by Amy Tolnitch
“I’ll tell you.” Grigor smiled. “If you can beat me on the field.”
Padruig laughed. “If? You are a fool.”
The guard shook his head. “Why would the laird bother?”
“To regain some of the respect he lost when he nearly destroyed the clan, then abandoned them like a cowardly dog.” Grigor gave Padruig a smug look. “Surely, you know that not all are witless enough to trust in you. You have already betrayed the clan once.”
Padruig stared at Grigor, thinking. Selfish whoreson the man may be, but he had a point. Padruig did know that not every member of the clan thought him skilled enough to lead them well.
“When I win, you will tell me where you have hidden the coin. All of it.”
“If you win, I shall. And if I win—”
“In that very unlikely event, you will be provided supplies and escorted from our lands without harm.”
“Not much of a bargain for me,” Grigor said.
“You are not in a position to bargain. ’Tis all I will offer.”
“Very well. I accept.”
“Aimili, there you are!” Efrika called out as Aimili walked into the great hall,
“Good day, Lady Efrika and Lady Freya,” Aimili said as she sat.
“Just Efrika and Freya, dear,” Efrika said with a smile.
“Have you been riding?” Freya asked.
“Aye.”
Freya wrinkled her nose and smoothed out the pale blue silk of her bliaut. “I do not care much for horses. Such big, dirty things. And you never know when they are going to see something that scares them and forget they have a rider on their back.”
“I …” Aimili was so confounded she wasn’t sure what to say.
“Freya took a bad fall a while back,” Efrika told her. “She has been afraid of horses ever since.”
“’Tis a shameful thing, I know, but I cannae help it,” Freya added.
“I would be happy to teach you how to ride better so that you reduce your chance of falling,” Aimili said.
Freya bit her lip. “That is kind of you, but I am not sure.”
“’Twould be a fine idea,” Efrika said. “You need to overcome this fear if you ever wish to travel anywhere.”
“I know.”
“Please consider it,” Aimili said, thinking that riding would be a good way for her to get to know Padruig’s sister. “You can ride Mist. She will not do anything frightening, I promise.”
“I shall think on it.”
“Good,” Efrika said. “Now, Aimili, I know you are still acclimating yourself to your new home, but we are in dire need of your aid. Cook awaits instructions on the meals. You may not realize this, but our stores are low, thanks to Grigor’s greed and incompetence. An inventory needs to be made, and—”
“Efrika.” Aimili took a sip of wine from a cup deposited by a servant. “I told you I do not have time for such duties.”
Both Efrika and Freya just blinked at her.
“But-but you are the laird’s wife,” Efrika said. “’Tis your responsibility to see to the management of the castle. Even the herb garden is in disarray. People are willing to work, but they need instruction and supervision.”
Aimili felt as if an iron collar tightened around her neck. “You do not understand. I am not skilled at those kinds of matters. I have always spent most of my time in the stables or outside the castle walls. Surely there is someone else who can see to things. You?”
“I, well, I suppose …” Efrika’s voice trailed off. Her expression of pity was matched by Freya’s.
“Your mother died when you were young?” Freya asked.
“Aye, when I was three years of age.”
“Ah.”
That simple word held such a wealth of sympathy and censure that Aimili stiffened.
“Was there no one to instruct you?”
“I …” Aimili vaguely remembered a distant aunt trying to interest her in the workings of the castle, but she could never be bothered. Morainn, on the other hand, had always taken pride in managing the castle affairs so that food remained plentiful and the castle as comfortable as possible. “I had much instruction.”
“Oh?” Relief spilled over Efrika’s face.
“The stable master taught me much about horses. One of the guardsmen taught me how to wield a blade. Another of the clan taught me of the wonders to be found in the forest.”
Freya rolled her eyes. “That is not what Efrika meant.”
“The clan will expect you to take up these responsibilities,” Efrika said. She looked past Aimili and smiled. “Oh, Padruig, come sit with us.”
Aimili fought the urge to jump up and flee. Instead, she forced a polite smile to her face and took a deep draught of wine.
“Did you find Angus Ransolm’s coin?” Freya asked, smoothing her bliaut over and over.
“No yet, but soon. Grigor refuses to divulge his hiding place unless I best him on the field.”
Aimili turned to him in surprise. “You are going to fight him? Again?”
“Aye.” His gaze was flat with resolve.
“I could give him another of my special drinks instead. He’ll be willing to reveal anything to relieve his suffering,” Efrika said.
Padruig smiled at her, and Aimili’s stomach turned over. The smile transformed him, clearly revealing his affection for Efrika, and sending another spear of pain into Aimili’s belly. “While I appreciate your inventiveness, ’tis best I handle this in a man’s way.”
“When?” Efrika asked.
“At noon.”
“But why … why would you arm such a man, give him the chance to harm you?” Aimili sputtered.
He briefly glanced at her. “He will no best me.”
“Of course not,” Efrika said. “Now, Padruig, we were just discussing with your new bride the need for her to take up her duties as the laird’s wife.”
Aimili clenched her jaw and poured more wine down her throat. Wife, she thought. No more than a sad jest.
“Alasdair is working on determining the extent of our resources,” Padruig told Efrika.
“I ken, but we all know ’tis not enough.”
“Which is one of the reasons I must find where Grigor hid the coin. ’Tis my hope that it exceeds what he obtained from Ransolm.”
Aimili saw him frown as he looked around the hall. She followed his gaze, noting the dirty rushes on the floor, the blackened hearth, the lack of adornment. “The castle does need a woman to direct the servants, to see that the victuals are improved,” Padruig continued.
“’Tis exactly what I explained to Aimili,” Efrika said.
“And I explained to Efrika that she does not have time for such. Just as I explained to you before we wed,” Aimili added, frowning at Padruig.
“But I do not have the same authority as the laird’s wife,” Efrika said. “And Freya is, uh, well, too young.”
Freya sniffed. “’Tis not youth, but a matter of respect.”
“Most of your horses have not arrived yet,” Padruig said, gazing at Aimili. “Until they do, surely you can make the time to do”—he waved a hand—“whatever women do to make the castle clean and the food palatable.”
Padruig, Efrika, and Freya all gazed at Aimili expectantly.
She would have thrown her cup against the wall, but that would only have added to the mess that now she was apparently responsible for seeing cleaned up.
“Well, Aimili?” Padruig prodded.
Why should I? she wanted to ask, but Padruig was right. Her horses had not arrived yet, and it would just be stubborn and mean-spirited not to help. And the state of things in the castle had clearly declined under Ciara’s “management.” “Until my horses are here I shall try to help.”
“Thank you.” Padruig rose. “I shall leave you ladies to it.” Without another glance in Aimili’s direction he strode off.
For the next hours, Aimili, with Efrika and Freya accompanying her, set herself to household management and the kind o
f tasks she had always avoided. She met with Cook and discussed how she might improve the meals. She toured the storage vaults and checked the amount of various spices on hand. She even inspected the herb garden and gave orders to the gardeners to weed and pick what herbs they could to dry before frost killed the tender plants. By the time she explained, very clearly, to a group of women servants that she wanted all of the rushes from the great hall removed, the floor scrubbed and fresh rushes put down, she had such a pounding headache that she felt sick at her stomach.
Efrika patted her on the shoulder. “’Tis almost noon. You will attend the fight in support of Padruig, of course. Perhaps you should change into something more appropriate for the wife of the laird.”
Aimili made herself take a deep breath. “Efrika, I am who I am. Padruig knew the kind of woman he was gaining as a bride. He married me simply because he had no choice. Naught more.”
“Many marriages begin that way, but—”
“Enough!”
Efrika’s eyes widened at Aimili’s harsh tone, and for a moment Aimili regretted hurting the woman. Still, she would not lose herself in this place, not for anyone, least of all a husband who didn’t want her and his relatives who refused to accept her. “Asides, I fear I lack any embroidered silk bliauts,” Aimili added, in a softer tone.
“I could lend you one of mine,” Freya said brightly, clearly undeterred by Aimili’s comments. “We are close to the same size. Although I’ve nothing new,” Freya finished with a pout.
Efrika shook her head and closed her eyes. “You still have garments finer than anyone at the castle.”
“I appreciate your offer, Freya, but ’tis not necessary.”
Efrika bit her lip, but thankfully said nothing.
Freya grinned. “Let us go. I want to watch Padruig pound Grigor into the dirt.”
Aimili had focused so much on her “duties” that she’d nearly forgotten Padruig was set to face Grigor. As she followed Efrika and Freya out of the hall, a shiver of foreboding snaked down her spine. She stopped and glanced around her, but all seemed as it should. Still, it felt as if someone watched her.
Of course, there is someone watching you, she chided herself. You are the new curiosity of Castle MacCoinneach. She put the matter from her mind and walked out to the training field, where a large group had already gathered.
In their center, Padruig stood, bare-chested, arms crossed, and legs spread. Aimili’s gut clenched at the sight. Slabs of muscle defined his chest, his biceps sculpted by countless hours of training. The weak sunlight lightened his tied-back hair to flaxen, and his blue eyes looked darker, focused. With the scars crossing his cheek, he radiated power and brutally forged pride.
He could have been hewn of living marble, remote and alone, though he stood within a crowd of his people. And though he infuriated her and wounded her with his indifference, still he fascinated her.
Grigor strode into the circle, a smug smile of confidence on his lips, his sword catching a flash of sunlight.
Padruig uncrossed his arms and rested one hand atop the pommel of his sword.
The crowd backed up to give the men more room, and Aimili found her vision blocked by a pair of burly guardsmen who were in the process of making a wager on the winner. She tapped one of the guardsmen on the shoulder. When he turned and spotted her, his gaze widened. “You should be in front, my lady,” he said.
“Will you aid me?” Normally, she hated to ask for help, but knew she could never push through the crowd on her own.
He nodded and punched his companion in the arm. Between the two of them, they quickly cleared a path for Aimili, and she found herself at the edge of the circle with the two men flanking her.
“Let it begin,” Padruig said, unsheathing his sword.
“Aye. The clan shall know when you are defeated who is the rightful laird.” Grigor advanced and swung his sword in a killing arc.
Padruig easily dodged the blow.
Grigor growled and swung again, this time missing Padruig completely.
“Is that all you have?” Padruig taunted. “You waste my time.”
As the afternoon sun waned, Aimili watched in growing amazement as Padruig wore Grigor down. There really was no contest, she realized as she watched Padruig move. He jumped, he leapt, he lunged like some kind of big, wild cat. She’d seen many men train, and many fight, but she’d never seen anyone like Padruig.
Grigor went down onto one knee and Padruig knocked his shield aside.
Gasping for breath, his face bright red, Grigor glared up at Padruig, who did not appear to be even winded.
“Surrender,” Padruig said. “’Tis over.”
“You bastard,” Grigor spat.
“Do you want to die today?”
Grigor smirked. “Do you want the coin?”
“’Twas our bargain.”
“Mayhap now I wish to renegotiate.”
“Tell me and live. Refuse and die. I shall find your hiding place soon enough.”
“I doubt it.”
“Make your choice. I am thirsty.”
Grigor’s eyes glittered with hatred. “This should have been mine. I should be laird.”
“Leave off. Your game is over. You neither deserved the position nor served it well.”
“You think you shall do better?” Grigor cracked out a laugh. “You’ve already proven your judgment flawed. Because of you, we’re in a blood feud with the MacVegans.”
“I shall not debate the matter with you. Make. Your. Choice.”
“In the chapel,” Grigor finally said. “Under the shrine to Saint Columba.”
“Magnus?” Padruig called.
“Aye, Laird.” Magnus turned and walked toward the chapel.
“Ivarr?”
One of the guards next to Aimili stepped forward. “Aye?”
“Leave him a dagger and provide him with supplies for a fortnight. He can take one of the lesser rounceys from the stable. See that he departs MacCoinneach lands tomorrow.”
“Tonight?”
“Keep him locked in the gatehouse.” With a last contemptuous look, Padruig turned and walked away.
Grigor let out a howl of fury and charged.
Aimili screamed a warning, but it wasn’t needed.
Padruig whirled, blocked Grigor’s sword, and sank his own deep into Grigor’s chest. As Grigor slumped to the ground, satisfaction cloaked Padruig’s face, now splattered with Grigor’s blood.
He pulled his sword free with a hiss. “Throw the bastard’s body into the loch,” he ordered the guardsman. “Let the fish have him.”
“Aye, Laird.” Ivarr and a handful of other men rushed forward to seize Grigor’s limp body.
And Padruig’s gaze found Aimili. Splashed with blood, sweat matting his hair and streaking his chest, for the first time Aimili felt a shiver of doubt. She should be glad she’d wed such a warrior, but a part of her shrank from the ruthless, predatory gratification she saw in his gaze.
He was pleased that Grigor had invited death. Very pleased.
And it disturbed Aimili down to her very soul.
As he approached, for a wild moment she wondered if he was tempted to tak his blade to her, freeing himself from an unwanted responsibility.
Instead, he sheathed his sword.
“Well met,” she managed to say.
“It needed to be done.”
“Aye.”
“I am off to find a bath.”
“Do you … need aid?” Aimili swallowed thickly, wondering what had possessed her to make such an offer.
“Nay.”
Aimili knew she should be relieved, but instead she felt the all-too-familiar pang of rejection. She watched Padruig stride away to the congratulations of many of his clansmen and thought he would probably find someone like Beatha to help him in the bath. A woman with full breasts and wide hips.
Though a crowd surged around her, Aimili felt apart from them. She wandered back to the stables. Perhaps she could work on Lo
ki.
And try to forget the look in Padruig’s eyes when he slew Grigor. Grigor deserved it, she reminded herself. Aside from the many wrongs he’d done to disfavored members of the clan and helpless servants, he’d attacked Padruig after he’d been beaten, attacked when Padruig’s back was turned.
She glanced up to find one of the guards watching her.
He nodded. “Quite a skilled swordsman your husband is, my lady.”
Not wanting to get into a discussion of Padruig’s prowess with weaponry, she murmured, “Aye, that he is.” She brushed past the man and entered the stable.
Just as she passed inside, she felt a cold tendril of fear flow through her. It was the same feeling she’d had that morn—the feeling that something was terribly wrong at Castle MacCoinneach, that something or someone lay in wait with menace on his or her mind.
The question was what? Or whom?
Padruig’s bloody image flashed through her mind, but she refused to accept it. “I will find out who you are,” she said softly. “You cannot hide from me.”
In the stillness of the stable, for a moment she thought she heard laughter.
Sebilla was sitting on her terrace, enjoying the early evening light and a goblet of sweet, golden wine, when something erupted from her pool in a great splash that soaked her thin gown. She leapt up with a gasp.
“Damned, unpredictable portal,” a man’s voice muttered before D’Ary climbed out of the pool onto her terrace.
He stared at her, and Sebilla fought the urge to cross her arms over her body. “Do you have a drying cloth?” he asked, his gaze traveling over her.
“What are you doing here?”
“Following my queen’s instructions. Did you not bid me to report to you of the affairs at Castle MacCoinneach?”
“That does not include bursting into my private chambers unannounced.”
D’Ary shrugged. “I came as I could.”
Sebilla set her goblet down and went in to fetch drying cloths. Once inside, she quickly changed into a dry and much more concealing gown before returning to the terrace.
“Thank you,” D’Ary said as he draped a towel around his neck and sat on the marble floor.
