by Amy Tolnitch
As Aimili walked out of the tower, she gazed across the bailey and spied Padruig at once. He was engaged in sword-play with her brother Wautier, and even from a distance, Aimili could see Wautier was providing little challenge.
She walked slowly over the trodden earth, cautioning herself to be calm and pleasant, no matter how the man aggravated her. As she neared the men, Wautier spotted her. An instant of relief flashed on his face.
“Your bride approaches, Laird,” he said, putting down his sword. The sarcasm in his voice made Aimili wish she’d waited long enough for Padruig to beat him into the ground.
“My lady,” Padruig said, his voice cool. “How may I serve you?”
“I wish speech with you.”
He sheathed his sword and nodded, before casting a glance at Wautier. “We shall finish this anon.”
Her brother’s face tightened, but he merely said, “Aye. I look forward to it.”
Aimili suppressed a smile at his reluctant tone.
Padruig’s gaze raked her from head to toe. “I assume you are on your way to the stables.”
“Aye.”
He fell into step beside her. “Not to ride Loki, I trust?”
“No.” She paused a moment, then said, “Mayhap on the morrow.”
He said nothing, for which Aimili was grateful, though she suspected he merely delayed telling her he forbade it. They stopped at a large ring holding a pair of mares. Aimili watched the two play, kicking out their legs and leaping about the grass.
“I want to—”
“I want to—”
“About our marriage,” Padruig began.
“To which I have not agreed.”
“Castle MacCoinneach is a fine keep, Aimili. I vow I will see that you are well fed and clothed, with a comfortable place to sleep.”
Her heart sunk a little farther in her chest. He could have been describing a favorite hound. “What of my horses?”
He waited to respond for so long that Aimili was tempted to smack him on the shoulder. Not that he would feel it. In the years since she’d seen him, Padruig had grown into a big man seemingly formed of slabs of granite muscle. “You may have access to the stables. And your horses. As to Loki, well, we shall see.” He gazed down at her. “It is not my intention to make you miserable, Aimili.”
“I know little of running a household. Nor do I have much interest. I have always devoted my time to the horses.”
“I have said you may have your horses.”
“What … what of our marriage?” She could barely get the words out.
“What of it? We shall be wed.”
And that is all, she thought. “You care nothing for me. You barely remember me.”
“That is not unusual. You know that. You shall be mistress of your own home. I have said I shall see you fairly treated.”
Aimili averted her gaze, blinking back the sting of tears, disgusted at her weakness. She felt as if she stood on the edge of a road leading down into her future, one cold year upon another, ever awaiting some scrap of affection from her husband, ever without. “I wanted more,” she said softly. “I wanted a husband to love me.” I wanted you, she silently cried.
Again, he said nothing until she turned and looked up at him. His eyes were completely empty. “I cannae give you that, lass. I am sorry.”
“So am I.” She walked away.
Chapter Four
Freya snipped off a piece of henbane, wishing she could put enough in Grigor’s ale to make his illness of the permanent kind. Unfortunately, he was recovering from whatever Efrika had given him, and his temper was worse than ever. He’d become convinced that someone or someones were out to kill him. If only she were so fortunate.
She brushed a finger lightly over her bruised cheek, yesterday’s evidence of Grigor’s anger over what he deemed her shameful lack of gratitude. No matter how hard she tried, she simply could not act grateful for being sold to a monster. Nine days she had left. Nine short days before Angus Ransolm arrived and her life ended.
How had this come to pass? It seemed only a moment ago that she’d had everything—beauty, wealth, a doting family. She gazed down at her faded, blue bliaut and grimaced. Now, thanks to Grigor’s selfishness, she did not have even a decent gown to wear.
“Freya?”
She turned with a cry. “Magnus! You are back.” Smiling, she took in the beloved sight of him, his green eyes flashing, his beautiful face returning her smile.
As he drew closer, his easy grin faded, and he frowned at her. “By the saints, what has happened to you?”
“Grigor.” She looked down, embarrassed to have him see her in such a state. “He …” Her voice broke on a sob. “He is forcing me to marry Angus Ransolm.”
Magnus gently lifted her chin. After glancing around them, he bent close and said, “Maybe not.”
Freya caught her breath, afraid to let herself hope. “Will you aid me?”
“Always.”
“I must flee.” A sob gathered in her throat at the fearful prospect of going out on her own to an uncertain future. “Soon, afore Grigor realizes my acceptance of the marriage is feigned and locks me back up.”
“Flee? Nay.” He took her hands and Freya’s heart beat a little faster. She knew Magnus looked upon her as a little sister, but she had never felt that way, not even when she was very young.
“I have no choice,” she said, fighting back the sting of tears.
“Nay.” He glanced around the garden, empty but for the two of them. “Ye must not breathe a word of what I am about to tell you.”
“What is it, Magnus?” Hope flared in her chest, and she squeezed his hands.
“Padruig returns.”
She swayed and would have fallen but for Magnus’s strong grip. “Padruig? Where?”
He put a finger against her lips. “Not so loud. Grigor must not discover this until we are ready.”
Her eyes filled with tears that spilled out down her cheeks. “Is he here?”
“Not yet. He gathers allies, as I do here.”
“Magnus, I have only nine days before Angus arrives.”
“Be patient. ’Tis to save you that Padruig returns.”
“But … how did he know of my fate?”
A slow grin filled Magnus’s face. “Och, weel that is a tale.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Freya spotted Huwe approach, and pulled her hands free. “I am so glad to see you before I leave for the Castle Ransolm,” she said brightly.
Magnus blinked, then shifted to look at Huwe. “’Tis fortunate that I decided to return to Castle MacCoinneach when I did. I shall be sure to give you a special bride’s gift afore you depart.”
“Magnus. Lady Freya,” Huwe said, nodding. “The laird bid me to escort Lady Freya in to dinner. He wishes to be assured that the lady is keeping up her health.”
Freya’s mouth turned down. “Like a cow being fattened for slaughter.”
Huwe said nothing, but looked pointedly at the purplish mark on Freya’s cheek.
“Come, my lady,” Magnus said, taking her arm.
Though Freya had no interest in food and even less in sharing a table with Grigor, she forced herself to walk to the hall and yet another opportunity to hone her playacting skills. If she did have to flee, perhaps she could make her way as part of a traveling troupe, she thought.
Hurry, Padruig, she silently prayed. Hurry.
A sennight after Padruig MacCoinneach’s invasion of her life, Aimili walked across the bailey and realized that she might have a way out of a cold, heartbreaking marriage. After all, she’d made no promises, set no conditions.
Her father had made a strategic error in not wedding her to Padruig before joining with him to retake Castle MacCoinneach. After Padruig realized his goal, there was no reason for him to press her into marriage. Indeed, he would probably cheer with relief at hearing her refusal.
Ignoring the pain in her heart at the prospect, Aimili told herself to stop being foolish. Her me
mory of Padruig did not match the man anymore. Maybe it never had, was never more than a product of her lonely fantasies.
His honor will demand he marry you, her inner voice said. He cannot walk away from his agreement with your father, no matter how much he may wish to.
And what of you? her voice continued. What shall you do? Work with my horses, she told herself. As I have always done.
Determinedly, she made her way to the stables.
And nearly ran into the subject of her thoughts.
“Aimili,” he said.
She stopped short, ignoring the jump of her heart at the sound of him saying her name. Pitiful girl, she chided herself, keeping her face blank. “Aye?”
Padruig crossed his arms and looked down at her. His leather gambeson emphasized the breadth of his chest, and he stood with legs slightly spread, legs about the size of tree trunks. His hair was tied back with a scrap of leather, and he smelled of leather and sweat, clearly having come from the training field.
Aimili tried to tell herself that none of it was appealing at all.
“On the morrow, we go to regain Castle MacCoinneach.”
A vision of bloody blades, shouts of attack, and fallen bodies flitted through her mind. “Have you enough men?”
“Aye. We shall prevail, doubt not.”
She opened her mouth to urge Padruig to take care, but before she could utter the words, he said, “You shall remain here, of course.”
“I am well skilled with a blade,” she instinctively protested, though in truth she had no desire to go with the men.
“You are a wee lass. Lasses do not go to battle.” He frowned at her. “I shall send for you when I have retaken the castle.”
“You need not hurry,” she muttered, looking away.
When he said nothing, she slowly shifted her gaze back to his. Silvery blue eyes stared back at her in obvious frustration. “I made an agreement with your father. We shall wed as soon as the castle is mine once more.”
“Why hasten?” She waved a hand, trying to appear indifferent. “Surely, you will have much to do for your people at Castle MacCoinneach. You need not take the time to wed right away.”
His lips tightened. “Your father made it very clear that he expects us to wed at once.”
“Mayhap he fears you will change your mind.”
“I will not.”
Aimili gathered her courage and said, “You do not want me to wife, Padruig. You’ve made no secret of it.” Squeezing the words past the boulder in her throat, she continued, “Why not consider Morainn. She is everything a mon could want, and only a year younger than I.”
“Aimili,” Padruig said slowly, uncrossing his arms. “Your father bade me take you in exchange for his aid. You and you only. ’Tis our agreement and ’tis what shall come to pass.”
“But I—”
He held up a hand. “Best pack what belongings you wish to bring with you to Castle MacCoinneach. I do no intend to tarry in ousting Grigor.”
Aimili gritted her teeth. “I imagine it will take me some time to do so.”
A flicker of a smile crossed his lips and his gaze moved down to take in her old tunic and braies. “Aye, I can see that you are verra devoted to your wardrobe.”
“Fine gowns have little place in the stables.”
He lifted a brow. “Just so.” He turned away, then paused. “If you wish a woman to accompany you, feel free to make the arrangement. I dinnae ken what I shall find at Castle MacCoinneach.”
“Perhaps you will find something to offer my father in repayment for his aid.”
“His price is you. He has made his wishes verra clear.”
“What of my wishes?” she asked, aware of the bitterness in her voice.
“What would you have me say? I have told you that you will be cared for, that you may continue with your horses. You must accept what will come to pass and put aside your romantic fantasies.”
If you only knew, Aimili thought. The irony of it all bubbled up in her belly as she stared at Padruig’s set face. “I wish you luck, then,” she finally managed to say.
He nodded and trudged away, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his back rigid, his stride purposeful. No, it would not take him long to defeat Grigor and retake his place as laird, Aimili thought. Every movement of his body, every word he uttered, every look in his eyes bespoke grim resoluteness.
She let out a breath and walked into the stable, trying but utterly failing to stave off an increasing wave of emptiness. She slumped to the dirt floor and leaned against a stall.
This depressing attitude of yours is really becoming quite tiresome. I mean, it isn’t as if the man mistreats his horse. How bad can it be?
“What?” she said aloud and sat up. Over the top of his stall door, Loki gazed down at her.
He let out a snort that could only be construed as disgust. I thought you a courageous lass, no a weakling who caves at the first sign of plans going awry.
“I—” Spying Gunnr poking his head out of a stall down the walkway, Aimili broke off her reply.
“My lady? Can I do aught for you?”
“Nay. I was just … talking to myself.”
Laughter echoed in her ears.
I am brave. I get on your sorry back, don’t I?
That is not brave. ’Tis reckless. But I am no talking about horses.
You do not understand. He does not want me, not as a woman.
Then ’tis your job to change his mind. Loki snorted again. How is he to realize you are a woman when you dress and act like a young lad? You need to soften.
Aimili just stared at the horse in disbelief. Dear Lord, it had come to this. She was receiving advice from the most recalcitrant beast she had ever encountered. Soften? What blather are you spouting?
Do you realize how many times I have had naught to do but observe you humans and your mating rituals? ’Tis a ridiculously elaborate process you put yourselves through.
Aimili smothered a giggle. Well, not all of us simply come into season, and position ourselves for the first man to trot by.
’Tis far simpler.
I fear I do not know how to be soft.
Hmm. I shall think on this.
Why would you wish to aid me? You’ve done your best to grind me into the dirt.
Apparently having had enough of the conversation, Loki turned his ample rump toward the stall door and began munching on some hay.
“Soften,” Aimili muttered as she rose. Sounded like a block of butter. What utter nonsense.
Sebilla stood over Caradoc’s grave and fisted her hands. They had laid him to rest in a tranquil grove, filled with lush green grass, old rowan trees, and bright wildflowers. The soft sounds of a harp drifted on the fragrant air, the traditional tune of a final farewell causing Sebilla’s eyes to tear and her chest to tighten in grief.
Damn Vardon to everlasting hell.
Beside her stood Lucan, ever faithful, as well as the rest of her council. Caradoc’s brother, D’Ary, stood across from them, as still as stone. His features looked as if they’d been hacked from cold marble, and his amber gaze was flinty. He was all that remained of Caradoc’s family. The brothers had been close, though so dissimilar to make one wonder if they truly had a shared parentage. While Caradoc was a fine warrior, he was also a man with a ready smile and a playful bent. D’Ary had always been more of a rocky atoll, his home somewhere beyond the main city, his time spent patrolling the perimeters of Paroseea alone. Even at Caradoc’s funeral, he came as if he were in battle, his tall form arrayed with blades. He stood apart, no one brave or foolish enough to go near him.
He transferred his gaze to Sebilla and looked directly at her, his stare absent of any sign of respect for her position as his queen. Sebilla lifted her chin and held his gaze, though the knowledge that she had sent Caradoc to his death churned through her.
“’Tis done, my queen,” Lucan murmured. “There is naught more we can do for him.”
Sebilla nodded
, breaking her gaze away from D’Ary. She placed a spray of snowy white gardenias across the mounded grave site and stepped back.
As she turned to walk away, she saw a guard rush up to Artur and whisper something. Artur’s expression turned confused.
Grateful to have something other than the pain of Caradoc’s death to focus on, Sebilla approached them. “Is something amiss, Artur?”
He bowed low before lifting his gaze to hers. “I am no sure, my queen. It seems that there has been much activity at Castle MacCoinneach. Not Vardon,” he said quickly. “The former laird of the clan has returned.”
Sebilla gripped a fold of her skirt. “Padruig MacCoinneach returns?”
“Aye.”
And now it would start, Sebilla thought with an inward shudder of dread.
Vardon’s true revenge.
“Queen Sebilla?”
She blinked, realizing that Artur stared at her. “’Tis no doubt what Vardon has been waiting for. Padruig is the descendant of Aelfric, once the laird of the MacCoinneachs. Aelfric is the one who aided us in defeating Vardon.”
Artur’s eyes widened.
“Aye. Vengeance is no doubt foremost in Vardon’s mind.” She frowned. “Would that we had someone—”
“I will go to Castle MacCoinneach,” a rough voice said.
Sebilla knew it was D’Ary before she turned. “Nay. ’Tis too dangerous.”
The coldness in his gaze told her the danger would not sway him. “Vardon shall not know I am of Paroseea.”
“He is powerful, D’Ary. More powerful than we knew.”
D’Ary’s lips flared. “I can conceal my true blood. He will see me as no more than a new arrival. A simple man.”
Arrogant, Sebilla thought. The question was whether his arrogance was justified. “He will sense the use of your power. He will know that one of us is there.”
“Nay. He will not.”
D’Ary sounded so certain that Sebilla caught back her order for him not to go. She studied him, and he cocked a brow. She realized that she might have underestimated D’Ary, misjudged the extent of his magic. “You are certain.”
“Aye.”
“Very well. Go then. You shall report directly to me what goes there as soon as possible.”
