The Marriage Alliance

by Mageela Troche

  “You couldn’t find it, you wee whelp.” The threatened man leaned over the table toward him. She looked to Duncan. He busied himself with breaking bread. Ailsa would have to dare their wrath and take matters into her own hands.

  “Pardon me, may blood be shed another time, preferably not during my wedding feast," Ailsa interrupted, staring at the laughing commander next to the murderous child.

  Once Niall lowered himself to his seat, Duncan said, “This is my other brother, Hector.”

  His features were finer than Duncan’s sharp angular ones with the saturnine coloring that was a fraternal trait. His frame was thinner than his brother’s sculpted one and possessed a gentle demeanor absent in his brothers, but the tightness around his lips revealed his constant pain. Nonetheless, he flashed a welcoming smile. "I would grace you with a proper welcoming but my worthless leg is incapable of such niceties.” He raised his goblet instead.

  “As a bow is to me. Although, I am thankful for your smile," Ailsa said, her voice rising to be heard over booming laughter.

  “The fool laughing like a loon is my second-in-command Lachlan.”

  He swallowed his mirth with a cough then inclined his head. “My lady.” He placed his hand over his heart.

  “I’ve heard tales about you. A lass’s virtue isn’t safe in your company.” She understood how he bewitched so many. He had rugged handsome features with flirty light brown eyes and boyish locks of russet hair that dipped over his right eye and compelled women to simper from his charisma.

  Ailsa shifted her regard from Lachlan across to the flaxen-haired giant bored with the festivities.

  “That’s Caelan, my first-in-command.” Caelan inclined his head then ignored her completely.

  “You are lucky, my lady”—Lachlan waved his hand toward Caelan—“he’s in a good mood today.”

  Ailsa gaped at Caelan. What did he resemble in a bad mood?

  “It doesn’t happen very often," Lachlan finished, earning a glare from Caelan. Lachlan pounded his fist against the table in mirth.

  “These are the men to see if you have any problems," Duncan said as he speared a slice of mutton dripping with wine.

  She leaned toward Duncan, pretending no one moved with her. “If a problem arises, shouldn’t I come to you?”

  “Aye, but there will be times when I cannot be bothered.”

  Her back stiffened. For a brief moment, she wished to clonk him over his thick head with the trencher. “Bothered?”

  “I have more important duties to attend than female problems.”

  “Is my being your wife one of your female problems? Do you plan to lock me away so not to have any more female problems? May I greet you with a grin if our paths pass?”

  “MacKinnons have been spotted along the eastern borders,” Lachlan said, filling the silence. “They haven’t dared to step on our land yet.”

  She humphed in response and raised a slice of mutton to her mouth. Sulking, she listened to the men speak about clans as though it were not her wedding feast.

  “We better not wait too long to strike,” Caelan added. “The others will think us weak.”

  Ailsa snorted. Only a fool would even contemplate such a notion. And highlanders weren’t fools.

  “Unavoidable, I had to get married,” Duncan said and every gaze landed on her. She pretended her husband of less than a day had not insinuated that she was a nuisance.

  “Aye, sorry for the disruption to your day. You even presented a sparse feast.” Her hands waved over the table, encompassing the meal before them.

  “Do you eat that much?” Duncan rested his arm on the back of her chair.

  “Nay.”

  “Is your stomach full?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then it was enough.” Duncan dropped his arm and faced forward.

  She gestured to the trenchers and platters gracing the table. “Nay, there was to be venison, grouse, pheasant, partridge, salmon, sweetmeats and tarts.”

  “I agree with the tarts,” Lachlan added.

  “See, Lachlan would enjoy a tart,” Ailsa said to Duncan.

  Hector spewed his mouthful of wine into Niall’s face. Caelan pounded a hacking Hector’s back so hard tears fell upon his cheeks.

  “Caelan, cease. You’re hurting Hector.”

  Caelan halted in mid-swing, his large hand hovering over Hector’s back.

  Ailsa rose and wiped Niall’s face dry with a piece of linen. “And where is the seanachaidh? I would like to hear him.”

  Niall batted her hands away. “Duncan didn’t want to hear that noise.”

  “Ailsa—” Duncan growled.

  “I’m not a nuisance.” She straightened her back and glared at him.

  Duncan stood. Planting his hands on the table, he leaned over until his nose almost touched hers. “You are becoming one. We will discuss this in private.”

  Ailsa scanned the hushed hall and saw she captured the attention of everyone; even the castle hounds stared up at her. “Aye, private.” She returned to her chair and made a show of positioning herself.

  His elbow bumped against her shoulder when he pushed up the saffron sleeve. Fine, short, black hairs dusted his arm. “At this moment, I want to know why Niall failed to attend his lessons.”

  Niall hunched over, trying to shrink into himself and with his considerable height, it seemed fruitless. Duncan centered his acute attention on him, resting his elbow on the table. Under the table, Duncan’s leg brushed against her. Through two layers of wool, she felt the difference of their bodies, hers soft and female and his hard and manly. She drew closer, hoping no one noticed.

  His battle-scarred hand hypnotized her as he continuously rubbed his thumb against his forefinger, a gentle, promising caress. She was mesmerized, envisaging his touch against her skin.

  As stirring as his kiss, she hoped. Her lips stung to life thinking about the jolting touch of his lips. Ailsa mulled over how to get another kiss, one that lasted longer and yielded the heady sensation that dizzied her before.

  She shifted her attention to his eyes. Doubtlessly, he was aware of her inspection but his sight never wavered from Niall.

  “I don’t need to learn about Odysseus or stupid stuff like that,” he grumbled, his bottom lip pouting. “I’m going to be a warrior.” His tiny chest puffed up.

  “Not for me. I have no need for a dimwitted warrior.” He lounged back in his chair.

  “Your eyes shine gold,” Ailsa gushed. Oh Lord’s tongue, she said that aloud. Duncan sat straight while the others gawked at her as though she was soft in the head.

  Ailsa ducked her head, using her hair as a shield over her flaming face. His words rang through her head, becoming louder. Daft…daft was what she became since wedding this man. Never again would Ailsa permit herself to raise her head. And he caused her to utter the vile curse even if only muttered in her head. Actually, she might have to cut out her own tongue.

  Duncan shifted his sight to Ailsa and looked upon the top of her head, staring at the straight part in the middle of her tresses. Her chin was practically burrowing into her chest. He speared Niall with a searing glare to halt his stupid childish remark that would wound her womanly sentiments.

  Duncan lounged back in his chair. After a long drawn-out moment of his scrutiny, he propped his arm along the back of her chair. “I believe the hour grows late. You must be abed,” he whispered. She pushed past her shame and met his gaze.

  “I ordered a bath for you.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered back. “I usually guard my words.”

  He grunted. “You shall always speak what is on your mind.”

  She glanced about, searching for answers.

  Duncan had the impression she never expected kindness from him. But she was a laird’s daughter, people must have deferred to her. Yet, gratefulness shone in her startling green eyes. Maybe, he read too much into her reaction and she never expected kindness from a MacLean. Ailsa, given time, would learn he was a fair man wi
th simple needs. She needed time to settle.

  “Moira will show you to the chamber.” He gestured to the bonny young woman standing off to his side but Ailsa never averted her gaze from him. “Go, Ailsa.”

  “Where?” She cocked her head to the side. Her silky hair brushed his arm, a wispy caress that had his fingers twitching to twist the strands around his hand.

  “To our chamber, for your bath.”

  She leapt up, toppling the chair backward. It landed with a crash of splintering wood and snapped every head in her direction. “Aye, I would like a bath. Thank you.”

  She curtsied and skirted around the fallen chair. She spun back, her hair billowing around her, striking Niall in the face with the ends. He sputtered and glared. Duncan swallowed his laughter. Hector and Caelan wore the same shocked expression they tried to hide. Lachlan wasn’t so mature.

  She bent over and righted the chair. With another curtsy, she spun around, this time smacking Duncan with the ends. Niall laughed until Duncan scowled him into silence.

  Duncan directed his attention on his wife when she hurried to the stairs to his left. Her hair swung, emphasizing the sway of her hips. She had spirit. Duncan was surprised he missed it when he first saw her. It was in the proud tilt of her head, the straightness of her back and the directness of her gaze.

  Moira wrenched her befuddled gaze from Ailsa. “Where is my lady going?”

  Duncan rose to his feet. “Ailsa,” he roared.

  Stumbling to a stop, she spun toward him.

  She picked up her skirts and scurried down the half flight. She climbed back to him, a worried look on her face. The clan twisted their necks or stood, making sure they missed nothing.

  “Moira will bring you to the chamber up those stairs.” He pointed to the front of the hall.

  “Why are your stairs there?”

  “Because that is where I wished them to be.”

  Ailsa shook her head at him. “You MacLeans possess very weird notions.”

  “I disagree. You are the only MacLean with weird notions.”

  “I’m a Cameron,” she replied with a finger against her chest.

  “You are a MacLean.”

  Her green eyes widened but her mouth remained sealed. She inclined her head in agreement. “Go with Moira.”

  She stepped to the woman’s side and walked alongside her while peeking over her shoulder. Their rapt attention fixed on her. Their heads swiveled to watch her departure.

  “You unnerved the lass,” Hector said. Duncan snatched up his goblet before taking his seat. One foot on the bottom step, she shot him one last look.

  “She’ll learn her place,” Lachlan added.

  “Most importantly, she’ll learn where her loyalties lie,” Duncan said then dropped the subject of his wife.

  Chapter Four

  “Does he scream like that often?” The man roared her name before half the clan. The man possessed no manners.

  “Rarely, the MacLean is a calm man.”

  Ailsa smothered her snort of disagreement. “So, I angered him?”

  Moira stopped halfway up the circular stairs and looked over her shoulder at Ailsa. She pondered it for a moment. “I doubt it.”

  One day, when Ailsa gathered her courage, she would explain proper behavior and instruct him that bellowing across the great hall would not be tolerated. One day. Although his behavior needed improving, Duncan wasn’t as vile as the tales portrayed, yet the hardness and savageness she glimpsed at her father’s insult revealed his hard streak. Of course, being laird required it.

  Though he showed gentleness his authority wasn’t undermined. His two opposite qualities satisfied Ailsa. What other hidden parts existed in this man? She felt protected and one day, hopefully, cared for…maybe even loved.

  Ailsa trailed behind Moira up the set of stairs, past a single iron hinged door. “If I may ask, why did you go that way?”

  “For a moment, I thought I was back in my father’s household and the stairs to my chamber were there.”

  “That way leads to the cellars and the ramparts.” The passageways loomed over her, larger than Cameron Castle but, Ailsa understood otherwise Duncan would bang his head every time he prowled these halls.

  “Oh, thank you.” Her words surprised Moira. “I would hate to get lost in my new home.”

  Moira’s voice hitched a couple of notes. “There are stairs at the end”—she pointed down the gloomy hall—“but they lead to the garrisons as well but no one really ventures there but the laird.”

  When Moira veered left down the passageway, Ailsa saw two doors to the right. His brothers must reside behind those doors.

  She picked up her pace to catch up with Moira who stood in front of a closed door.

  Stone lintels were unadorned, unlike the scrolled ones in Cameron Castle. Her father preferred to display his riches. MacLean avoided that ego trap, especially since highlanders knew his power.

  Hesitating on the threshold, she took a breath for courage and pushed herself in the room. The oak bed spanned the sparse chamber. The bed was blanketed in a plaid a dozen highlanders could sleep under. Its long deep shadows seemed to corner her, hunting her until capturing her in its cushiony confines.

  Duncan and she would spend the endless nights yawning before them. And with him taking up most the space. She was puny. She licked her dry lips. Never in her life had a piece of furniture inspired so much terror but she confessed, this bed chilled her to the deepest part of her soul.

  Under the linens, she would lay with Duncan. After tonight, she would know a man’s touch. More than touch. She would know his feel, taste, and many other things unbeknownst to her. By tomorrow, she would no longer be a maiden. A woman must be fruitful and give into her husband’s wants and needs. Oh, she mustn't forget, she must not enjoy it for that is a sin. Not very appealing. She was making herself panic. A stitch cramped her side. Her throat was swelling, cutting off her breathing. Breathe!

  She whirled away from it and ventured into the toasty chamber. Between the two window embrasures, her two trunks rested next to his. A tunic hung from one of the four pegs above them. Thankfully, no cattle horns adorn these walls.

  The door swung open and burly male servants filed in hauling buckets of water. Ailsa watched them fill the wooden tub. She turned back and opened the oak shutters. The crescent moon dappled the loch’s calm surface with soft moonlight. This was now the view from her chamber. The serene vista eased Ailsa’s jumpy nerves. She lost herself in the calmness. Her thoughts faded away, and she was unaware of the men stomping from the room.

  “My lady, your bath,” Moira announced, motioning to the tub before the great hearth with a blazing fire. Steam rose in waves from the tub.

  “Thank you, Moira.”

  Her ermine blonde head lifted quickly as though she never expected kindness from Ailsa. Her cupid lips spread in a smile and her aquamarine eyes sparkled with friendship.

  “Are you married?” Ailsa asked as she slipped off her braided leather belt.

  “Nay.” She shook her head.

  “Why ever not? You’re a bonny lass, the bonniest I’ve ever seen. I would imagine men must chase you.”

  Moira took the plaid from Ailsa and began folding it. “Oh, they are but the one I want to be chasing me isn’t.” She sighed as she hugged the folded plaid against her tall, willowy body. Ailsa discerned her unrequited love and wondered about the fool who didn’t concern himself with it.

  “Well, I hope one day he gets clonked on the head and realizes your love for him.”

  “He has a very hard head.”

  Ailsa tugged her leine and shift over her head. “I imagine all MacLeans do.” Ailsa’s hands flew to her mouth, dropping the garment to the floor. “Please forgive me for my foolish words. I mean no insult.”

  Moira seemed ready to argue instead nodded. “I understand, my lady. It’s hard to give up a burning hatred so easily.”

  Ailsa lowered herself into the heated water with a grat
ified sigh. “Oddly enough, I’ve never hated the MacLeans. I know highlanders never forget but I cannot remember why the Camerons and MacLeans are enemies. Do you know?”

  “Let me see.” She handed Ailsa her lavender soap. “We fight against the MacKinnons because they crept on our lands and murdered a young family and torched some cottars, the Campbells, because they tried to steal our cattle. We hate the MacAlister’s because they tried to encroach on our lands. We war with the MacPhersons because they broke a promise with us.” With every clan Moira listed Ailsa felt downtrodden. “And the Camerons…hmmm…” She tapped her finger against her puckered mouth. “Please my lady, do not tell a soul but I can’t remember,” She confessed with a giggle that Ailsa mirrored.

  “I won’t tell a soul.” Ailsa lathered her legs, inhaling the fragrant lavender. “But tell me this. Does anyone like us?”

  “You are already loyal to us.”

  “Of course. As my husband said in the hall, I’m a MacLean. Please help me wash my hair.”

  Moira knelt behind her and helped scrub her scalp clean. “MacDonell.”

  Ailsa repeated the name.

  “They like us.”

  “That’s good to know. I would hate being hated by everyone.” Moira poured a bucket of water over her, rinsing the lather from her tresses. Ailsa already detected the dislike from the MacLeans.

  Rising from the tub, Ailsa wrapped herself in the cloth Moira held out. “Moira, may I count you as a friend?”

  “Of course, my lady.” Moira nodded eagerly.

  “As my friend, I require your help.” Ailsa stepped from the tub. “I wish for the clan to like me. I know I ask too much but I beg of you, how can I gain their acceptance?”

  “My lady, just be yourself and I’m sure you will be accepted. If I may speak freely”—Ailsa nodded—”you are nothing like I thought a Cameron would be.”

  She quickly dried herself before the fire. “You must have heard great horrible tales about Camerons and while I imagine some are true, I know others are falsehoods. The truth of it is I spent much of my time by myself. It made my life easier.”

  Moira offered her a clean shift, a questioning look on her face. Ailsa refused to dredge up memories of her father’s cruelty so she donned her shift and sat before the hearth to dry her hair.