by Amy Tolnitch
“As my queen desires.”
Somehow, the words were correct, but D’Ary managed to convey another meaning altogether. Lucan made a noise under his breath and stepped forward, but Sebilla put her hand on his arm. “Be careful,” she admonished D’Ary. “Your brother—”
“Was no a match for the likes of Vardon.”
“And you think you are?” Lucan asked, his tone just short of a sneer.
“Well, we shall see, won’t we?” With a final nod to Sebilla, D’Ary turned and strode away.
“Insolent,” Lucan muttered. “He is likely going to his death.”
Sebilla sighed, thinking how easily men butted heads over who was tougher, who was more powerful. Thank the gods, a woman had long ruled Paroseea. Men were far too interested in preserving their patch of turf, real or perceived.
Though D’Ary surprised her. She stared after him. She’d rarely given him much thought, rarely seen him at all. Indeed, she realized she knew very little of him.
“Perhaps,” she finally said, answering Lucan. “But, perhaps not.”
Vardon watched from the shadows of the great hall, a smile rising inside him though his face revealed nothing of his feelings. The fallen laird has returned, he thought, studying Padruig MacCoinneach as he stood in the center of the hall accepting oaths of loyalty from the blind sheep of the clan overjoyed to have their laird returned to them.
How it disgusted him.
Not surprisingly, Padruig had easily retaken the castle. Since Grigor’s mysterious illness, his behavior had grown increasingly bizarre, alienating many of those once allied with him. The attack by Padruig and men from Clan de Grantham could scarcely even be called a battle, really more of a skirmish, over quickly with little bloodshed.
A shame, that.
Truly, the best part of the whole affair was the expression of shock and betrayal upon poor, pathetic Grigor’s face when he realized that most of his men, including Vardon, had no intention of casting away their own futures by standing with Grigor. A single blow by Padruig had sent the man to his knees, and within less time than it took Vardon to ensure he appeared as if he welcomed Padruig’s return, Grigor was dragged off to the gatehouse.
As he watched, Freya fluttered across the hall and threw herself into her brother’s arms. Vardon barely repressed a sneer. The silly wench was fortunate she was a beauty as she surely possessed about as much intelligence as the butterfly she reminded him of. Mayhap less, in fact.
Jankyn, a guard Vardon occasionally played of game of dice with, pressed a cup of ale into his hand. “A fine day, is it not?” he asked with a wide grin.
“Och, that it is.”
“Good to see the true laird back again.”
Vardon looked around the hall, studying the faces of the gathered clan.
“Grigor was naught but a pig,” Jankyn spat.
Vardon laughed and took a deep draught of ale. “True enough. I wonder what will happen to the fair Freya now.”
Jankyn cocked a brow and grinned. “She’s a comely lass.”
“To be sure.”
“Too good for the likes of us.”
Too good? Vardon wanted to shout. She should be on her knees before me, overcome with the privilege of attending to anything I desire. Anything, he thought, eyeing her sparkling green eyes, the swell of her young body beneath her gown. Reining in the urge to smile at the thought of what things he might enjoy having the wench perform, he nodded agreement.
In his mind, he envisioned Freya stripped of her concealing garments, her hair a silken swath of red, her firm young breasts smooth and ripe, her lips parted in fear and knowledge that she had no choice but to do his bidding.
“Well, I’m off to find a lass willing to join me in a cup of celebration,” Jankyn said with a wink.
Vardon didn’t bother to answer as the guard lumbered off. He couldn’t fathom sinking so low as to take on the servant wenches known to be available to pleasure a man. No, he deserved better.
As he watched Padruig twirl Freya in the air, her twinkling laugh drifting across the hall, he allowed himself to smile. Aye, he deserved better.
“Where is Mother?” Padruig asked his sister.
“Oh, in her chamber, no doubt,” Freya responded airily. “She is forever closing herself off in there.”
Efrika put a hand on his shoulder. “’Tis a fine thing to have you back, my boy.” She hugged him close and said in a low tone, “Your mother, God bless her, has never been the same since Brona’s death. Like a wraith she is, drifting about the castle, seldom speaking to anyone.” With a quick glance at Freya, she continued, “Mairi did not even speak up when Grigor betrothed Freya to that horrid Angus Ransolm.”
Freya’s face paled. “Padruig, I cannot marry that beast! Please do not force me to wed him. I shall die!”
“Dinnae fash yourself. I shall send a message right away to Ransolm.”
“He will want his coin returned,” Efrika advised.
“Coin?”
“Aye,” Freya spat. “Grigor sold me like a prize broodmare.”
“I shall find it,” Padruig assured her, for the first time thankful he hadn’t taken Grigor’s life. “Magnus,” he called out.
Magnus turned from discussion with Alasdair. “Aye, Laird?”
“See to it that food and drink are prepared for the de Granthams. I shall return anon.”
Magnus nodded and set off toward the kitchens.
“Who has been seeing to the castle?” Padruig asked Freya and Efrika.
Efrika sniffed and gestured toward a woman standing at the edge of the hall. She met Padruig’s gaze, then averted her eyes as if it pained her to look upon him. Padruig clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “Who is she? I do not recognize the woman.”
“Grigor’s whore,” Freya chirped.
“Her name is Ciara,” Efrika added. “Despite her … relationship with Grigor, she has at least ensured that there was something on the table for mealtimes. Naught much else. Oh, ’tis so good you are here, Padruig.”
“Has it been so terrible under Grigor’s rule?”
“I have not had a new gown since he named himself laird,” Freya complained.
Padruig knew that in Freya’s world, that was dire, indeed. He turned questioning eyes to Efrika, who slowly nodded. “You shall find out soon enough. Our stores are low.” She kicked at a mat of filthy rushes. “The servants have grown lazy as Grigor was more interested in drinking and whoring than anything else.”
“When I wed, my wife shall see to things.” Though he sounded confident, inside he wondered if that would, indeed, be the case. He would have to find a way to pry Aimili from the stables to accomplish such a feat.
“Wife?” Freya’s eyes widened.
“I am to wed Aimili de Grantham.”
Freya blinked.
“Ah, so that is how you were able to gain the de Grantham’s aid,” Efrika commented.
“Just so.” Padruig glanced over at the de Granthams, happily swilling ale in celebration of their easy victory. He tried to push the image of Aimili from his mind, but failed. What was he to do with the child? “Please attend to our guests. I am going to see Mother.” He left the hall and slowly made his way across the bailey to a large, square tower along a nearby wall. Near the top of the curving, stone steps a corridor opened up and Padruig soon found himself standing outside a heavy wooden door.
He pounded against the wood. “Mother?”
There was no answer.
He pounded again. “Mother, ’tis Padruig!” he shouted.
When his only response was silence, he pushed on the door. It swung open to reveal a spacious solar dimly lit by a glint of afternoon sunlight.
His mother sat on a wide window seat, gazing out over the placid waters of Loch Moradeea. As his boots clunked over the old plank floor, she turned.
Padruig halted, shocked at her faded appearance. Once, his mother had been a lovely, vibrant woman, with a gentle smile and a light in her gre
en eyes. No more. Her once brown hair held streaks of silver, her body had grown thin, and there was no welcome in her gaze.
“How dare you return?” she whispered.
He’d known this would be the hardest part of his homecoming, though until this moment he realized he’d hoped time had mellowed his mother’s anger. “The clan needed me,” he stated. “Freya needed me.”
“Needed you?” Her lips curved in a mockery of a smile. “To cause more bloodshed, make more enemies?”
Padruig gritted his teeth. “Brona—”
His mother leapt up, her hands fisted. “How dare you utter her name? She was all that was good and you, you killed her!”
“I did not kill Brona.”
“As well as.”
The hell of it was he agreed with her. Still … he’d hoped for something, some indication that she was at least pleased her only son still lived. Gazing at her hard face, he knew there would be nothing but the same anger and bitterness that had helped send him from Castle MacCoinneach. He forced himself to unclench his jaw. “I am pleased to see you are well, Mother,” he said.
She turned away.
How had this happened? Aimili wondered. She sat at a table on the dais within the great hall of Castle MacCoinneach, clad in a bliaut fashioned of dark green silk with soft slippers on her feet, her hair carefully brushed to fall in long tendrils around her face and down her back.
Was it only this morn she’d arrived at Castle MacCoinneach?
Dear Lord, she was wed to Padruig MacCoinneach, Laird of the Clan MacCoinneach. She was not sure if she should laugh or scream. Either would reveal the hysteria swirling inside her.
Her husband sat by her side on the dais, but he might as well have been sitting a world away. She thought of the innumerable times she’d fantasized about being with Padruig MacCoinneach, had envisioned him running to her across the thick grass with a loving smile and sweeping her into his strong arms. Inside, she cringed in embarrassment and regret. Be careful what you wish for, she thought, glancing at Padruig’s forbidding countenance.
The only one obviously pleased with the events of the day was her father. He sat farther down the table, his conversation with a man Aimili didn’t recognize punctuated with loud guffaws and calls for more drink. The fact that he was clearly happy to be rid of her only added to the ache in her belly.
“You look beautiful,” Morainn said in an overly bright voice.
Aimili looked at her sister and barely managed a wan smile. She’d heard some of the whispers from the MacCoinneach clan folk comparing her to Morainn. “What a pity the laird did not get the comely one,” was the most common. “Thank you,” she said. It wasn’t Morainn’s fault that she was so lovely. Aimili sipped some wine and looked past Morainn to where Padruig’s sister gazed at her in obvious curiosity. Aimili attempted a smile, but the girl looked away.
Beyond uncomfortable, Aimili shifted in her chair and looked out over the great hall. It was an impressive place, perhaps twice the size of the de Granthams’ hall, with thick stone pillars extending up to the high timbered ceiling. Oddly, the walls were bare of decoration but for an old wall hanging so faded that Aimili couldn’t make out the details. The long table at which she sat was covered with a white cloth, and they drank from silver goblets, but the fare was plain, particularly for a wedding feast. Clearly the clan had not prospered in Padruig’s absence.
She was far too miserable to eat in any case. “How long must I sit here?” Aimili murmured to Morainn.
Morainn flushed. “Until, well, you know, until your husband is ready …”
Panic surged through Aimili and she barely managed to get her cup to her mouth without spilling wine all over the table. When she spied the glimmer of sympathy in Morainn’s eyes, she nearly burst into tears.
What a travesty this all was. It barely felt real, the ceremony passing in a solemn blur, this evening interminable.
“I have had enough.” Aimili lifted her chin and turned to Padruig. “My lord, I am tired.”
He slowly turned as if he had just remembered her presence. Flat, silvery eyes gazed into hers. “You are free to retire.”
Aimili made herself breathe past the crushing force in her chest. “And you?”
His face hardened. “There are matters I must speak on to my men yet this eve. Take your rest, my lady.”
In other words, she should not await her husband. Part of her was relieved, but the other part, the tender core of her that wanted a real marriage, wanted the Padruig of her dreams and memories, was hurt and offended. She frowned at him, but became aware of the stares focused upon them. No, this was not the place to vent her feelings. Clenching her jaw, Aimili nodded and stood.
The next moments passed in a blur of motion. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a woman swiftly approaching the dais. Her features were twisted in anger, her fists clenched.
As she neared Padruig, her gaze lit with purpose.
Aimili saw the dagger in the woman’s hand and drew her own. “Nay,” she shouted, leaping to intercept the woman.
The woman shrieked and tried to stab Aimili, but Aimili jumped away in time.
“Die, you whoreson!” the woman shouted, her lips drawn back. She leapt forward to strike as Padruig jumped from his seat. Aimili grabbed the woman’s wrist and at the same time thrust her own dagger upward.
For a suspended moment, Aimili stared into the woman’s surprised gaze. Blood flowed from her chest, spilling over Aimili’s hand. While people rushed around them, the woman slowly slid to the floor, her eyes dimming.
Strong fingers grasped her shoulders and yanked her around. Padruig’s eyes glittered with anger. “What were you thinking?” he bellowed, looking between her and the woman on the floor.
Aimili wiped her hand on her bliaut. “About saving your life.”
His lips were drawn so tightly they were white. “I can take care of myself. You could have been killed!”
“You are welcome, my lord,” she hissed, abruptly aware that silence cloaked the hall. Every eye was on her, most filled with shock. So much for pretending to be the typical lady of the castle, Aimili thought.
“You …” Padruig shook his head as if he couldn’t figure out what to say. “I knew Ciara might attempt something. I have been keeping a close eye on her.”
“Apparently not close enough.” She glanced down at the woman’s bloody form, and fought back the urge to crumple onto the floor. Aye, she was skilled with her blade, but in truth she had never had to use it to kill another human being. By the saints, she would not reveal any weakness to this grim, accusatory, ungrateful cur masquerading as her husband.
Padruig shook his head again. “Do you think you can manage to find our chamber without getting into more trouble?”
Aimili felt Morainn’s hand on her shoulder. “By your leave, my lord, I shall see to my sister,” she said.
“Please do.”
“You—” Aimili began, but stopped when Morainn squeezed her shoulder. “Not now,” her sister whispered.
Aimili realized that her legs were trembling. “My dagger.”
Padruig rolled his eyes as if he were in pain. “I shall retrieve it.”
Aimili let Morainn lead her away. “Ungrateful pig,” she murmured to her sister.
Morainn let out a small giggle. “Not what everyone expected from the new lady of Clan MacCoinneach.”
“They should be pleased I had enough sense to act.”
As they passed a trio of servants huddled together, Morainn said, “One of you lead us to the laird’s chamber. And we need warm water and an ewer of wine brought.”
Two of the women scuttled off, the other nodding. “This way, my lady,” she said, addressing Morainn. Aimili was so overwhelmed with shock and hurt that she didn’t even care that the servant showed such disrespect to her new mistress.
“Do you ken who that woman was?” Aimili asked as they crossed the bailey.
“Grigor’s leman, I think.”
“She would have killed Padruig.”
“Do you really think so?”
Aimili let out a breath. “Was I supposed to wait to see?”
“Nay.” Morainn patted her arm as they entered a spacious chamber, dismissing the servant with a wave of thanks. “Ye did the right thing, but Padruig, well … he is a mon.”
“Sometimes I wonder if there is a warm-blooded man inside of him at all.” She slumped onto the window seat, sorely tempted to give in to a bout of feeling sorry for herself.
“’Tis a fine chamber,” Morainn commented.
Aimili fought off her malaise and looked at her surroundings. Morainn was right. The setting sun spilled over a wide plank floor and a big bed draped with deep blue hangings. Several trunks lined the stone walls and two chairs sat in front of a fireplace. A tapestry depicting dolphins splashing in a turquoise sea adorned one wall.
“Mayhap Padruig needs time,” Morainn said. “It has only been a short while since he returned to the Highlands, and even less since he regained his position as laird.”
“Perhaps.” She waved in two women carrying water and wine.
“Here,” Morainn said, sticking the bowl of water next to Aimili and putting her hands in to soak. The water turned pink, and Aimili stared at it, the horror of what she’d done washing over her.
Morainn suddenly let out a shriek and jumped up onto the window seat.
Aimili looked down and spied Cai’s furry muzzle peeking out from beneath the bed. She started laughing. “Morainn, be at ease. ’Tis only Cai, Padruig’s pet.”
“But … but that is not a dog.”
“Nay.” Aimili finished rinsing her hands and dried them on a length of cloth. It is all right, Cai. Come to me.
The wolf crawled out from under the bed, stood up, and shook himself before padding over.
Aimili slipped to the floor and stroked his head. What a handsome boy you are.
Thank you. Cai sniffed and let out a soft growl. Are you injured?
Nay. ’Tis another’s blood. Aimili glanced up at Morainn. “Truly, he will not harm you.”
