell. Marriage. “I shall think on this, Laird. In truth, I have grave reservations about the matter.”
“’Tis a good offer. Do not think that I do not place worth upon my daughter.” The steely look in the laird’s eyes confirmed his claim.
The question remained—why offer her to Padruig? Was the girl so lacking that he was desperate enough to appeal to the outlaw laird of another clan? “By your leave, Laird, I shall retire to think upon the matter.”
“Do so. I expect your answer in the morn.”
Having come to the realization that the only way she would be permitted out of her chamber was to pretend acquiescence, Freya managed to swallow her bile long enough to do so. As a result, she sat in the great hall for supper, picking at chunks of beef in a mustard sauce and trying very hard to avoid glaring at the smug bastard who presided over supper as if he were the king himself.
As usual, her mother took her meal in her chamber, leaving Freya at the high table with Grigor, Rauf, and, thankfully, her “cousin” Efrika, and Alasdair, both of whom sat down and sent her identical expressions of sympathy.
She sipped wine and gazed out over the full hall. Many members of the clan caught her eye, their own gazes filled with a combination of sympathy and anger. Why are none of them brave enough to crush Grigor like the insect he is? she silently lamented. It isn’t fair. Where is my champion?
“Do not frown so, Freya,” Grigor said, his voice oozing superiority. He snapped his fingers, and the poor serving girl who hovered behind him filled his cup. “You do not wish to mar that beautiful face with unsightly wrinkles. ’Twill lower your worth.”
Beside him, Rauf chuckled, and Freya gripped her cup tight.
“I am pleased that you finally saw the reason in my decision,” Grigor continued.
“You gave me no choice.”
