Ailsa failed to comprehend how being filthy was training. None of the other MacLean soldiers were as grimy as this boy. “How?”
“I’m training my body to handle the hardships a warrior endures.”
She muffled her disbelieving laughter. “I think you don’t want to bathe.”
He started down the stairs. “In the winter, I wet my plaid to get used to the elements.” His bony chest puffed up, making him look as arrogant as his brother. “And some nights Duncan allows me to sleep outside. And I hunt for my food. It’s all part of my training.”
Ailsa was mortified. How could a small child be treated as such? “You are naught but a boy.”
“Every sword arm counts.” That sounded like Duncan. “And I’m not a boy. I’m a MacLean.”
She married into a mad clan. Sending children to hunt and sleep in the harsh elements. What other horrific activities existed that she didn’t know about? And she wanted acceptance by these crazed people. Would she have to sleep with the frozen earth beneath her and plaid over her?
She wondered for a brief second if she was the mad one. Nay, Duncan was. Ailsa possessed a gentle soul with a loving heart. She would never subject a child to the blistery winter elements. God’s teeth, she preferred remaining in a warm toasty bed under a pile of furs and plaids once winds began to chill. Ailsa must speak to Duncan about this. If Niall was sent out, she held no doubts Duncan would send their sons to brave the elements. Both her brothers trained their sword arms since childhood, building strength but never sent out to survive in the wilds on their own. And her brothers were brave warriors. Connor was killed, fighting MacKinnons by himself. And he slept in his bed every night.
“Ailsa, do you plan to stand there until daybreak?” Duncan called from across the expanse of the hall.
Niall ran to the high table while Ailsa trailed behind at a ladylike pace. Inside, she was seething. Twice, that man hollered out to her as though she were a common wench. At least he remained on his feet until she arrived at his side.
“Husband, you forget your manners.” Servants swept inside, bearing trenchers or jugs.
“I don’t have any,” he said off-handed as he cut the spicy venison. Her humph had every eye landing on her. She opened her mouth to instruct him but he stuffed a piece into her mouth.
She took her first bite. Caelan glared at Lachlan. His jovial self was absent. His expressionless face concealed his anguish.
“My sister isn’t like other lasses. She’s a true lady not to be seduced by you,” Caelan clarified then glared at Lachlan, who gave an annoyed sigh in return.
“Caelan, I was only having an amicable conversation with Rowan. Do you want me to head in the other direction whenever I see her?”
“Aye,” Caelan roared. Lachlan jumped from his seat and slammed his palms onto the table. Platters, trenchers, cups trembled from the force. Ailsa caught her cup before it tipped over.
“Do you truly believe I would seduce her?” Lachlan leaned over the table. Gone was his blank mask, replaced by a hard, ruthless visage.
“Nay, but Rowan’s naïve and might fall for your sweet face,” Caelan grumbled, washing away the palpable tension.
“So, I have a sweet face.” Lachlan cocked his brow. “Relax, man. She’s too smart to fall, as you say, for my sweet face.”
“Good.” Caelan picked up his tankard of ale and took a gulp. Lachlan met Ailsa’s gaze across the table and his jovial visage was back in place.
A crash blared through the great hall. The men brandished their broadswords. Duncan yanked her behind him. Ailsa clutched a handful of his plaid and peered around his brawny arm.
A mud-covered boy stood in the hall’s entrance. “Laird MacLean.” The boy ran to the table. “Laird MacDonald needs your aid,” he panted, clutching his side. Duncan hurried to the boy and helped him stand.
“What happened?” Duncan asked as men at the lower tables stuffed bread into their mouths and guzzled down their drink.
Ailsa rushed to her husband’s side.
“MacKinnons are attacking along the eastern border.” The men rushed out of the hall.
“Lachlan, you know what to do,” Duncan said, receiving a nod from him. “Ailsa, listen to him and I’ll be back. Care for the boy.”
“I’m well only exhausted laird but I will ride with you.” The MacDonald lad rose to his full height, a few inches taller than Ailsa. Staring into his eyes, Ailsa saw beyond the mud and saw a child a few years older than Niall.
Duncan turned away. Ailsa stopped him with a whisper of a touch. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him. Catching her about the waist, he lifted her off the floor so her feet dangled. He took possession of her mouth. But it wasn’t enough for her and he pulled away. “I promise to return to you.”
“You better or I’ll be extremely put off and hunt you down myself.” She chased behind him into the courtyard buzzing with men armed and mounted.
Phelan held Duncan’s powerful horse before the gathering of warriors. He mounted the beast of a horse. Looking up at him, Ailsa knew why he was called Black Duncan. A deadly aura hung over him inspiring terror. His usual calm gaze became hawk-like, ready to swoop down on his prey. His jaw clenched with controlled savageness. Chills ran through her body. She was glad she knew the other side of him.
Running to his side, she gripped his bare knee. “Be careful, Duncan.”
He gave her a half-grin, showing the man she knew. That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to be pacing her chamber but that small display of her husband, not the fierce laird, banished her chills.
“I’m the MacLean. Others have to be careful of me.”
The men cheered but Ailsa only felt fear. With a farewell kiss, he rode out and off to battle.
“Come, my lady. A feast awaits us.” Lachlan cupped her elbow and led her inside her home.
“Lachlan, you think that was a feast,” she whispered, not wanting to think her ungrateful. “I’ve seen feasts where tables groaned under the weight of platters and jugs. My father would snack on such a meal.”
“MacLeans live a very sparse life. Men require only four things in life.” Ailsa looked at him questioningly on her way into the donjon. “A filling meal, a willing woman, a keen sword, and a sturdy mount. Soon, you will be just like us.”
“What grunting and glowering at all I see?”
Lachlan’s bark of laughter echoed in the deserted hall. “Exactly. There is an art to it. See, you almost mastered the glowering.” He winked at a maid waiting in a shadowy corner.
“Lachlan, you are a rascal. I have seen you wink at every maid that has entered this hall.”
He shrugged with the same cheekiness he did everything else. “Only the hall. My lady, the lasses love me. It is my blessing and my bane.” He placed his hand over his heart as though it thrilled and pained him. Ailsa understood how he bewitched so many females. She also knew he had many layers hidden behind his charming grin.
“And you enjoy every minute of it.”
“Of course, one must always be thankful for blessings.” Lachlan escorted her to her seat then took his.
Hector sneered at Niall, with his puffed cheeks, stuffed with food. Grease smeared over his face. Niall wiped his arm across his mouth, leaving a streak on his face.
“How many MacKinnon bastards do you think Duncan will kill?” Niall asked Lachlan around his half-chewed mouthful. “I wish I was old enough to ride with him.” He swung his eating dagger around like a sword, dropping grease on the tablecloth as chunks of food spewed from his mouth. “I would run my sword through their guts and watch their blood spill. Entrails would cover the earth.” He ended with a menacing laugh, showing his mouthful of half-masticated food.
“Are you leaving us, Ailsa?” Hector prompted when she jumped out of her chair.
“My appetite abandoned me.”
“Understandable watching that one eat,” Lachlan added. Niall paid no heed and continued to eat with the gusto only a child claimed.
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br /> The truth was she could deal with his atrocious eating habits but thoughts of the battle to come and entrails littering the earth twisted her stomach into knots.
Once beyond their sight, she fled to the seclusion of the chamber. She slumped against the door and attempted to ease her fears.
A tentative knock startled her. Ailsa wished to be alone. She didn’t want to hear about blood or severed limbs. She wanted her husband near her so slumber would come this night. Her mind only envisaged the horrible outcomes that battling promised. So vividly, she swore she smelled the metallic scent of blood. Her hands shook violently and tears threatened to fall.
A soft knock forced her to swallow her fears and behave like a Lairdess—Brave, strong and with a deep abiding faith in her husband’s skill.
Ailsa cracked open the door.
“My lady, your bath.” Male servants crowded behind Moira. Not wishing to worry Moira, Ailsa stepped back, allowing them entrance. Moira flapped her hand for them to hurry.
Once alone, Moira helped Ailsa undress. She opened her mouth then closed it, gnawing on the inside of her mouth. Finally, Moira could no longer remain quiet. “My lady, if I may say, MacLean will be well. There isn’t another man alive who can wield a sword better than the laird. Everything will be well.”
“You’re correct. The end can’t be any different,” she cheered while the deep recesses of her heart disagreed. After climbing into the tub, she listened to Moira’s soft humming. The melancholy tune saddened Ailsa more. “Moira, if you so choose you don’t have to respond but is Hector the man you love?”
She sucked in a shocked breath and dropped the plaid she had just painstakingly folded. “How do you know? Did he tell you? Did you tell him?” She darted to the door then back, placing the plaid on the trunk and spun around before plopping down on the trunk.
“I believe I have my answer. I shall never share it with him and the man said not a word to me but I figured it out on my own.”
The lovesick lass cupped her chin. “Between you and Hector, you’re the only one who saw it. That dense man has known me since I sprang from my mother.”
“How long have you loved him?”
Ailsa twisted around, resting her arms on the rim of the tub.
“For about five summers, I’ve always helped care for him and knew his body was wracked with pain. Then one day it was cold and he grabbed my hand. I can still recall his every word. He said, ‘I’m in a great deal of pain and I don’t think I can bear it. Please don’t tell anyone of my weakness.’ But, it wasn’t weakness. It took strength to share that with me. I fell in love with him that day.”
“Then we are left with one recourse.”
Moira lowered her brows. “One…”
“He must fall in love with you.”
Moira froze, the drying cloth in her hand. Ailsa stepped from the tub, dripping water over the timber floor on her way to her. Before Ailsa reached it, Moira snapped from her daze and flung it around her shoulders.
“You make it sound so easy, my lady.”
Ailsa smiled, rubbing her skin dry “I wish it were but we’ll accomplish it.” Ailsa switched the damp cloth for her shift.
“If I may ask, how?” Moira cocked her head to the side, puzzlement coloring her face.
Ailsa hadn’t concocted a plan as of yet and used the diversion of donning her shift as a slight reprieve.
“We must think on this, especially you, Moira since I imagine you know him more intimately than any other.”
“True. If we figured a way for me to don a manuscript, I would capture Hector’s attention with a single glance. That’s what he truly loves.”
“We must shift his attention to you and only on you.”
Moira sighed and placed her hand on her hip. “I’ll have to be turned into a book,” she grumbled.
“Don’t worry. We are two gifted lasses who are smart enough to snag a man.”
“If you say so,” Moira replied, lacking faith in her mistress.
Ailsa grabbed her hand and squeezed reassuringly. “Trust me.”
Moira nodded on her way out the door. She returned to watch the men remove the tub.
“Is that all for now?”
Ailsa combed her hair before the hearth and sent Moira to bed.
Once alone, her thoughts briefly touched on helping Moira because her mind raced back to Duncan. She looked at the bed and wished he were under the blankets. She wanted him back.
Ailsa heard Duncan’s deep voice, its rich brogue promising to return to her. Would he? He was the greatest warrior in the highlands, or so it was boasted. Many feared facing him and his skilled arm that cut down many a man. Still feeling the piercing stab of pain through her heart, she curled up on the floor. Awaiting Duncan’s return had her remembering another’s that never came to be. Her eyes began to sting. Let Duncan return whole and hale, she prayed.
These past three years and the fragrant scent of roses haunted her. She lifted her head, swearing the chamber door opened. The door was closed.
Shutting her eyes, her mind’s eye pictured her brother sneaking into her chamber. His form was transforming into the man he would never become, his golden locks brushing against his ears and hanging down to his shoulders.
“I’ve come to say farewell,” Connor’s tender voice sounded through her ears that Ailsa looked over her shoulder and remembered his voice existed in her mind and heart. “You will be here when I get back.”
Their long-lasting joke and all because she complained as a small child that she never went anywhere.
“I’ll be waiting,” she unfailingly replied. And she was.
She had climbed to her knees and prayed for him to cut down many men. That night, she had slept with the knowledge Connor would ride home triumphant. In the blackest hour of the night, the portcullis grating yanked her from her slumber. Torchlights lit up the hurried activity happening in the courtyard. When the keep’s door was thrown open, she hurried down into the hall. Hiding in the arched doorway, she only saw the backs of Cameron warriors.
She shuffled forward. The scrape of her feet against the timber floor cracked through the air, at least it seemed to her, but no one turned her way. Her father's men crowded around a trestle table and stared down at the tabletop. Peeking through the warriors, she spotted a blood-covered arm. Droplets of blood fell to the floor. Drop. Drop. Drop. The castle dogs lapped it up.
She was confused why the men were not caring for the wounded warrior. Then the wall of Camerons parted and she saw Connor’s vacant face. His eyes stared unseeing into the distance.
The soft scrap of wool brushed against her hands as she pushed her way through. Her anguished cry bounced off the walls. She tugged at his arm to get him up from the table. He needed to stand then he would be well. No matter how hard she tried, his arm slipped from her hold. It was the blood smeared on him. She screamed his name. She demanded help from the men, their heads bowed. She yelled for a plaid to warm him. His skin was too cold.
Ailsa still felt the sting of firm grips as they tried to lift her off Connor’s body but she refused to leave him. Finally, they wrenched her away. She remembered looking into her father’s eyes and feeling the stinging slap on her cheek.
Alec had picked her off the floor and carried her to her chamber…where she waited for Connor’s return. Her hatred for the MacKinnons grew until she wanted them all to burn in hell’s fiery pits. After a time, she stopped hating because that simple human emotion brought about Connor’s death. However, she never forgave. She was a highlander.
Connor protected her against her father’s temper and eased the pain his harsh words seared on her heart. Connor gave her a hug or playfully shoved her and teased her about her fiery-hue of her hair. He rarely became angry with her, not even when she lost his spear. When fever threatened to end her life, Connor stood by her side, nursing her back to health. The brother who swore she was the most beautiful lass in all the highlands. The one who gave her worth.
; Connor protected her as Duncan did downstairs. He flung her behind him and shielded her with his large frame. A sense of protection she hadn’t felt in some time came over her. She loved the feeling of being cared for.
* * * *
After a fretful night, Ailsa set off to win over the clan. She spent the whole time dressing fretting over Duncan. A night of distressing thoughts had her admitting she cared for him. Certainly, her wifely duty required it. That she ran her hands over his tunics thinking to feel him, buried her nose in it and wrapped herself in his plaid to smell him didn’t help her argument, so Ailsa ignored it.
She loved his scent so like the highlands after the rains—fresh, clean, and earthy, intoxicating her senses. It couldn’t be a deeper emotion, she had only known the man for a full day, and he rode off to do his duty. There was nothing wrong with caring. People cared for various people, even animals. She cared for the horses in the stables yet that didn’t mean that she loved them.
Her reasoning behind her caring was starting to sound daft so she quit while she still had some wits about her and decided if she didn’t distract herself, she would go mad.
Clothed and ready to face Moira’s mother, Ailsa went to fetch Hector. She raised her hand to knock but the door swung open. Hector grinned at her, looking very dapper in his trews and holding onto a yew walking stick.
“There is no backing down,” he informed her with a pointed look.
“We forge ahead,” Ailsa cheered. With a flick of his wrist, Hector motioned her ahead of him. He descended the spiral stairs. The scrap of his leg bounced off the walls and vibrated around them. Ailsa wondered at his strength.
Once reaching the landing, Hector’s stride lengthened not a long, easy stride of another but at a languid pace.
Although Duncan’s absence pressed a melancholy cloud on her usual bright outlook, she must prove her worth to every MacLean. If she failed in winning clansfolk over, would Duncan treat her as her father did? Would he turn away from her and behave as though she must be dealt with yet never wished too? Ailsa mustn’t fail. She refused to live that existence again. She wanted the warmth she witnessed from her Cameron kinsmen when with their families. She wanted to be valued by another. So, this introduction must be perfect in every aspect. How hard was that to accomplish?
The Marriage Alliance Page 8
