For brief moments, she contemplated running away but that would only make her appear guilty. And from the day of her arrival, she had been loyal to her husband and the clan.
Duncan was a cruel man and she must suffer through it.
Sleep tried to take over her. She curled herself on the floor, not able to take to the bed because of the humiliation that crashed into her whenever she merely glanced its way.
The last thought for the night was a question, what am I to do?
* * * *
Not able to face Ailsa, Duncan stayed in the great hall long after everyone had sought their beds. He was avoiding his wife. The rage burning inside him still flared, not at Ailsa but at himself. There was no proof she was involved, especially since she had no contact with her father since her arrival. But the last time he trusted, he had been a fool. Duncan couldn’t allow that again.
He perched on the edge of his seat and stared up at the ceiling. He sat back. His guilt and the niggling thought of her possible involvement stopped him. The logical or illogical part of his thinking, he wasn’t sure which, kept him wondering if she knew of the plans before she traveled here. Ailsa’s naïve nature prevented cunning on her behalf. She would have revealed it to him. Her every thought and emotion was on display for all to see. She was able to hide her feelings but the spark extinguished from her eyes as it had when he yelled at her in front of everyone. He damned himself. He should have held his tongue.
Duncan groaned and held his head in his hands. He wanted to have faith in her but he couldn’t on the mere chance she played him false. “Damn you, Ceara,” he cursed aloud. She destroyed so much, not just for him but Ailsa as well. He scraped his hands through his hair.
Unable to withstand the constant snores of the castle dogs, Duncan sought his bed. He should sleep in the stables but he refused. He would lie beside her.
He climbed the stairs and hesitated at the chamber’s door. He hoped she slept. When he crept in, she was balled up in front of the hearth. Duncan hunched down next to her. Her breathing hitched and hiccupped from the weeping he caused. Slipping his arms under her, he lifted her. She moaned in her sleep and nestled against his chest. He hugged her tighter to him and crossed to the bed. As gently as he could he set her down. She rolled to her side and tucked her hands under her cheeks. He stood there and watched her. Puny. Aye, she was small, gentle and without a defender. He failed her.
He quietly undressed and stretched out beside her. Needing to feel her slight weight against him, he pulled her into his arms. She sighed and burrowed deeper into him. After brushing the fine strands that had broken free of her plait, he placed a tender kiss on her brow then fell asleep.
* * * *
Duncan came into the deserted great hall. The castle hounds scurried from the room, their nails scratching the timber floor. Màiri’s bellowing reached him. He smiled as she cursed the dogs and promised to have their balls. Duncan thought, that’s interesting since two never had them.
His smile dropped from his face. The table was bare, not a flagon, a platter or even a crumb. He strained to see if anyone was bringing bread and cheese to break his fast. After a short while of standing in the hall with the sound of his breathing his only company, he realized no one was coming.
Hungry and vexed, he marched into the kitchen. The servants shot him a quick glance then spared him no attention.
“Màiri, where is my food?”
“On the table, laird,” Màiri answered, her burr taking on a singsong tone.
Duncan shifted to a battle stance. “No, it isn’t.”
“Oh laird, please allow me to serve you.” She sounded as if she wished to poison him. Màiri placed her hand over her heart and bowed her head. From the corner of his eye, Duncan saw the hidden smirks but when he riveted his gaze on each, they dropped their heads not in deferment but avoidance.
Màiri shoved the platter of bread and cheese at him. “Here, laird. Now you can go sit at your table and eat.”
She turned her back on him and the others followed her silent direction. He remained there with his food in his hand while everyone pretended he vanished.
He ripped a hunk of bread and cheese and left the rest as he headed out the kitchen door. Passing through the courtyard, he received not one nod, smile, or greeting. Not that Duncan cared. He was in a foul mood and it fit his outlook.
As he swallowed the last bite of his meal, he came abreast of his two commanders. MacLean men gathered before them, each with their weapons, prepared for training.
“Lachlan, send the lads to Malcolm to build up strength.”
“Aye, laird.” Lachlan stepped away and instructed his subordinate.
“Caelan, divide the men into threes.” Lachlan joined them, his hands behind his back. “I’ll take the least experienced, Lachlan to the second group and you the seasoned warriors.”
“Yes, laird.”
Duncan shot a wary look at his first in command. Duncan wanted to know what was going on. Today, he seemed to be the only one in this whole clan who hadn’t lost his mind. And now his trusted commanders were behaving weird, calling him laird when they usually called him Duncan or MacLean.
Something was happening and he was excluded.
These men were strong from cutting peat and plowing the tough highland soil. These men, always ready to wield their weapons, needed their skills honed for when they battled against the Camerons and MacKinnons.
“You with me”
Sparing against Eachann, Duncan swung his sword in a downward arc. Eachann raised his to block.
“You have a targe, use it,” he commanded and kicked him in the leg, knocking Eachann down to one knee. “What do you do now?”
With a roar, Eachann swung the leather-covered shield, forcing Duncan to jump back. They sparred, swords clashing, targes blocking blows.
Sweat ran rivets down Duncan’s face. Halting the training, Duncan gathered his two commanders to him.
The three men grouped together, inspecting the men-at-arms, their energy spent and their blood boiling for the fight that waited.
“Lachlan, do a final inspection on the weapons.”
“Aye, laird.”
Duncan pressed his lips together in a grim line. Lachlan remained expressionless.
“Caelan, decide which men will ride out with the fiery cross.”
“Yes, laird.”
“After that I want us to ride out.”
“Aye, laird—Yes, laird.”
“Why are the both of you calling me laird?”
“Because you’re the laird,” Caelan answered.
Duncan walked toward the well to dump cold water over his head. He pulled up short when the women and workers scurried away. Barely suppressing his roar, he went into the stable and caught Phelan running from him.
Duncan roared this time. Phelan’s name to be precise. The brave large man dragged his feet as he crossed the length of stable to the irate laird.
“Tell me what’s with the clan?”
Phelan’s gaze darted everywhere. His snowy, bushy brows flew up and down and wiggling with every motion. “Speak.”
“You condemned my lady,” he blurted out. “That sweet lass would never betray us. The clan is upset.”
“This is because of my wife.” He felt like laughing. The clan bestowed their loyalty and love on his puny wife. He couldn’t give her what thousands did. He spun around and left the stable, not stopping until he found himself standing beside the chairs Ailsa placed for their leisure.
He sat in his chair, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles. Hector sat beside him, not saying a word, but Duncan knew he wanted nothing more than to speak his mind. So, he waited, not anticipating his advice.
“The clan is upset with you.”
“I think upset is the wrong word for it,” Duncan replied. “Màiri fed me once I pointed out I haven’t been served. I’ve been laird so much today that I’m ill from it. Upset is making light of my situation.”
&n
bsp; “True, but you cannot hold fault with them,” Hector advised.
“Why not?”
He shook his head ruefully, not believing Duncan actually had to question the reasons behind their behavior. “What I can never yell at my wife?”
“’Tis not because you yelled, Duncan. I know you never wish to speak of this but I must tell you. With Ceara, you treated her as though she was the most precious person. You never yelled, especially in front of the clan. Yet, every MacLean despised her. She treated each one with disdain and not to mention our mother.” Hector’s voice rose when Duncan was ready to cut in. “Your judgment was vastly mistaken but so it is now. With Ailsa, you shame her in front of everyone and barely tolerate her with your cold demeanor. And she has been nothing but true. She knows everyone’s name and has nothing but a smile and a caring word. She’s risked her life for a child. Every MacLean holds an importance with her. Like with Ceara, your judgment is unsound. Your thoughts and feelings are warring within you. I hope you haven’t damaged your marriage beyond repair.”
* * * *
The sun was in the zenith when Ailsa awoke. She stretched her arms over her head and her toes pointed. Blood rushed to her head, dizzying her for a moment. Once her mind cleared, yesterday was relived in an instant so vividly she covered her ears to block out his heart-ripping words.
She rolled to her side and it dawned on her she was in bed. Ailsa thought she must have climbed in during her deepest slumber because Duncan certainly wouldn’t have given her a sliver of compassion.
Ailsa didn’t want to get up and venture outside the chamber to see scornful looks so she threw the covers over her head and fell back to sleep.
She swore that just as she closed her eyes and Niall was shaking her awake.
“Get up. You’ve slept the day away.” He ordered and hopped into bed. “I want to go out and play but Hector told me nay since it’s raining.” He laid his sword next to him, ready to protect her.
Ailsa grabbed Niall to get him to stop squirming. Her stomach pitched and a fine sheen of sweat broke over her but if she didn’t move and breathed deeply, she was fine…Not well just fine. She worried she caught Niall’s illness but Ailsa had been inflicted with a pitching stomach since the first days of the illness. However, she hadn’t developed one symptom.
“I’m hungry.” Niall clutched his growling stomach. “Hear it. It’s going rrrrr.” He roared in repeat of his stomach. “I need food and not broth. I’m a growing boy. You look a little green.”
“I need a few moments…then I will be well,” Ailsa said out of the side of her mouth. Niall watched her with wide eyes and thankfully didn’t move.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Her body righted itself enough that she sat up. “Do you not have lessons?”
“I already had them. I repeated my Latin perfectly. Now, can we get food?”
“Let me dress then I shall join you downstairs.”
Niall nodded his head so abruptly Ailsa felt nauseous again. He beamed at her before he snatched up his sword and ran from the chamber as though he was charging his enemy.
With a steady stomach, Ailsa dressed and went to meet Niall. When she came into the hall, Niall already had porridge, along with bread, cheese, and bannocks before him and seemed halfway through the meal.
Moira came in, bringing more food. Before Niall could suck all into his never-ending belly, Ailsa snatched an oatcake.
“My lady, I see you have finally awoke. I was worried.”
Ailsa searched Moira’s face for any sign of anger or disgust and saw none. At least Moira still treated her kindly. “I thought you were in a deep faint but when I checked you, you told me”—she tapped her forefinger against her bottom lip— “let me see if I remember correctly, ah yes. You said, ‘no one must throw me in the loch’.”
Niall laughed, spewing chunks of cheese and bread over the table. Ailsa corrected him on his manners and he complied without gainsaying her.
“Why did you say that?” Niall asked after swallowing his food.
Ailsa shrugged. “I don’t know but I certainly don’t want to be thrown in the loch.”
Niall picked up his sword and brandished it. His little brow furrowed and his doe-brown eyes hardened to iron like his sword would one day be. “I will never let anyone throw you in the loch.”
“Thank you, my protector.” Ailsa inclined her head and met Moira’s smile over his head.
“Moira.” Everyone looked toward the entrance. Hector hurried toward them. Moira squeaked and ran away. “Stop!”
His order bounced off the walls but Moira never stopped. Quite the opposite, she picked up speed.
* * * *
Once Ailsa reluctantly sat down for supper, the meal started. Hector searched the hall for Moira, twisting to peer at the servants bringing in the meal and craned his neck to scan the hall but she was absent. He gave up with a sigh and stabbed at his food. His scowl looked as fierce as Duncan’s but seemed much worse since he rarely donned one. Lachlan and Caelan pretended to be absorbed in their trenchers and every so often, they would shoot each other a look of agreement of their private thoughts. Ailsa figured it had something to do with her.
Even the clansfolk at the lower tables were subdued, their conversations in hushed tones barely louder than a whisper. The castle hounds never barked or growled for a piece of food, instead they waited for their share that would hopefully fall to the floor.
All this because the laird and lairdess had a palpable rent between them, adding a cold tension permeating the donjon.
Only Niall was unaffected. He talked and ate and ate and talked, spending most of the meal doing both, not once caring that no one seemed interested. He was just so happy to be eating meat, as he told his tablemates repeatedly.
After the tables were dismantled and some men headed to their guard duties and a few gathered to gamble, Ailsa sat on her chair and picked up a tunic from the basket. As she threaded her needle to hem the garments for the needful in the clan, Hector resumed his search for Moira, leaving the hall with a snort. The low chatter of men hummed from the opposite side of the hall, only broken by Lachlan’s crack of laughter and the groans of men.
“Are you not returning to your room?” Duncan looked down at her as though she were an enemy he was interrogating. To his way of thinking, she was.
“Nay, these need to be completed before winter comes upon us. We wouldn’t want our kinsmen to become chilled and die.” She answered in the same dulcet tones she adopted with her father. Feeling his eyes bore into the top of her head, she never lifted her own.
“Ailsa, enough of this demure act.”
She cocked her head to her side, innocence radiating off her. He crouched down, although she raised her head never meeting his gaze. She seemed demure while he appeared the brute. But worse was the gloominess in her eyes, like grass dying as winter sets in.
“If you continue to speak in sweet tones, I appear the fool if I become irate. Then to all I appear foolish and irrational. It worked with your father because he’s a stupid man.”
“Whatever you say, you are my husband and laird.” She slipped the needle through the fabric.
He glowered at her but she remained placid, which only intensified his glare. He must have realized how foolish his behavior was since he left his normal glare in place. Duncan glared as Lachlan laughed again.
“I cannot find one lass. I’ve seen her everyday but on this one, she has disappeared like a sprite. Do you know where she has gone?” Hector prompted, as he scanned the hall again as though she might pop up and he didn’t want to miss her.
“I’m sorry I do not. Perhaps she has already sought her bed for the night or maybe she was needed elsewhere.”
“If you see her, don’t tell her I’m scouring these lands for her.”
Ducking her head to hide her grin, she nodded her agreement. When Hector slipped away, Niall slid to her side. A whiff of elderberries filled her senses. He must have snuck into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
She explained her task while she thought she would care for some fruit as well.
“Is it boring? Sure looks boring.”
“I quite like it.” Niall’s brow furrowed, contemplating her as though she was crazed. “It’s calming.”
“Lasses like calming and that’s boring.” He complained, his nose scrunched with disdain.
“Why is that?”
He sucked in a deep breath, preparing for his long speech. “Lasses never get to have fun. They have to act a certain way, never too loud and not a lot of fuss. They’re not supposed to run or get dirty. They’re not allowed to talk and they have to do whatever a lad tells them. Girls don’t get to be themselves. They don’t get to burp.”
“You’re not supposed to burp either.”
Niall shrugged one-shoulder nonchalantly. “Aye but I’m a lad and lads shall be lads.”
For a small lad, he surely spoke the truth. Ailsa never permitted herself to behave as she wished. She guarded her words, curbed her actions, and did as others expected and demanded. Before it was to protect herself from her father’s wrath and now, it was a shield against Duncan’s frosty treatment.
“What about Siobhan?”
“She’s different because she’s the only lass and her father treats her like a lad. It’s easier that way. That’s what Siobhan told me.”
She pressed her lips together to stop from laughing, which would encourage the lad to be a lad but she loved him and all he did seemed, at least to her, to be the cutest and greatest actions ever.
Niall yawned.
“I’m hungry.”
“You just ate.”
He rubbed his belly. “I’m a growing lad.”
“I think your stomach is the only part of you growing.” He yawned again so widely she could see all the way down to his belly. She pinned the needle through the fabric and put her arm around him. She thought of pulling him on her lap but figured he would spurn a childish act.
The Marriage Alliance Page 20
