by Amy Tolnitch
Hurt and shame burned through her gut. “Because you give him no option.”
“Be that as it may, the marriage shall take place. You shall gain a strong husband and a home of your own to manage.”
“I do not want to manage anything but my horses.”
“What shall you do, Aimili? Stay here? One day soon, Wautier shall wed and bring his bride here. She shall expect to establish her role as chatelaine. I have already had a number of inquiries about your sister. I’ve no doubt she shall be taken care of soon, as well.”
Aimili fought back the sting of tears. “I dinnae care who is in charge, Father. You know I do not concern myself with the running of the castle.”
“I have found a good man to take you, Aimili, and that is what you shall do.”
“He does not want me, Father. He made that quite clear.”
Her father waved a hand. “’Tis simply the suddenness of it. He shall become accustomed to the idea, as will you.”
“Nay. You are wrong.”
“You shall marry him, Aimili. As soon as he regains Castle MacCoinneach you shall be wed.”
“I have always been an embarrassment to you, haven’t I, Father? Not like Morainn.”
“Aimili, you have your own special qualities about you. ’Tis simply different.”
She smiled sadly. “You do not even hear what I am saying. He. Does. Not. Want. Me.”
“I will see you settled, child.”
With his last word, she let out her breath in a hiss and rushed from the solar. Child. Just a child. The words rang over and over in her mind until she could barely see, barely think. As she entered the bailey, she broke into a run. Within moments, she was on her way into the forest.
Padruig stood watching the black stallion run back and forth inside the paddock and felt an odd empathy with Loki. When Padruig leaned on the rail, Loki stopped and eyed him. “We are both trapped, boy,” Padruig murmured.
The horse snorted and turned its rump toward Padruig.
Magnus strolled out of the stables and halted next to Padruig. “That went well.”
“By the saints, Magnus, what else can I do?” Padruig gritted his teeth. “If naught else, the sight of what that whoreson Ransolm did to his own horse would decide me. I cannot let Freya go into his hands.”
“The lass is comely.”
“She is a child. A child who remembers a Padruig of a lifetime ago.”
“Are you sure that Padruig does not exist still?”
“Nay. That man died on the same field as Brona.” Padruig shook his head. “It does not matter. It cannot. I shall do what needs to be done to protect my sister. Aimili shall not go for want.”
Magnus raised a brow. “What if the lass desires more of you?”
A bitter laugh escaped his lips before Padruig could rein it in. “Look at me, Magnus. Why would she? She’ll be glad to be left alone with her horses, I have no doubt.”
A boy raced out of the stables and nearly collided with the two men. “My lord,” he said over a breath. “The laird bid me to find you.”
Padruig frowned at the boy, wondering what new conditions the laird had thought up now. “I have already spoken to the laird this morn.” And faced his smug acceptance of Padruig’s reluctant agreement remained clear in his mind.
“The laird does no wish to have speech with you, my lord. He bids you fetch back Lady Aimili.”
“What? From where?”
“One of the guards spied her leaving the castle, my lord. No doubt heading for the woods,” he added, pointing his finger.
“By herself?”
“Aye.”
Padruig briefly closed his eyes. Not a full day into their “betrothal” and already the lass stirred up trouble.
Magnus grinned. “Do you wish me to accompany you, Laird?”
“Nay. ’Tis best I take this matter in hand by myself.” He turned away. Foolish wench, he thought. All matter of dangers lurked in the forest for a young girl alone. He’d seen more than one man return from the hunt with grievous wounds. And that was just from the animals, not whatever human danger lurked in the dense trees.
Padruig retrieved Cai from the kennel where the laird had insisted he be confined. Once Cai got Aimili’s scent, they set off. As Padruig walked out of the castle gate, his gaze drifted over the countryside. The land rolled in fells and vales, carpeted with lush green grass. Beyond the castle lay Loch Fynnen, its still waters gleaming in the morning sun. A low mist still hung over the water. For an instant, Padruig thought he saw movement in the mist, but when he shook his head it was gone.
He smiled. No more than a few days back in the Highlands and you’ve started to see things that don’t exist, he chided himself.
Cai ran back and forth over the ground, searching for Aimili’s scent as he and Padruig headed into the forest. Big, thick trees heavy with leaves filtered the sunlight onto them and muffled sounds. Abruptly, Cai halted and gave a soft woof. He took off through the trees and Padruig followed, deeper and deeper into the wood, the air growing cooler as they continued.
What was the girl doing? Padruig wondered. She’d not struck him as one to be out gathering whatever plants healers oftentimes needed, but appeared singularly devoted to the horses. Could she be meeting a lover? No, he thought. The girl is far too young.
Isn’t she?
Why the thought was more disturbing than it ought to be was a matter he refused to contemplate.
Cai stopped and sniffed the air. Padruig stepped forward and spied a small clearing. He halted, puzzled. Aimili was indeed there, sitting on an overturned log, the gleam of sunlight picking up the reddish gold glints in her hair. Clad in her dark green tunic and braies, she looked as if she were a part of the forest itself.
There was a stillness about the scene, a serenity he was oddly reluctant to disturb.
The strangest thing was that next to the girl sat a dark gray wolf. From the way the girl’s face turned to the wolf’s, it actually appeared as if they were conversing. Nay, Padruig told himself, shaking his head. That was impossible.
But he could hear the soft murmur of her voice, though not well enough to make out the words. Well, he’d been known to talk to Cai often. Not that Cai ever answered.
The wolf laid its head on Aimili’s leg and gazed up at her, almost as if it… No. It is my imagination, Padruig assured himself.
He reached out a hand to halt Cai, but it was too late. With a yip, the wolf bounded into the clearing. Aimili’s companion immediately leapt up, bared its teeth, and stepped in front of Aimili with a low growl.
Cai dropped to the ground and put his ears back.
“Aimili,” Padruig called as he stepped into the clearing.
For an instant, surprise and guilt flashed across her face. She put her hand on her guardian’s nape and stood. “What do you do here?”
“Your father sent me to fetch you. What are you doing out here alone in the woods? With a wolf, no less.”
As they talked, Padruig noticed Cai crawling slowly but steadily toward the other wolf, who silently watched him.
“’Tis none of your business.”
Padruig gritted his teeth. “The forest is no place for a lone young girl.”
She shot him a smug look. “I am safe here.”
Padruig’s gaze caught on the two wolves. Cai was lying on his back, his tongue lolling out and the other wolf, which Padruig realized was female, crouched over him. By the saints, my wolf has turned into a lovesick fool, Padruig thought crossly. What next?
“Aimili,” he began, summoning up his patience. “I am to be your husband. Seeing to your safety is part of my duty.”
“Duty,” she sneered. “I want none of your duty. Nor do I need it.” She waved a hand around her. “As you see, there is no threat here.”
“What of…” He pointed to the female wolf, now nuzzling Cai’s muzzle with hers.
“She is no threat to me.”
Padruig stared consideringly at the two wolves. C
ai was the only one of his species that Padruig had known to accept a human, and Padruig still wasn’t quite sure why Cai did. He turned his attention to Aimili, whose gaze could only be termed mocking.
“Come,” he told her.
She crossed her arms, reminding him of a petulant child. “I am no ready to return.”
“Are you always this obstinate?” he muttered.
“When I have cause to be.”
“I hope such behavior will not be frequent once we wed.”
He was pretty sure she hissed at that. “I shall not wed you. I told you that.”
Padruig saw the anger in her gaze and knew the cause. By the saints, what a tangle this was. “I know I am not the kind of man a young lass dreams of marrying. I am sorry for that, but there is naught I can do. I will never have a pretty face.”
Her expression softened a bit.
“You were right earlier. I have changed. When we met, I was a green lad. Now, well, suffice to say I am not. I am sorry if I bruised your tender emotions, but I do not wish you to harbor any false expectations of this marriage.”
“False expectations?”
“Aye. I will do what I must to ensure the safety of my sister and my clan.”
“And I am simply the price you must pay.”
Padruig opened his mouth to correct her, but the truth was, she was absolutely correct. Marrying her was a price he was loathe to pay, a kind of penance. Of all the women he might have wed, he could think of no one less suitable than a young, beautiful lass with a body made to tempt a saint. As the thought entered his head, he shrank from it. Where had that come from? “You shall be treated well, lass, that I vow.”
“And if I refuse?”
For a moment, he felt sympathy for her, then stamped it down. He could not afford such gentle emotions, not now. “You cannot. You know this.”
Such a bleak look appeared in her gaze that he instinctively took a step forward.
“I shall return to the castle with you,” she said softly.
He opened his mouth to speak, intending to reassure her, but in the end simply nodded. There really wasn’t anything to say. He needed the laird’s aid and the laird needed a husband for his wayward daughter. They would both just have to accept things and go on.
Still, when he turned and retraced his steps, all the way back to the castle he felt the waves of her dismay rolling through what remained of his heart.
The next day, Padruig sent Magnus ahead to Castle MacCoinneach, trusting him to gather those who remained loyal to Padruig and ready them for his arrival. He had considered Colyn’s idea of luring Grigor from the castle, but eventually discarded it. It simply was not his way. Asides, he hoped to remove Grigor short of causing the man’s death.
Before he left, Magnus had clapped a heavy hand on Padruig’s shoulder and given him an earnest look. “All will be well,” he’d said. “Trust in the clan.”
“’Tis not my trust that is in question,” he’d told Magnus. He had thought over his plan many times in the past hand of days. The first step was to enter the castle without detection by the guards. That, he could do, thanks to his knowledge of Castle MacCoinneach’s labyrinth of passages. The second step was ensuring he had enough men at his back to avoid being immediately cut down by those loyal to Grigor. Though Padruig knew himself to be a skilled swordsman, no man could prevail against overwhelming numbers for long.
The real key to his claim, however, was the reaction of the clan. Would they accept his return, assent to his leadership again, or stand behind Grigor? Magnus had assured him that most would not support Grigor, but Padruig did not share his confidence. Many had lost husbands, sons, and brothers in the battle against Clan MacVegan. He imagined some still did when they had the misfortune to run across a MacVegan clansman vengeful over Padruig slaying Symund.
Would his clan acknowledge him as laird? And if not, what then?
He could not force them. Ultimately, they must choose to accept him or nay.
Either way, he would save Freya from becoming the beaten broodmare of Angus Ransolm or die trying.
He could not fail his remaining sister.
Vardon was well used to biding his time. Had he not learned to do so, he would undoubtedly have long ago descended into the very madness his enemies accused him of.
Fools, all of them. Hiding from a world they could easily rule.
Even Paroseea itself was soft. All anyone talked about was how beautiful it was. Lavender skies, for the goddess’s sake. A pink sun of all things. Flowers everywhere. Roads paved with white marble. Mosaic walkways. Temples devoted to scholarly study. And those damned dolphins, who some past weak excuse of a ruler had allowed his wife to make the symbol of Paroseea. The young men weren’t even required to learn how to wield a sword anymore.
Anger rose up in him, and burned his gut. How he hated the self-righteous rulers of Paroseea, smug in their exalted positions, the so-called high families of Paroseea. Daring to pass sentence on him.
They were the ones with the purest bloodlines, blessed with the best of everything: the most powers of magic, the most wealth, the greatest respect of the people. Not ones like him. Or at least that’s the way it was supposed to be.
But he had proved them wrong. He who didn’t even know the identity of his sire found that he possessed more raw power than many of those highly placed pretenders.
They would not accept it, of course, declared him unnatural, deemed his acts wicked and venal.
How he hated all of them. Oh, he would see to them in time.
But first things first. A shame he could not exact revenge upon Aelfric MacCoinneach, the bastard who had helped to bring about Vardon’s temporary downfall, but the whoreson had long crumbled to dust.
His descendants, however, lived on. The shallow chit, Freya, would be easy to dispose of. She thought of nothing but herself and the marital fate that awaited her. He might even let her live long enough to experience the attentions of Angus Ransolm. She was a comely lass, though, he thought, allowing himself a small smile. Perhaps instead he would enjoy her first.
Three hundred years was a long time to go without a woman, after all.
He strode across the hall, nodding greetings to passing servants. Grigor had not yet been able to leave his chamber, still beset by the malady that had struck him down at supper. Briefly, Vardon wondered if Freya had a hand in that, but dismissed it. He doubted the wench had the knowledge or ability to do more than add a bit of honey to wine. Now, her cousin was another matter.
He chuckled to himself. If Efrika had found a way to leave Grigor heaving his guts out, good for her. The man was possessed of limited intelligence and prone to random acts of cruelty. Vardon had no use for a man bound by such limitations.
No, the one he wanted was Padruig MacCoinneach. The poor man, losing his sister, his own visage scarred so no woman of any beauty would consider him, exiled from his clan. It was all so richly satisfying.
His death would be the final delicious pleasure.
Aimili awoke to the sound of her door opening. She blinked and sat up, pressing a hand to her head, which still throbbed with a dull ache.
A cup was thrust into her hand. “Drink this,” Morainn said.
“What is it?” Aimili peered into the cup.
“Wine, with a few herbs to aid your headache. Chamomile.”
“My thanks.” Aimili gingerly sipped the wine as Morainn lowered herself to the side of the bed.
For some odd reason, Aimili nearly burst into tears at the expression of sympathy on her sister’s face. After Padruig had “explained” things to her, she’d spent the rest of the day hiding in her chamber, the reality of her situation pounding through her mind. Her father had seen a way to get rid of her and taken it. Her intended husband had made it clear that he wanted no part of her, only agreeing to take her out of dire necessity.
“Oh, Aimili, I am so sorry. I cannot believe that Father would do this.” Morainn patted her shoulder. “Padruig is ou
t on the training field now, wielding his sword like no one I’ve ever seen.”
Aimili couldn’t think of a thing to say to that. She drank more wine, breathing a little easier as her headache began to abate.
“Whatever shall you do?”
“What can I do? Father has made it abundantly clear that he will not change his mind.”
“Has he spoken to you?”
“Aye.” Aimili couldn’t help but grimace. “Only to inform me that he does not want to take me to wife, but will do so to gain Father’s aid.”
Morainn put a hand on her shoulder. “’Tis not quite what you dreamed of, is it?”
Embarrassment burned through her as Aimili realized her girlish fantasy of Padruig was not a secret. “Nay.”
“Perhaps in time, I mean … Oh, I do not know what I mean.” Morainn stood and walked over to gaze out of the window slit, her hands fluttering in the fabric of her gown.
Aimili finished her wine and forced herself to stand. “As long as he leaves me to my horses, I shall endure it.” Somehow, she added silently, knowing the lie for what it was.
Morainn turned and cocked her head. “I would imagine even Padruig MacCoinneach will wish a wife to spend her time attending to his home.”
“Well, he isnae going to get one.” Aimili drew on an old tunic. “He made a bargain and he shall have to accept what he’s granted.” Inside, her belly clenched in fear. Surely, he would not object to her work with the horses. The image of his frowning face watching her being tossed off Loki spilled into her mind, and she gritted her teeth. “Help me dress.”
“Mayhap you should don a gown.”
“Nay. ’Tis best the Laird of the MacCoinneachs understand that I am not the kind of woman to adorn his castle and see to his mending.”
Morainn quirked a smile as she plaited Aimili’s hair. “Do you wish me to accompany you?”
Aimili looked at her sister, appearing as always the beautiful, refined lady of the castle, and shook her head. “’Twill only remind him of my lack.” She yanked on her boots and left her chamber.
