“I understood what you meant.”
“And that is a bad thing?”
“It might be.”
Ailsa slammed her hands on her hips and glared at him. Her foot tapped a rapid tattoo against the underbrush. “I disagree. I think it shows how logical you are becoming.”
He disagreed. He thought he was becoming daft but his mouth remained sealed.
“So, husband, what did you think of my hurdles?”
Duncan hated that some MacLeans ostracized her. He figured their treatment of her vexed him because it reflected harshly on him. He was laird and she the lairdess and by helping her, it strengthened the clan. Besides, his kinsfolk failed to see her magic.
“You wish to be accepted by the clan. But you haven’t accepted them.”
“Of course, I have. They are my kinsfolk.”
“What have you done with the great hall? It’s as bare as it’s been since my mother’s passing. You have yet to make it your home. While I was away, did you linger beyond meal times?” She shook her head. “Have you told Màiri your favorite meals?” She lowered her gaze. “Your belongings sit in the cellar.”
“My things have arrived?”
“Aye, while I was away.”
“No one informed me. Even though, that was my fault. I am ashamed to admit it but I was hiding in kitchen.”
Duncan took her in his arms, slightly rocking her. “I did not tell you this for you to cry. What did you say?”
She pulled her face from where she buried it in his plaid.
“Too much rush causes delay,” she repeated one of the many proverbs that guided her through her life. “I’ve tried to force their respect and acceptance yet I haven’t bestowed it upon them.”
Ailsa wiped away her tears with the edge of his plaid. “How could people welcome someone into their home when they have not been offered the same? Duncan, I can do whatever I wish to the hall?”
“All but knock down walls.”
She beamed up at him. “I can take down those awful cattle horns.”
“No, knocking down walls or taking down the horns,” he corrected.
Her eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Why not?”
“Clan tradition. Each new laird and chieftain must lead a raid and must return with two cows to show he can provide and protect the clan. One is given to the followers, the other is eaten in a feast and the horns are hung in the hall by the lairdess and remain until there is a new laird or chieftain.”
“So, they must stay.”
He inclined his head.
“Where are the previous laird’s horns?”
“Upon his death, the horns are made into whatever is needed or desired— a comb, spoon whatever. Those objects symbolize the previous laird’s protection and caring and although he’s dead, he still cares for the clan.”
“That sounds nice.” Ailsa clutched his plaid. “I’ll have to do that when we have a son.”
A son…Duncan liked the thought of a son.
“You’ll be dead when I hang his horns. God’s toes!” Her hands flew to her gaping mouth. “Come along, husband. You make me forget my duties.”
Duncan thought it only fair since she did the same to him.
She tugged on his hand. He figured she wanted him to trail along. “If the food isn’t on the table, I may be executed.”
“The men actually eat the food.”
“Oh aye! I’ve actually gotten compliments.”
“They’re probably overjoyed not being poisoned or fearful you might.”
“That is not nice to say. I have a very simple fare planned for tonight.”
“Ailsa, you will not cook any longer. One of the other women can handle it.”
“Oh nay, it’s my fault Màiri is injured and I must bear her burden. I understand but no one else needs to, besides the women would be happy for your departure from the kitchen.”
Chapter Eight
Duncan was whistling as he sauntered to the donjon. Training men helped banish his tension, loosening his muscles and calming his thoughts. Some men needed a few sips of uisge beatha but he needed to bash some heads, have men littering the ground and groaning in pain. It made his day brighter.
Now the laird was ready to settle this clan feud between Earvin and Canice and all because Earvin’s daughter had to be in love with Canice’s handsome face. There would probably be a wedding in a few days.
Niall dashed to him, scattering the fowls in fright. He skidded to a stop, strewing a cloud of dirt around his spindle legs. “It’s not fair, Duncan.” He fisted his hands at his side.
Duncan ruffled Niall’s shaggy hair. “That’s an important lesson learned.” He took a step around Niall who stepped in his path, blocking him.
“I don’t wanna bathe every day.”
“I don’t want to listen to this,” Duncan retorted. “But that’s what being a man sometimes requires.”
His youngest brother, who always boasted of his warrior ability, stomped his foot, revealing the child he still was.
“You’re letting a woman tell you and us what to do. That doesn’t sound like a man to me.” He crowded Niall. He shuffled back. Duncan closed the scant space. Niall halted. Every time he inhaled, his chest touched Duncan’s legs. Towering over his brother, he leaned down until the tip of his nose brushed against Niall’s.
“Watch your tone. I can beat you.” Not that Duncan could raise his hand to a child, especially this impertinent boy. He found humor in his antics but Niall went too far. “If I were you this would be the moment when I ran to my lessons and studied hard to learn when to speak and what to speak of before you open that hole in your face.”
Niall sprinted away, his legs smacking his backside. Duncan snorted at the boy’s gall. Letting a mere slip of a woman rule over him, laughable. As laird and husband, he gave orders and was obeyed. As for Ailsa, as a daughter of a laird, she comprehended the order of life.
Duncan stopped short when he caught sight of the entrance. Next to the donjon’s stairs, a wooden stake was driven into the ground and his six fierce, majestic hounds were tethered to the post, whimpering. Rath, his fierce alpha male who would rip off anyone’s arm who ventured too close to his jaws, tugged at his leash, his blade sharp teeth bared. The five others howled, tails tucked between their legs.
What was she doing?
The abuse his savage animals endured at Ailsa’s hands.
Duncan stomped over to the restrained beasts. Rath leapt to his hind legs but the rope yanked him back, jerking him to the ground. Rath scrambled to sit. Duncan hunched down and patted Rath on his long head, feeling the rough coat against his hand.
“She even tied you up.” The hound’s amber eyes gazed mournfully up at him.
He encouraged Ailsa to find where she belonged but she had no right to change his place. As her husband and laird, he wasn’t supposed to change. She was changing everything. Duncan refused to change anything about himself. If he did, his power would diminish until she ruled over him and no puny woman was going to lead him around. No woman would have dominance over him again. Since their wedding, he had been supportive, allowing her to disrupt his life but she had ventured too far, testing his giving nature beyond its limits.
To think Duncan worried Ailsa would be too exhausted to do much damage since she talked long after the wolves stopped howling. The last words he heard from his loquacious wife’s mouth before succumbing to slumber were, “I might hang a tapestry over the horns just to minimize their ghastliness.”
At that point, she could have impaled him with the horns as long as she stopped speaking. Though he liked seeing her happy, he hated having his brave hounds tied up. She might try to do the same to him.
When he stepped into the great hall, he truly wished she had run the horns through him. The trestle tables were not dismantled and set against the wall. His table was not in the center of the hall overlooking the space. His chair was not pushed into the table. There was nothing in the hall. The space was bare e
xcept for the horns she detested so vehemently.
He gulped in calming breaths, which were no help. His temper simmered. Duncan clenched and unclenched his fist. In the cavernous space, the laird had not one place to sit.
Duncan was wrong.
He could sit on the floor.
Granted MacLeans lived a sparse life, needing very few belongings to be comfortable and even less to survive, but Duncan wanted much more than he had now.
“Duncan,” his wife called out as she moved from the hearth. He watched her hips sway as she came closer to him. Streaks of dirt and ash slashed her face and into her hair.
“Why are my hounds tied up? And where are the men and myself to sit? What are you going to do next, wrap a rope around my neck and lead me around, utterly under your control?”
She stumbled to a stop and demurely folded her hands before her.
“Ailsa, answer me,” he demanded through clenched teeth.
“Much like Niall, those beasts need a good washing. May you please bathe them?”
“I’ve never washed those beasts.”
She waved her hand before her scrunched up face. “I certainly smell that.” His dark visage never lightened. “Who handles such a task?”
“I imagine the person who wants them clean.” Duncan’s eyes narrowed when she humphed. “Ailsa, where is everything that belongs in here?”
“Outside. The hall is being cleaned from top to bottom. I really wish you’d have taken off your boots so you won’t track dirt in here.”
Duncan saw her toes peeking out from the edge of her gown. “We are surrounded by dirt.”
“Are you angry? You told me to make this my home.”
“That I did but I had thought you cared for a place to sit after a weary day and a place to set your meal upon when served.”
Their discussion started to become hurtful. “I do. I’m just adding my touch.”
“And erasing mine. You cannot lead all this on your own. I will not always accommodate you.”
“Of course not, I’m only taking my place.”
“This place will be righted by the time the men eat.”
She nodded. “Should I just put everything back now?”
Her hurt tone cut through his haze of anger and he realized how stupid he sounded becoming upset because she did as he advised. “Nay, finish your chore,"— his voice softened— “Two requests.” He held up two fingers. “The first is I have a place to sit while I settle a clan feud and the second is the tables and benches are set up for meals.”
“I can do that.” She smiled. He gave her a quick kiss.
“I’ll send someone to bathe the hounds.” Lachlan came into the hall with Canice and Earvin. “Ailsa, I have duties, please leave.”
She half-turned from him then swung back around. “I must get your chair.”
“Nay, I would feel foolish.” More so than he did at this moment. “Go.”
Duncan waited until his wife had exited the hall then waved the men forward. He crossed his arms and waited for them to reach him. Lachlan stood behind the men and leaned against the wall.
“Earvin, since you brought this to my attention, you may speak first.”
“My sweet daughter” —Lachlan smothered his snort— “Leah was promised marriage by him.” He listened to Earvin complain with half an ear. Duncan knew he behaved irrationally but he never imagined he would feel as though some of his power diminished. Ailsa proceeded with the same course of action the servants did when cleaning the hall. The woman was causing his mind to turn to watery mush like oatcakes before being cooked.
Soft humming wrenched him back to the problem at hand when he spotted his wife coming from the cellar, arms full of tapestries. Two bare-faced MacLeans were behind her, lugging up chairs stored away by his mother.
All four men turned toward her. “Pray forgive me. I shall not disturb your important business again.” She hurried out the hall.
“Now for your side, Canice.” Duncan waved the young man on and watched as his wife crept back in, setting a rolled up tapestry on the floor. She was eavesdropping and not hiding it very well.
“I do love Leah”—unlike Lachlan, Ailsa snorted —”but I love Keira as well.” Lachlan scraped his hands down his face.
“You love both?” Duncan snorted. “Let me hear more of your foolishness.”
Duncan listened to Canice avow his love for both women. Canice went on to list their great virtues and how he was incapable of deciding who to take as his wife since both were the greatest of women. This strapping young man even sounded like a fool.
He should have been a poet. “Canice, no more of this besotted foolishness.” He held up his hand. Lachlan was thankful. “The women are not about so there is no need for flowery language. Who did you promise to wed first?”
“I do not remember.” Canice hung his head as Earvin stepped toward him. Lachlan pulled him back.
“You lie,” Ailsa yelled from the hall’s entrance.
“Ailsa.” With her face impassive, she glided by the men, bound for the kitchens. “Does my wife speak the truth?”
“I love them both and wish not to lose either one,” Canice implored.
Duncan now knew this boy was stupid. He had one wife and she drove him crazy. He failed to comprehend how Canice could stand before him confessing love. Love weakened a man. Every memory vividly rushed forward at his weakness, sickening him. Lust was a fine manly emotion to succumb to and Duncan was in the throes of it for Ailsa but that was as far as he permitted his feelings for her to develop.
Canice expanded on how both lasses expanded his heart until Duncan wanted to beat those fatuous notions out of his head. The heart taking over the mind only led to foolish choices that had led him here before his laird. Aye, Duncan wanted to beat him bloody.
* * * *
While Duncan relished the idea of beating Canice bloody, Ailsa was in the courtyard beating dust from a tapestry. She coughed as a thick cloud of dust billowed around her. Covering her nose with her hand, a musky scent filled her nostrils, only producing more hacking.
Ailsa raised her hand and whacked the tapestry again. She heard that tone before, it was the “lower the portcullis on the opening on your face” tone. Duncan confused her. He wished for her to settle in but when she began that chore, he had a fit. She fervently wished to create a place that welcomed and wanted her. Her whole life her father reminded her of her only importance. She fulfilled her value by entering this marriage alliance, which benefited his quest for more power. She had waited for the day to arrive when she was valued not for what she brought to their marriage but for herself. Duncan had her believing she had some. He treated her kindly, comforting her after a bad day instead of berating her for her stupidity.
She beat out her frustrations on the tapestry. Breathless, she raised her arm again and with a forceful strike hit it again. “No more.” She shook the stick at the towering donjon behind her. With both hands, she swung the stick again. The tapestry almost drifted to the ground.
When Canice went on about his love, Ailsa saw Duncan’s pinched face. He looked at the lovesick boy with disgust. Even though his sickening profession of love churned her stomach, love, itself, was one emotion he rebuffed. If she loved him and offered it to him, his response would be to spurn it. Lucky for her, she held no love in her heart for him. Yet, her hopes for one day of being loved seemed like a distant wish like touching the moon. Her life seemed bleak.
“Keep on striking it like that and you’re going to tear it in half,” Moira commented behind her.
Ailsa lowered her aching arm and blew away the strands of hair drooping over her eye. “It helps with my frustrations.”
“Beating things seems to help men so I see no reason it doesn’t work with women.”
“True but in a woman’s case, it’s usually a man that causes the frustration.”
Moira’s cupid mouth formed an O and she looked over her shoulder, knowing the source. “Never truer words spo
ken.”
“Hector is still completely witless about how you feel.”
“For a man who spews poetry, he knows nothing about love.” Moira hung a tapestry on the rope and held her hand out for the stick. When Ailsa handed it over, she beat it as fiercely as Ailsa. She probably imagined it was Hector’s head.
“Do you think he will ever realize?” Ailsa put her flattened palms on her lower back and stretched, trying to ease her stinging muscles.
“Never.”
“Then I say we stop waiting for men and make something happen.”
“Like what?” Moira froze in half-swing.
Ailsa shrugged her shoulders. “You could tell him.”
“I’d rather leave that as the very last option. We’ll ponder our next course of action while I beat this thing.”
Moira started pounding the tapestry of a unicorn and a maiden in a field of thistle. Ailsa paced, her finger tapping against her bottom lip. “I got it. Flirt with him until he sees your interest.”
“I can’t flirt.”
“If I can marry Duncan, you can flirt,” Ailsa grumbled. Her brow knitted with frustration.
Moira stared at Ailsa, not saying a word. After a drawn-out stare, Moira said, “If I must.”
“I think you’ll like it. He might even kiss you.”
“Really, I’ve never been kissed. Actually, I’ve been kissed but I’ve yet to kiss back.”
Ailsa rushed to her side. “Who kissed you?”
“Neacal.”
“The one who always looks a fright?”
“Aye. His breath is foul as well.” Ailsa stepped back as Moira gave the tapestry a strong wallop. “Is kissing fun?”
“’Tis the greatest especially when he sticks his tongue in your mouth. But it’s even better when you put yours in his.”
Duncan found both of them giggling, which came to an abrupt end when Moira nudged her.
That man drove her daft.
Truthfully, Ailsa felt heartsick, desiring more than his touch. Did she demand too much by wanting his heart? It was only fair since she gave him hers.
Och! She loved him.
The shock of her revelations had her dropping to the ground. The earth rumbled under her and God roared from the heavens above.
The Marriage Alliance Page 11
