THE MARRIAGE ALLIANCE
Mageela Troche
Mainstream Romance
Sweet Cravings Publishing
www.sweetcravingspublishing.com
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A Sweet Cravings Publishing Book
Mainstream Romance
The Marriage Alliance
Copyright © 2013 Mageela Troche
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-639-5
First E-book Publication: April 2013
Cover design by Dawné Dominique
Edited by Sue Toth
Proofread by Rene Flowers
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Secret Cravings Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Sweet Cravings Publishing
www.sweetcravingspublishing.com
DEDICATION
To my mother, who believed even when I had stopped. I love you and thank you.
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THE MARRIAGE ALLIANCE
Mageela Troche
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands, 1256
Surely, Ailsa Cameron never managed anything in her score of a lifetime so wicked to deserve this cruel punishment. She never took the life of another. Admittedly, she dozed through a few masses in her lifetime. Others were guilty of such sin and never punished so harshly. Maybe, it was the many times she took the Lord’s name in vain. That vile curse hadn’t passed her lips for some time, not since her last penance forbade her from speaking for a sennight. Although Ailsa remained silent until the noon meal, her guilt lingered. That did not warrant her wedding the dreaded Duncan MacLean.
Nay, she journeyed along this stone-littered tract to the MacLean fortress because of men and one in particular, her father—Laird Cameron. His fierce desire to merge with the Spartans of the North appointed Ailsa the maiden sacrifice to appease the ferocious dragon. Who was the dragon—her father or her husband-to-be?
Either way, Saint Peter would throw open the pearly gates for her since Ailsa behaved as the dutiful daughter, pledging the rest of her days to Laird MacLean.
Not that she had many days to live.
MacLeans would rather kill a Cameron than share the air…of course after they cut out her tongue.
Especially since bloodthirsty MacLeans enjoyed a savory meal of human flesh.
Would her tongue be roasted before consumed or eaten raw?
No doubt raw.
That meal probably accounted for the clan’s immense proportions. Few men towered over highland men yet most highlanders struggled to stand shoulder to shoulder with MacLean men. Muscular forms of others appeared scrawny beside the mighty MacLeans. And the women were no smaller, just about the height of an average highlander, convenient since both sexes lugged around basketfuls of enemies’ fingers. Ailsa strained to reach her brother’s wide shoulders. She’ll never fit in.
She wanted to escape to the mountains rising in the distance behind her. If she veered her mare around, she could gallop away to her freedom in the harsh environment, where she could starve to death or, if luck were on her side, be eaten by wild animals.
Maybe, it wasn’t too late to be a bride of Christ. She could live in a convent and not starve or have her flesh ripped apart by the sharp fangs of wolves. Then again, the nunnery might not be the best place. Even though Ailsa perfected the serene visage her talents rest elsewhere. Besides, she had slumbered through a quite a few more masses than she admitted. Another sin she added to her mental count. Taking the veil would be
a disaster for her and the nuns.
So, Ailsa rode onward, up the cresting hill. The impressive fortified castle soared on the rocky outcrop overlooking the sea loch at the path’s end. A towering curtain wall hugged the craggy contours as the loch’s water lapped gently against the rocks. Harsh highland elements weathered the structure’s limestone to a mixture of grays, browns and whites cloaking the structure with the dismal aura Ailsa believed her life would become once behind its walls.
Even her gentle mare, dismayed by the sight ahead, stumbled on a stone strewn on the trail meandering to the gatehouse and her doom.
“We shall be well, Joy.” Her mare tossed back her head and neighed, not believing her. Patting her lean crest, she peeked through the veil of her hair to her father. He wore a pleased look on his face that bode ill for others. She glanced at her elder brother. Alec sent her a tentative smile then turned his gaze. He was as happy about this marriage as she was. As the heir, Alec tried to persuade their father from his determined course but to no avail. Father had a plan and his children must submit to his commands.
“Come along,” Laird Cameron demanded, placing himself between the two siblings. She sucked in a lungful of crisp highland air, slowly exhaling until the straining muscles in her face eased. Unlike the countless other times, her calming technique failed so she decided to ignore him.
Glancing upward to the lofty battlements, she spotted two heads. Oh God’s eyes, she forgot that gruesome tale! She gawked. Her eyes bulged and she swallowed her squeak.
MacLeans decorated their parapets with their enemies’ heads on spikes as a warning to those foolish enough to attack. For the rest of her short days, she’d have to see ghastly heads…until she was propped next to them.
“By marrying the brute, my influence will extend into these lands. Girl, you’ve been an annoyance since your first breath.” Laird Cameron snarled the exact words he grumbled since her first breath. “Finally, you serve some good.”
He grunted at her relieved sigh, believing she listened to him. But it rushed out when the heads moved, thanks to the very alive bodies attached.
She craned her neck, scanning the ramparts for spiked heads when her father jerked Joy to a halt, whipping her head forward. Rubbing her aching neck, Ailsa gave little attention to her father calling out to the gatehouse.
“Laird Cameron, only you, your daughter and one of your men are allowed entrance,” a commanding voice called from the ramparts.
“Fine,” Laird Cameron barked as he waved his men back. Alec remained, his face blanked. The white-knuckle grip on his reins betrayed his attitude. When the men ventured a fair distance from the curtain wall, the portcullis crept open, the ropes squeaking with every tiny measure of the rising structure.
With a tap to her mare’s flanks, Joy lurched forward into the shadowy tunnel and the inner sanctuary of Castle MacLean. The bustling courtyard came to a swift standstill. Ailsa fancied she viewed a tapestry of castle life frozen in time. The smithy drifted forward, his hammer in his hand. Carts and wagons rolled to a stop on the rutted earth damp from last night’s storm. The butcher cupped his chin, smearing blood over his face. MacLeans stilled in mid-step, monitoring their entry with rapt attention. The woman drawing water from the well stared, holding onto the rope. The other women drifted from the well line for a better view. Small fowl scattering away from the clopping horses’ hooves were the only sign of life.
Her fingers felt as if they had forgotten how to function. She knew, her rapid heartbeat roared through the expansive space. She rode into the heart of the courtyard. She kept her gaze trained on the laborers standing transfixed on the wooden scaffold, never setting down the heavy stones for the half-constructed wall extending toward the western horizon.
“Ailsa,” her father snapped, wrenching the reins from her hands. He jerked Joy to an abrupt halt. He swung his portly frame from the saddle and tore her from hers. Alec cupped her elbow, steadying her and staying by her side. A stableboy about ten and two snatched the dangling reins. Ailsa presented him a tentative smile. He spun around and led Joy to her new home.
She brushed off the dust on her blue and yellow plaid. “Thank you, father,” she mumbled, her hands folded in front of her and bowed her head.
Southeasterly winds blew warm air and clear skies and sun blazed overhead but Ailsa felt chilled as though the cold-ripping winds sliced through her.
Three men stood at the top of a set of stone stairs, looming large, even at this distance, and casting a shadow over Ailsa. “Laird MacLean is the one in the middle.”
“Thank you, father,” she muttered since he waited for a response. The man really thought her a simpleminded fool. Another aspect of her paternal relationship Ailsa would not miss. Hopefully, the laird wouldn’t hold such a low view of her.
She lifted her gaze. Her heart dropped to her feet and straight to the deepest pits of hell.
Oh yes, she was out of the kettle and into the embers.
Frustrated and hiding it from her bridegroom, she started toward him as he did the same. Shoulders thrown back and stretched to her tallest, she reached the middle of his chest. And Ailsa thought it a very large chest. He was the largest man she ever laid eyes upon. His sun-bronzed skin stretched taunt by corded muscles, and rippled with every shift displaying his palpable authority and strength. The parti-colored plaid, the colors of the moors, added to his size, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and chest. Wool wrapped around his form and it still looked inadequate. Weavers, undoubtedly, required a great deal of time to fashion his plaid. How much dye was necessary for his saffron tunic?
Probably every crocus plant available in the highlands.
Shifting her attention to his visage, she couldn’t force herself to look higher than his sculptured jaw. Her neck didn’t bend that far backwards. She had no idea to the color of his eyes or if kindness shined from them but he was MacLean so she decided he didn’t know what kindness meant and let that thought drift away. However, his black hair brushed against his shoulders, displaying some softness. Not that she would speak that nonsense.
“Cameron.”
“MacLean, this is my daughter, Ailsa.” His chin dipped so she took that as a greeting.
“Go inside and wash up. We wed in the hour,” he announced on his way by her. She gaped at the back of his head then turned to the two towering men, as tall as the pines covering the highlands. The one on the left appeared lifeless, his stern face expressionless, and the other smirked. The smirking one winked when her eyes narrowed. With a resigned sigh, her dismay returned, blacker than when this journey began from the northern border of MacLean land.
Not satisfied with his dictate, she charged after him. Her head down, she tried to cover the ground his long stride had eaten, only to ram into the hard wall of his chest. She clutched her head and felt a firm grip on her shoulders. Once her head stopped ringing like a church bell at Vespers, she jumped back and might have fallen to the ground if not for his steady hold. His sculptured face was a mere breath from hers. Duncan was a handsome man, with a broad forehead, dark slash brows, and a straight nose. No scars marred his face yet it was battle-hardened.
“Are you right in the head?”
His slash-lipped mouth was a small distance from hers and weighed down in a frown. If she moved forward, her lips would touch his. Where did that thought pop from?
“At this moment, I don’t think so.” She shook her head, missing the ghost of a smile twitching his lips. “I rather we get it done with.”
His thick brow cocked, startling her for a moment.
Duncan gave a brisk nod and stepped back. She toppled forward when he released her.
“Aye,” he called over his wide shoulders.
Ailsa stood in the middle of a loch of MacLeans and wondered if he agreed to commence with the ceremony or spoke because she desired a response. Since he had spoken seventeen words to her, she concluded it was time for a wedding.
Watching his back become smaller,
it dawned on her she still didn’t know the color of his eyes. The man addled her brains.
Feeling her hand clasped, her father barked, “Come along, girl.”
The crowd melded together and trailed behind her. She forced her jaw to slacken and planted a joyful smile on her face but from the glances launched her way no one believed it.
At the end of the aisle, a white frontal draped altar was bright in the dim space. Father Murray waited behind the altar, a smile on his ruddy face. All will be well…at least, that was what she told herself. She made the error of glancing at the bridegroom. The laird stood before the altar, looking bored and annoyed by the proceedings. She stumbled and recovered with heavy steps propelling her to the altar.
Standing before it, she gave Father Murray a true smile but paid no mind to the giant of a man next to her.
Hiding behind her unbound hair, Ailsa peeked at the man.
And took a step back.
Chapter Two
Duncan MacLean took stock of the lass. Her curtain of blazing tresses draped down to her hips. She had green eyes. Easy to notice since she gawked at him. Her complexion seemed fair, if not pale with fear. Her fine features exhibited a delicate quality yet a resoluteness radiated from her high cheekbones that should have held the rosy bloom of youth and health. Comely lass…If she closed her gaping mouth.
“She’s puny,” Duncan said to his two trusted commanders, Caelan and Lachlan. These two men had been at his side since he wielded a wooden sword. He valued their judgment, sought their advice and half the time adhered to it, and they guarded his back.
The Marriage Alliance Page 1
