The Marriage Alliance

by Mageela Troche

  “It’s her inferior bloodline,” Caelan replied.

  Duncan agreed. If Cameron men were stunted, it was only proper their women were even smaller than wee. He expected too much from a Cameron female.

  “At least, you’re not wedding the Urquhart lass. What’s her name?” Lachlan asked Caelan while peeking at the Cameron female.

  “Nessie,” Caelan grunted.

  “Oh yes, the Loch Ness monster,” Lachlan said, with a brief laugh. “At least this one’s a bonnie lass.”

  “I don’t care about her looks,” Duncan replied, secretly pleased she bore no resemblance to her father.

  Lachlan snorted. “That’s what every man says until he’s shackled to a beast.”

  Caelan smirked, pleasing Lachlan.

  Duncan blocked out Lachlan. It still dumbfounded Duncan that he was taking a wife and a Cameron no less. MacLeans and Camerons had been enemies since before his birth but that ended with a priest and a vow before the Lord. Warring with the Camerons sounded much more thrilling than standing before a priest and vowing his life to her.

  When the red-haired rat offered peace for both clans to war against their common enemy, the MacKinnons, his plan shocked Duncan. When Cameron offered marriage to his only daughter, he felt insulted. For some daft reason, he never pulled his broadsword from its scabbard and cleave Cameron in half but listened. For some reason unfathomable to him even now, he decided to wed the lass.

  Duncan smirked. Much as he expected, this puny woman behaved as a Cameron, ready to run. She must have realized no escape or rescue awaited her so she stepped back, keeping her head lowered.

  He stared at the top of her head, waiting for her to spare him one glance. She had the loveliest hair he had ever seen, streaks of auburns, coppers, gold, and bronzes blending to create her silky strands. The ends brushed her hips. He only beheld such radiant tones when the sun set over the highlands. In the deep recesses of his mind, he was grateful her hair wasn’t the palest of blonde. Hers pleased him.

  It was convenient he preferred her waving tresses since he would only see the top of her head for the rest of his days. The woman hadn’t looked past his chin.

  That might not be a bad thing. He recognized her fear of him, after all, he was Duncan MacLean, and it was right he be feared. Yet, she risked his displeasure and wrath to state her wants even as her voice trembled but her daring pleased him.

  As he recited the vows, she leaned toward Father Murray. While he pledged his troth, never raising his voice but adding more bite when he heard her hiss, “Must he stand there with his arms crossed as such?”

  Father Murray waved her to silence. She shrugged. Duncan smothered his grin. Aye, her spirit pleased him. She wasn’t weak like other Camerons. When he vowed to love and cherish her, she humphed in a high-pitched tone like a mouse trapped in a cat’s mouth.

  He was the cat.

  * * * *

  “Ailsa Erin Cameron,” Father Murray announced, earning a sigh in return. Father Murray continued as though her drawn-out sigh never fanned his red face. Ailsa bowed her head and tapped her fingers together. For generations, women dreamt of perfect weddings and Ailsa was no different. She knew most wishes might not be attained but she had not presumed it to be this nightmarish.

  Her hands held no flowers, though weeds might have been fitting. She donned an everyday airisaidh that was neither special nor memorable. Ailsa chose to forget the offer to wash. It only hindered her argument. If this were her momentous day, her future seemed bleak.

  “And obey.”

  Her head flew up when Father Murray uttered that hateful word—obey.

  She had to promise that. Every woman's bane in life was obeying a man who never cared. For her, obey was punishment. Ailsa prayed her husband acted better than her father did.

  Father Murray brandished a benevolent smile. However, his life resumed without this man. MacLean drummed his fingers against his sculptured arm. Father Murray leaned toward her, giving her a silent message to speak those two little words that cleaved her to the brute until her last breath.

  “I do,” she uttered while sending the Lord a quick prayer for forgiveness for her when she failed to follow it. After all, obey was a four-letter word and those were always the worst ones, like hell.

  As Father Murray blessed the union, she wagered every Sassenach in England heard her gulp. She was the wife of Black Duncan MacLean, the scourge of the Highlands. To her way of thinking, this union needed more than Father Murray’s blessing, though a blessing was a fair start.

  Craning her head back, she peered at her husband and he bent his head. Before she grasped his intention, his mouth nuzzled hers. She sighed. .

  His callused thumb caressed the creamy column of her neck, over the rapid thumping of blood coursing through her. His light touch skimmed over her skin, feeling as if her hair tickled her. She trembled. Ailsa wished to be kissed without an audience. Then she cared no more.

  Her lips parted. His tongue swept into her mouth, stroking hers. His kiss was gentle, enticing her to respond. Her lips tingled. Touching the tip of her tongue to his, he delved deeper, exploring her where no man had before. He didn’t demand. He coaxed a response. The fleeting stroke of his mouth foreshadowed what waited this night.

  His hardened body, so close, his heat seeped into her. She raised her hands to his shoulders and deepened the kiss, needing the support of his solid form to keep her from crumbling at his feet. Just as she wanted more, he pulled back and threw his arm over her shoulder, almost knocking her to the ground. The cheering crowd brought her out of her dreamy state. Her first kiss and it was in front of her father, brother, and a priest. Ailsa took a great interest in her feet, her father’s feet, Alec’s too. Her hands warranted the same inspection. However, she learned two things. The first being she liked kissing and wanted a great deal more of it.

  And the second was her husband had velvety brown eyes—soft and luxurious.

  * * * *

  He dragged her through the yawning crowd. For every step, she skipped to match his sweeping stride and if by chance she fell, he was bound to drag her behind him.

  If her arm wasn’t ripped from her body.

  His arm weighed her down. She felt she was shouldering a small horse or at the very least a pony. Ailsa attempted to shrug him off but her shoulder never budged. The man was as dense as his muscles.

  “Duncan, your arm is too heavy.”

  He slipped it off and placed his large hand on the small of her back. His fingertip grazed the curve of her buttocks. The firm pressure sent conflicting sensations through her. Should she be outraged or resigned that this was her husband? Should her body relax or stiffen? She took another step and his fingertips grazed the dip of her buttocks. She stiffened. “It’s because you’re puny.”

  She glared. “I am feminine and since I am female, ’tis only proper.”

  He shrugged his indifference. “MacLean women are bigger.”

  With a saccharine smile matching her voice, she said, “Sadly, I didn’t feast on human flesh as a babe.”

  “You’re daft.”

  “How can you say that when you’ve known me for less than an hour?”

  He grunted this time. “In that short of a time, nothing but daft notions passed your lips.” The brute halted at the donjon’s stairs, long enough for Ailsa to suck in a breath before he tugged her up the stone steps. For the first time, she faced the clan as their Lairdess. “My woman.”

  “I do have a fine name,” she muttered to herself.

  “I know, Ailsa and you’re still mine,” he whispered, having heard her over the clamor of his kinsmen. His breath tickled the tender skin and sent a shiver down to her toes. She should be insulted but hearing her name spoken as soft as an endearment wiped away her ire. For now.

  Mid-stride into the donjon, her father halted her by gripping her forearm. “Laird MacLean, we must depart.”

  She lifted her chin at his insult. Honestly, Ailsa expected no different
but had hoped…foolishly.

  Duncan’s face blanked, banishing his rascally quality. Ailsa understood how he inspired fear and terror in so many. She prayed never to receive such a fierce look from him. “Then go.”

  The bite in his voice chilled her but her father deserved it. Duncan turned away and led her into the inner sanctions of the donjon.

  “I must say farewell.”

  “Nay, you don’t but if you wish, be quick.” He dropped her arm and went to the two men standing in the shadow of the entrance.

  As she whirled about, his grim voice reached her. “Follow that bastard until he’s off MacLean land. Never trust a Cameron.”

  What did her life hold if she never had his trust? The same life except now she was married.

  Gnawing on her thumb, she debated between bidding her family a safe journey and returning to her husband to show where her loyalties lain.

  Ailsa determined her future bore more importance than the past. She began to turn away when her father called her over with a hurried, annoyed wave.

  A part of her wanted to demand his reason for departing before sharing her wedding feast. However, Ailsa knew, her purpose had been served and she lost her usefulness. Now, she was free of him.

  “Farewell, father,” she said, out of arm’s reach, a safe distance from his hands. The distance she learned to stand.

  “Goodbye, girl.” He hauled his portly body into the saddle. “Remember, you are a Cameron first and we’re gentlemen. It’s my blood running through you and mine to spill.”

  “Aye, father. I will not forget.” Since my husband shall not.

  Those few words, the most he’d ever spoken to her and he was his own main concern. Why did she expect different from him? Maybe because she did as he commanded and was still not enough to bestow her one piffling act of affection. Alec grabbed her hand. “Farewell, Ailsa.” He hugged her and murmured, “If you need me, send word. I’ll ride to your side.”

  She lingered in his hug to gather her control. He placed a brotherly peck on her head. She let him go. He swung on his mount and departed from these lands.

  As the grating closed behind her kinsmen, Ailsa felt adrift in the world, unsure of where and what lay ahead. She was no longer a Cameron yet not a MacLean. Never had she felt asunder. To her, the world existed only on Cameron lands and she knew how to navigate it. Here…here she was lost. Cold fear gripped her deep in her belly. She wanted to weep and wail yet another part raged against such actions. The other warring side wanted her to forge ahead with her new life as wife and Lairdess.

  Sensing the heavy weight of someone’s regard, Ailsa whirled toward the donjon and saw Duncan overshadowed by the arched entrance. From his stiff stance, he witnessed the farewells. Instantly, she donned her emotional armor but instead of a hostile demeanor, Duncan relaxed his stance.

  He stretched out his hand to her, beckoning her to him, not commanding. With a warm smile on her face, she crossed to him, setting her small hand in his.

  His sinewy hand marred with tiny scars engulfed hers. Instead of anxiety at his power, it enforced her belief all would be well.

  “Come along, my kinsmen are demanding their food.” He slipped her arm through his. “Human flesh gets cold fast.”

  With one hand, he threw open the ironbound door.

  “Duncan, you have a sense of humor. You are not as black as the tales boast. You are a kind man.” She laughed. “We shall have a fine chance at happiness.”

  At least Ailsa’s reasoning and her logical thinking never steered her wrong. The rest of her life seemed brighter than a candle flame flickering at the witching hour.

  Chapter Three

  Flares suspended from iron rings added to the blaze of hundreds of candles from the great hall.

  In the right corner of the great hall, five musicians played a lively tune on their harps and flutes. Sweet music bounced off the lofty ceiling sounding louder than she ever heard. She wondered where the seanachaidh was. Listening to the barb was the best part of the meal.

  He wasn't among the hordes of MacLeans clustered around benches before trestle tables enjoying the tankards of ale in their hands. Maybe the MacLean barb preferred to be announced with all the pomp and circumstance few deserved. Reveling chatter drowned the jovial music but didn’t hinder the dancing. As the last note faded away, guests rushed to line up on either side.

  Duncan clasped her hand and held it up in triumph, hoisting her to the tips of her toes like a rag doll. He put his arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground. Ailsa yelped as she flopped in the air. She clutched a handful of his tunic. His deep growl of laughter shook her whole body.

  “Put me down,” she hissed in his ear.

  “When I’m ready.”

  “When shall that be?” The rough guffaw sounded like a metal striking stone. Instead of cringing at the sound, a lightness filled her.

  “The laird and chieftain must display to the clan that he is the strongest by picking up his bride.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It is when one is as slight as you.” He slid her down his body. On firm ground, his hands lingered on her waist. Any retort she felt inclined to utter flew from her mind.

  Duncan guided her down the center of the hall to the high table with two tall backed chairs skirted by two short benches. His two commanders separated themselves from a group and stood on either side seeming prepare for battle.

  “This is a grand hall,” she complimented, when they passed under the ceiling arch dividing the grand space. She eased, knowing her life wouldn’t be curled up in a hovel. The grand space lacked warmth. There wasn’t even a tapestry to banish the chill. “However, it is in need of a women’s touch.”

  “It has a woman’s touch.”

  She blinked. From his stony face, he wasn’t teasing.

  “The cattle horns.” He flicked his chin at the long, curved horns hanging over the thrice her height hearth. Before she could ask his meaning, two figures separated from the shadows of the two arched small round-headed windows flanking the hearth.

  The figure on the right was a child, taller than most but still with a plump childish face and the other, a grown man lumbered to the table, dragging his right leg with every step.

  Duncan ushered her to the smaller oak chair decorated with holly carvings. His sinewy hand glided up her back, along her spine, skimmed over her shoulder and down her arm until her dainty hand was in his. His callous palm rubbed her tender skin, sending a quiver through her. Ailsa never conceived a warrior’s touch would be so tender yet intense enough to send a heady thrill straight to her head and turning her legs to mush. She fell into her chair.

  When Duncan sat, the little boy plopped on the bench to her left and scowled at her. No dirt marred his dimpled, childlike hands however, the rest of him appeared as though he rolled around in dirt, added water, only to roll around in it again.

  To Duncan’s right, the lame man teetered. He gripped the table edge. No one watched him struggle to sit so she did the same, inwardly cringing. Once he settled, the two commanders took their chairs on either end. All but Duncan stared at her. She kept her chin up. She put her hands in her lap then on the table. She released a long breath. Their steadfast gazes perturbed her. How was she to partake in her wedding feast if they stared at her all night? Then she realized the lower tables watched her too. Did they expect her to start behaving crazed or grow horns from her head? Maybe they were waiting to see if she had a forked tongue. If she wasn’t so uncomfortable, she might have giggled but the clan would believe her crazed. Ailsa composed her features in a serene mask while her blood boiled as no one lost interest in her.

  This was her husband’s fault since he was rude and had yet to introduce her. She leaned toward him to tell him when he turned to her. She reared back before her nose bumped his chin. Her chair shook on its legs. She squealed.

  Duncan wrenched her back. She knocked into his solid form before rocking to a stop.

 
“Careful.” He signaled the meal to commence and missed the faint narrowing of her eyes. The lad sniggered while she straightened her pleats. The servants filed into the hall, carrying platters and jugs of ale and wine. Spices’ fragrant scents whiffed up from platters of roasted mutton drenched in red wine and onions.

  “Is she in her cups?” The little one snarled. She glared at him then blanched when burning hatred shined from doe eyes, a childish replica of Duncan’s.

  She avoided his gaze as the servants avoided hers then returned it to confront his childish glare. His behavior would have been delightful if he weren’t a MacLean.

  “I am a lady not a common wench.”

  “You’re a Cameron,” the child sneered in an exact replica of his laird.

  “Niall, watch your tongue or I’ll cut it out,” Duncan retorted, glowering. Niall squirmed in his seat and dropped his wounded gaze to the table.

  Ailsa’s hand flew to her mouth. It was true. MacLeans do cut out tongues. She liked hers in her mouth. It fit perfectly.

  “That filthy thing is my brother, Niall. He’s very mindful of his manners because if he’s not he shall suffer my wrath.”

  The little boy leapt from his seat and bowed the courtliest one she ever seen.

  “I’m Ailsa,” she replied, trying to forget the tense moments.

  His childish face scrunched up in puzzlement. Ailsa wondered about Duncan at this age but without the filth. With soft, round cheeks and an open gaze curious about the world surrounding him and gentleness adulthood vanquished. Of course, Ailsa could do without the murderous glare.

  “I know who you are, my lady. I’m seven not stupid.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  Duncan motioned to the lame man.

  Niall clutched his dagger, a deadly promise in his golden brown eyes. “Take that back or I’ll plunge my dagger in your heart." He rose from his seat.

  Ailsa watched the tense scene, not believing one so little could be so fierce. Then again, he was a MacLean so such behavior was required. Besides, Duncan wouldn’t permit violence.