by Cathy MacRae
She crossed the room to the crib where Sara kicked at her blanket, bubbles of concentration pooling at the corners of her pursed lips.
Da closed the door. He raked a wry look over Gilda’s sand and seawater-stained dress. Her cheeks burned to remember why she’d allowed her hem to drag across the beach.
“I picked berries and then rode to the village to visit with Anice.” Please dinnae ask where the berry patch is. Gilda couldn’t bring herself to tell an outright lie, and she was in enough trouble already.
Her da shook his head. “I know ye are used to doing as ye please, but ye willnae leave the castle again until the threat is gone.”
“I am sorry, Da. I dinnae know there was danger.”
“I should have insisted ye keep a guard with ye. I know ye like yer freedom, but ye would be a prize for any marauder who found ye. Even going to Tavia’s cottage is dangerous right now.”
He paced a few steps. “The king sent me home because there is a new threat to Scaurness. MacEwen’s nephew, Acair, has sworn vengeance against me in his uncle’s death.”
Her mother gasped. “But that happened years ago!”
“Aye. The MacEwens have been leaderless since Morgan MacEwen died, but his nephew has claimed the title, rallying them together to avenge his uncle.”
Gilda watched her parents in rapt fascination. This was a story of which she’d only heard bits and pieces. Would she hear it all today? She scarce dared to breathe, afraid she’d remind them of her presence and end their talk.
Riona tossed her head and scoffed. “They can hardly claim revenge on a man killed in battle. Why, he was a scoundrel, a rogue…a pirate!”
“The fact remains, I killed him.”
“He kidnapped me!” Riona tilted her head, her suddenly pale skin reflecting the unwelcome memory.
Da’s face blanched, and for the first time Gilda understood the fear he must have felt that day. The bottom dropped out of her stomach and she stifled a small cry. Her da did not notice, his attention fixed on his wife.
“Aye. I will never forget, and the MacEwens have a long memory as well. I dinnae regret the man’s death. The harm he’d done to ye was unforgivable.” He stepped to Riona and folded her gently in his arms, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “I would kill him again if I could.”
Harm to her mother? Gilda had heard the story of how her da had set aside his fear of boats to rescue his wife as Laird MacEwen tried to escape the castle with Riona in tow. The storytellers usually made this part into a huge joke even her da laughed about as his tendency to seasickness was well known. Gilda knew her ma had been kidnapped by a cruel and vindictive man. But how had he harmed her?
Sara cried out, tearing the others’ attention from their thoughts. Riona pulled from Ranald’s arms and smiled as she reached for the bairn.
“Wee lass, dinnae kick away yer blanket. ’Tis chilly to be exposing yer chubby legs.” Riona lifted Sara from her crib, wrapping the blanket around her. Ranald moved close, his grin reflecting the beaming joy on the bairn’s face. He tweaked a rosy cheek and Sara bounced in her mother’s arms, drooling with delight. Gilda felt the sting of tears as she beheld her family. If only the twins were as sweet.
Ranald angled his gaze to Gilda. “Lass, I am sorry I was short with ye earlier. ’Tis said Acair MacEwen is without fear or care for his actions. I know what kind of man his uncle was. I dinnae want ye to run afoul of him or his men. Do ye understand?”
Gilda nodded her head. “Aye. I will stay in the castle unless I have a guard.”
“Ye must let me or yer ma know if ye plan to leave.” He pinned her with a look. “And if we say ‘nae,’ ye willnae go.”
The walls closed in on her, but Gilda could do nothing more than nod her head in agreement. She thrived on being outside. Riding Fia headlong down the beach beneath the wheeling gulls made her heart soar. She was completely at ease alone in the forest, and restless even within the lofty confines of Scaurness Castle. She twisted her toe on the floor’s rug, already feeling the burden of her restraints.
* * *
Gilda fisted her hands on her hips and blew a sigh of discontent. “Tell me again why the Macraigs are invited to Scaurness.”
Tavia leveled a stern look. “Lass, all the neighboring clans are coming to hear what yer da has to say.”
“I thought we were feuding with the Macraigs.”
“Wheesht, lass. Where did ye hear such?” Tavia turned to the vegetables on her chopping board.
Gilda stared at the old woman’s uncompromising back. Would she never hear the whole story?
“The Macraigs havenae been welcome at Scaurness since the laird bid for yer ma’s hand, lass.”
Gilda turned to the cook, who slid her gaze to Tavia. The healer woman jerked to attention, waving a hand in protest.
Another woman chimed in before Tavia could speak. “Aye. ’Twas a shameful bargain he tried to make with the auld laird.” She shook her head. “Claiming he would take his bride but not the wean.”
Tavia whirled on the woman. “Cease yer gossip! I willnae have ye tellin’ such tales.”
“What wean?” Gilda’s voice halted the harangue.
“Why, ye, of course, lass,” the woman replied, giving Gilda a pitying look. “Ye know the laird isnae yer real da.”
Tavia drew herself up, every inch of her quivering in indignation. “If there is another word said about this, I will see the lot of ye sent to the laundry.”
The threat caused a good many narrowed eyes and frowns. Both were hard jobs, but at least those in the kitchen ate well and their hands were not as worn by their labors.
Gilda scowled. “And I shall bring ye right back,” she declared, fixing Tavia with a stare. The old woman gaped at her. Gilda’s face softened. “I want to know, Tavia. I think ’tis time.”
Tavia shrugged and sniffed. “’Tis yer choice.”
Gilda turned back to the women. “What did the Macraig laird offer?”
Cook hesitated, obviously torn between her desire to repeat the story and her concern with the power Tavia wielded with the lady of the castle, Gilda’s mother.
“Yer grandda was near death and yer uncle Kinnon gone to war in France. With him missing and feared dead, yer ma was the only heir to Scaurness and an heiress in her own right. Both the MacEwen and Macraig lairds bid for her.”
Gilda quashed the desire to stomp her foot in impatience. This much she already knew. Kinnon had returned home injured and too weak to claim the lairdship. He lived at a monastery several hours’ ride from Scaurness and visited a couple of times a year.
Cook spared a quick look at Tavia who resumed her task with a quivering hand and a shake of her gray head.
“Yer grandda wouldnae consider an alliance with the MacEwens, as they were reported to be pirates, though none could prove it then. The Macraig laird, however, had known yer ma since she was a wee lass, and she would have accepted his offer.”
Once again, Gilda repressed the urge to scream and instead managed a firm, quiet voice. “Why did she not accept?”
“He wouldnae take ye in the bargain.”
Gilda’s heart tripped as a sour taste rose in the back of her throat.
Cook settled a comforting arm about her shoulders. “Laird Macrory has always loved ye like his own. He brought tears to all our eyes the day he married yer ma and swore ye fealty as well.”
Gilda nodded once, too stricken to heed Cook’s words. She’d always known Ranald was not her real father. But none had ever mentioned it in her presence. She’d never felt the sting of illegitimacy from any at Scaurness. Until now.
“The Macraig wouldnae raise a bastard?” she bit out, her throat tight and clogged with tears.
Cook’s gaze wavered from the woman beside her to Tavia’s back. Neither offered her help answering Gilda’s question. Finally she replied, “Yer ma has never said who yer real da is. But he wasnae honorable, and the laird has raised ye right.”
Gilda forced a brittle smile. “O
f course he has. He has never treated me as other than his own daughter.”
She wiped her hands absently down the sides of her skirt and turned away. She wandered aimlessly from the bustling room to the relative peace of the kitchen garden. Seeking refuge in weeding a small patch of vegetables, Gilda tried to turn her thoughts to happier things. Facing the fact Ranald was not her father rarely occurred to her—she’d called him ‘Da’ as long as she could remember.
Knowing she’d been sired on her sweet mother by a man considered dishonorable sent a chilling spike through her heart.
* * *
Ryan paced the floor.
Conn waved his hand in complaint. “Leave off. Ye try the patience of a saint.”
“How would ye know?” Ryan retorted, stopping to glare at his friend. “Ye are no saint.”
“Och, ye think too much. Yer da accepted the invitation to the meeting at Scaurness. As his heir, ye must go.”
Ryan snorted. “Invitation? ’Twas worded like a royal command.”
Conn shrugged. “Mayhap it was. Pirates are a concern to the king.”
“Aye. ’Tis verra important to hold the River Clyde for the king.” Ryan dropped into a chair.
“A birlinn followed us for a couple of days but cried off as we approached the harbor. It dinnae get close enough to identify. I wonder if it was a pirate ship?”
“I dinnae see it.” Conn yawned, his apparent unconcern not fooling Ryan. Conn was astute, rarely missing anything of importance or interest, though he hid it behind his languid actions and ready friendliness with the lasses.
“Ye dinnae see beyond yer bucket.” Ryan flung the brusque reminder at him as he rose from his chair. “Come on.”
With a half-stifled groan, Conn followed Ryan from the room. People bustled about the great hall, and tantalizing odors drifted from the kitchen.
“It smells as though they prepare a feast.” Conn took an appreciative sniff.
“As long as it isnae a funeral banquet.” Ryan’s dour remark earned him a sharp look.
“Is forming an alliance with the Macrorys fraught with such danger?”
A tug at his sleeve turned Ryan’s attention. A shock ran through him at the sight of amber eyes amid a cloud of dark hair. He had not yet become accustomed to seeing himself reflected so completely in his sister’s face.
“Aye?”
Lissa’s gaze slid to Conn who regarded her with a patient smile. Lissa offered him a tiny grin in return, rounding her cheeks in an endearing manner.
“I want to go with ye.”
“I am sorry, Lissa, but there willnae be any lasses at this meeting. ’Tis between men.”
The child’s face fell into a pout. She’d obviously heard this response before.
“But there are children at Scaurness Castle, aye?”
“I am sure the laird and lady have bairns, but ’tis not a social occasion. Ye cannae go this time.”
“’Tis dangerous, lass,” Conn chimed in. “What if we have to fight pirates along the way?”
“Dinnae frighten her. She is a good lass and willnae argue.” Ryan raised an eyebrow in question. “Truth?”
“Can I at least ride to the boundary with ye? ’Tis not far and I am tired of being cooped up in the castle.”
“Nae, lass. We cannae spare the men to escort ye back. We will leave immediately after we eat and ’twill be nearly dark.” His face softened to see her disappointment. “Another time I will take ye riding, aye?”
With a small sigh, she nodded. “Can I sit with ye at the table, then?” She sent Conn another wee smile. Ryan nodded, relieved she dropped the matter. She slipped one hand in his; her other caught Conn’s little finger.
Startled, Ryan exchanged looks with his friend over her head. Conn allowed Lissa to take his hand, and she led them to their seats.
* * *
Torches on the wall cast dim blades of light through the gloaming. Guards bristled along the parapet and formed an impressive shield along the barbican as men rode through the metal-studded gates. Each party of clansmen was examined closely before allowed entrance to Scaurness Castle.
Gilda sat on the stone floor of the parapet, the captured heat of the sun seeping through her skirts to her bottom, forming a contrast against the increasing chill of the evening air. Mists crept up from the ground, winding ghost-like around the horses’ legs. She counted the riders, twenty in this group, eighteen in another. From her vantage point there was no way to tell the individual identities of the clans who filtered into the bailey. All attention was on Finlay and the soldiers who greeted their laird’s guests and none saw the laird’s daughter watching them from above.
Greeted? Gilda snorted. More likely he gave them grudging permission to enter. Other riders entered the gates, but she grew bored with the endless protocol. And additional posturing would enact at dinner. The long, boring meal she must attend.
In a fit of inspiration, Gilda resolved to take special care bathing and dressing before heading downstairs to the great hall to join their guests. With any luck at all, dinner would be at least half-finished before she arrived at the table. She gathered her skirts and pushed up from the stone, brushing dust from her bottom as she strolled to the interior of the castle and to her room.
A bath awaited her, and she halted in surprise as her mother’s maid, Kyla, bustled about the room.
“There ye are, lass. Yer ma wants ye to hurry. Here is a gown for ye, I’ll be back to help ye lace up after ye’ve bathed.”
With a nod of her head, Kyla was gone, Gilda staring after her with a frown. Her plan to dally in her room took a direct hit. Kyla knew Gilda needed no help dressing. The maid’s assistance ensured Gilda arrived downstairs on time.
Finally dressed and coifed to Kyla’s satisfaction, Gilda impatiently shifted in her chair at the table as her mother reached for the flagon of wine and poured some into Gilda’s cup.
Taking advantage of her nearness, she whispered, “I know ye are bored. Try to look less inconvenienced.”
Gilda released a tiny sigh and schooled her expression into one of complete neutrality.
“As soon as the meal is finished, the ladies will retire,” Riona promised.
Spurred by the reminder, Gilda managed a brief smile. She picked at the food on her plate. Cook had created a banquet worthy of their guests. Gilda should know; she’d helped prepare it. But boredom and the telltale effects of filching food as she’d worked in the kitchen, now hampered her appetite.
She studied the room. Men crowded the tables, elbowing each other as they ate. Food vanished at an alarming rate. It was easy to see the fierce warrior seated nearby favored the stewed berries. Gilda watched a fresh purple stain slide from the corner of his mouth and coat his white beard. His bushy eyebrows met in the center of his face like a pair of wooly caterpillars and she forced back a sudden grin.
All the men appeared to be of an age near her father’s. There were few among them to stir the slightest interest in Gilda’s heart. They seemed well-versed in filling their bellies, and how to properly pay their respects to Cook for her efforts. Gilda rolled her eyes as another man pounded a rumbling belch from his belly.
Movement at the doorway pulled her attention from the braw men near her table. The noise level in the room abated as the newcomers entered the room. Loud whispers reached Gilda’s ears and she leaned forward with renewed interest.
“…Macraigs…”
A tall, slender man with dark, graying hair approached the laird’s table. His men fanned out behind him, ignoring the remnants of the feast. His features were even, perhaps good-looking, but Gilda hated him instantly. This was the man who’d refused to raise Riona’s bastard daughter. Anger burned inside as she tore her gaze away. He had no right to expect help from the Macrorys. Why had her da invited him here? They could deal with the pirates without engaging the likes of the Macraigs.
Scowling, she cast a derisive glare over the men gathered with him. It was clear from their stance the
y were uncomfortable in their enemy’s castle.
Gilda’s hands balled into fists on her lap. Serves them right. Pledging themselves to such a man. She cut a look sideways at her ma, but Riona sat easily in her chair, giving the Macraig laird her polite attention as he and Ranald exchanged greetings.
Laird Macraig declined the offer of a meal, bowed his head in a small gesture of thanks and turned with his men to find seating in the room. Two young men standing on the laird’s right side came into Gilda’s view. Their gazes raked the head table, and the dark-haired man halted in surprise as their eyes met, his amber gaze wringing a jolt of recognition. Gilda looked quickly from him to the laird and back. Their build and coloring were the same.
He could be none other than Laird Macraig’s son.
Chapter 6
Ryan met Gilda’s stormy gray eyes. Damn, Conn was right. Why did the lass have to be the laird’s daughter? It would be much more satisfying to have no care as to the consequences of their friendship. Or dalliance. Or whatever it was destined to become. And he definitely expected it to become something more than chance meetings on the beach. Despite their tempestuous start, he had been determined to meet the red-haired lass again.
Gilda slid back in her seat and Ryan knew she prepared to rise. He stepped to the table, settling his gaze on her father.
“I am Ryan Macraig, Laird Macraig’s son. Would ye introduce me to yer family?”
Laird Macrory scowled. Ryan waited patiently as the man weighed the prospect of introducing Laird Macraig’s son against an outright refusal. Eyebrows slanted together furiously, the Macrory laird shot Ryan an intimidating look. Ryan’s expression of polite interest did not waver.
Laird Macrory visibly ground his teeth, but spoke evenly. “My lady wife, Riona, and our daughter, Gilda.”
Short, to the point, no elaboration. Ryan checked a grin. No indication the laird would welcome further conversation between his family and the Macraig heir.
Ryan offered a short bow to Lady Macrory. “My lady, I am honored to make yer acquaintance.”
Lady Riona inclined her head. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”
