by Cathy MacRae
Laird Maclellan faced Laird Macrory. “How do we defeat the pirates?”
Darting looks around the hall and at each other, the men returned to the business at hand. Gilda drew back into the shadows, her heart a sharp ache in her chest at Ryan’s easy betrayal. Panic set in. She needed to escape, to be anywhere but in this room.
Her slippered feet flew up the stairs, a mist of tears veiling her sight, but she needed nothing more than the touch of a hand to the stone wall to guide her.
“Where are ye going, Gilda?”
She gasped and spun in the direction of the voice. She blinked as the twins’ faces peered at her from behind a tapestry.
“To my room. And ye both were to be in bed an hour ago,” she retorted.
“Och, dinnae fuss. We heard the stramash. What happened?”
“Never ye mind. Get to bed. The both of ye.”
“We’ll tell Ma ye were down in the great hall.”
Gilda frowned. She was supposed to be confined to the upper hall while the men conducted their business. Her da did not allow unruly behavior or drunkenness in the castle, and men who approached that state were encouraged to recover their wits outside. But when a large number of men from other clans drank and feasted in the great hall, she knew her personal safety could not be ensured if she were so foolish as to wander about unescorted.
She gave the boys a narrowed look and the smallest information possible to garner their cooperation against tattling on her. “There was a disagreement.”
“Was there a fight?” The twins scrambled from their hiding place and jumped up and down the corridor in mock fighting stances. “Was there blood?”
Gilda rolled her eyes and sighed. “There was neither, ye louns. They have better manners than ye do.” She made shooing gestures with her hands. “Now off to bed with ye.”
Jamie and Finn stopped their antics and turned to face her. Something in their expressions sent a warning chill up Gilda’s spine.
“Who were ye talking to in the garden?” Finn asked.
Rage overruled the shiver of warning. “How dare ye spy on me? Get out of my sight!”
Jamie piped in. “We saw ye kiss him.”
“Who is he, Gilda?”
“If ye get us some pastries, we won’t tell Ma.”
As her brothers voiced their demands, Gilda rounded on them. “Ye are both horrible! Leave me alone! I dinnae want to see ye again!”
She pushed past them and fled to her room as Jamie grumbled, “She isnae going to get us pastries, Finn.”
Fighting back tears, she slammed the door, leaning against the sturdy frame. Her chest heaved, the air in the room heavy, seemingly too thick to breathe. Gilda darted to the window and pulled open the shutter. Cool, moist air rushed over her face. She tried to shove thoughts of the past hour deep inside her, but Ryan’s curious, amber eyes rose firmly in her mind. Memory of the feel of the hard planes of his chest as she leaned into his kiss returned to tickle the palms of her hands, and she scrubbed them against the rock frame of the window.
Bewildered, Gilda leaned her forehead against the stone and stared blindly into the night. She knew there had not been an alliance between the Macrorys and the Macraigs in many years, but Ryan had sounded so confident he could change things.
Why did she want him to? He was an unabashed rogue. Gilda’s lips curved in a secret smile. He also made her long for him to touch her, which certainly vexed her, but the circle of his arms was an exciting place she’d never dreamed of, and his smiles made her melt. She raised a finger and touched her lower lip. It still quivered from his kiss.
A shout from a guard on the parapet caught her attention and she stared into the bailey below. The yard was empty except for two men who walked unhurriedly from the stables. The Macraigs were gone. Once again Gilda’s heart grew heavy. Had Ryan played her false? Had he meant the sweet words he’d whispered?
Her eyes brimmed with tears. Why did she feel so hollow? What was happening to her?
* * *
Morning sunlight pierced the narrow window. A splash of cool water eased the tightness of her eyelids, swollen from too much crying and too little sleep. Gilda reached for the linen towel hanging from the hook near the bowl. The unexpected dampness of the cloth registered in her sleep-deprived brain as she lifted the towel to her face, then recoiled at the foul odor it contained. She drew back in alarm, noting the discolored areas on the normally white cloth. Gingerly she sniffed the towel. It reeked of rotting fish and salt.
“Finn! Jamie!” Gilda stormed from the room, the abused fabric clenched tight in her fist. “Ma!”
Snorts of barely stifled laughter echoed in the hallway, giving Gilda no indication where the twins were other than somewhere nearby. And that was entirely too close to her this day.
“Ma!”
Riona appeared in her doorway, a finger raised to her lips. “Silence! There are guests in this castle, and ye willnae cause a scene.”
Gilda propped her hands on her hips, unable to soften the anger on her face. “The louns in the hall below are fair puggled after their meeting last night. I doubt the baying of hundred cu sith would move them.”
“Gilda!” Riona gaped in shock. “What has gotten into you?”
For answer, Gilda waved the foul-smelling towel in the air. Riona ducked, her nose wrinkling in objection as the odor wafted toward her.
She lifted a hand in surrender. “Finn! Jamie!”
To Gilda’s surprise, both boys darted from their hiding places and ran to their mother. Pulling at her skirt, they clamored about her feet.
“Are there cu sith here?”
“I saw their footprints outside—”
Finn rounded on Jamie. “Ye dinnae!”
“Aye!”
“Dinnae!”
Jamie shoved his brother. “And they were covered in blood!”
“Lads!”
Abashed at the sound of their father’s tone, they fell silent, but did not move from Riona’s side.
Ranald strode from his room, a thunderous look on his face. “What is the meaning of this rippet?”
The twins cut their eyes to Gilda. She clenched her teeth and glared at them.
“Tell me, Gilda.”
“Da, they snuck into my room and stole my towel and steeped it in something foul and…”
Jamie peeked his head out. “We dinnae ‘steep’ nuthin’.”
Ranald’s eyebrows jerked upward, and Jamie dropped his gaze. “I doubt the lads used hot water for their prank.” He wrinkled his nose at the odor. “A swipe or two across a rotten fish would be enough.”
Gilda rolled her eyes. “Da, I dinnae care how they did it. They snuck into my room again!”
Ranald nodded. “Aye. And they know the punishment.” He fixed a disapproving glare on his sons who hung their heads, chins bumping their chests, a picture of abject repentance. “Well?”
“We’re sorry, Gilda. It willnae happen again.” They offered her winsome smiles, begging to be forgiven the rest of the punishment. Gilda’s dark frown answered their silent plea and their faces fell. “An’ we will clean Fia’s stall for a sennight.”
Once, Gilda would have laughed at the sound of their sorrowful voices pitched in perfect unison. It had happened too many times. So many, in fact, their chorused response was not merely chance, but the well-worn chant they’d repeated oft before.
“Gilda?” Her da prompted her gently.
She should reply she’d forgiven them and accept their apology—and their penance. It was the expected response. To her surprise and horror, she burst into tears. Whirling, she ran back into her room, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
Ranald lifted his shoulders in query to his wife at Gilda’s unprecedented behavior. Riona nodded slightly toward the lads, an indication she would discuss their daughter behind closed doors.
Ranald turned to the twins. “Ye are too old to be pestering yer sister. The next time yer punishment willnae be inside the
stable, but behind it. Do ye understand me?”
Solemnly, Finn and Jamie nodded their heads. Ranald jerked his chin in assent and the boys pelted down the hallway at top speed.
He turned to Riona. “Would ye care to tell me what is bothering Gilda?”
Riona sighed and entered their rooms, Ranald following to shut the door. With a quick look to the crib, she sat in a chair and motioned for Ranald to do the same. “At least they dinnae wake the bairn,” she said.
Ranald sat wearily. “Wee Sara is the only person that stramash dinnae waken. What has gotten into the lass?”
“Ranald, she is growing up and tired of the ceaseless pranks the lads pull.”
“They are a handful, I will admit. But Gilda has never burst into tears like that before.” His brow furrowed in concern.
Riona smiled softly and leaned forward, placing a hand on Ranald’s knee. And repeated softly, “She is growing up.”
Ranald felt the warm weight of Riona’s hand through the fabric of his trews and lost his train of thought. His gaze wandered to the still-rumpled bed behind his wife and wondered how much longer wee Sara would sleep. Riona squeezed his knee, bringing his attention back. He lifted his gaze to hers and saw the question in her eyes. What had she asked him?
Riona sighed again. “Ye arenae listening to me. Gilda is likely overly emotional because she is becoming a woman. All lasses go through this.” She patted his knee and settled back in her chair.
Ranald jerked as though stung. His breath left his lungs in a whoosh of sound. Belatedly he realized his mouth hung open and he closed it with a snap. Riona’s look of gentle pity didn’t help. He leapt to his feet and paced the floor, running a hand through his hair.
“Ranald, you realize she cannae stay a bairn forever. Being away from home of late, ye probably havenae noticed how much she has grown. She started her courses more than—”
Ranald waved a hand in the air. “I dinnae want to know.”
Riona laughed. “Not knowing doesnae mean it isnae happening.”
Pivoting on his heel, Ranald dropped into his chair. He scrubbed his palms over his face then stared at his wife. “Am I the only one who hasnae seen her grow up?”
“Nae, love. Ye have watched her grow and loved her through her skinned knees and pony rides. Now ye must realize she will be a grown woman soon. Indeed, many lasses her age already are married and starting families.”
Riona rose and crossed to him, seating herself on the cushioned arm of his chair. She ran her slender fingers through his abused hair, smoothing the strands. “Ye have a bit more grey in yer hair today.”
“I wouldnae be surprised if it all showed up this morning.”
Riona kissed the top of his head. “She asked me yesterday if ye had plans for her to marry.”
A chill passed through Ranald. His sweet Gilda, married? His thoughts drifted to the prior night’s events and he turned his head to stare out the window.
“What is it?”
For a moment, Ranald did not answer. He remembered the Maclellan laird’s words only too clearly, though he hadn’t wanted to hear them. Ranald reached for one of Riona’s hands and brought it to his lips for a kiss.
“Laird Maclellan proposed a betrothal between Gilda and his son last night,” he murmured.
Riona was silent and Ranald tilted his head to her. She blinked rapidly, but Ranald saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “This doesnae please ye?”
“I dinnae know what to say. The Maclellan has always been a staunch ally, though his lands scarcely border ours to the east along the River Clyde. I dinnae know his son. What sort of man is he?”
“I know little of him. He stood respectfully with his sire at the meeting. He is a summer, mayhap two, older than Gilda. It could be a good match, though I dinnae consider it last night. I thought Gilda too young…”
Riona leaned against Ranald’s shoulder. He drew her into his lap, seeking her comfort against the change in their lives looming on the horizon.
Riona placed her hand against his chest. “Please dinnae make a decision until ye talk to Gilda.”
Ranald did not answer. He was thinking of another young man who stood with his father, despite that one’s disastrous tirade. A braw young man who had boldly asked for an introduction to Gilda, though there was a nagging suspicion in the back of Ranald’s mind the lad had needed no introduction.
He frowned. The Macraig heir would bear watching. Perhaps it would be best if Gilda were safely married to the Maclellan’s son. It would not do for Gilda’s head to be turned by Ryan Macraig. Ranald clenched his teeth.
He’d be damned before he let his daughter marry a Macraig.
Chapter 8
Sleepy stable lads collected the spent horses as they entered the bailey at Ard Castle. Ryan gritted his teeth and grasped his father’s upper arm. Laird Macraig whirled, his face a dark mask.
Ryan held his ground. “I wish to speak with ye.” Ryan’s clipped, almost-civil tone deceived no one. Men hunched their shoulders and found things to do elsewhere.
The Macraig inclined his head. “In my chamber.”
Guttering candles cast faint illumination around the great hall. Men and a few women lay scattered about, the sounds of their rest punctuated by the brisk thud of booted feet. Several heads lifted, but quickly lowered as the laird and Ryan passed.
The small room just off the main hall was pitch dark. No fire had been laid on the hearth in the laird’s absence. Ryan stepped back to the hall and jerked a candle from a nearby sconce, using it to light the others in the room. Finished, he tossed the taper onto the hearth and the tang of smoldering peat began to fill the air.
He faced his father. The laird returned his stare with hooded eyes, his jaw clenched tight. Ryan recognized the same stubbornness he’d had occasion to regret in himself. It would be difficult to get unbiased information from his father tonight, and downright impossible to garner any concessions.
Ryan took a deep breath to steady his voice, struggling to keep censure from his tone. “Would ye care to tell me what happened at the meeting?”
Laird Macraig waved a hand dismissingly in the air and yanked his chair from beneath his desk. “The Macrory is not a friend of ours.”
“Why, then, did ye even attend the meeting?”
“I wanted to hear about the pirates and to see what other kiss-ma-luif men hopped to do the Macrory’s bidding.”
Scorn for such sycophant behavior slurred the laird’s voice. Ryan clenched his fists, holding tight to his temper. “If Acair MacEwen is as dangerous as Laird Macrory says, we may need their help ’ere this is over.”
The Macraig slammed the palms of his hands on the desktop. An inkwell and several rolls of parchment skittered on the wooden surface. “Nae!”
Ryan’s heart thudded in his chest, but he did not falter. “Ye must set aside this trouble that has brewed between ye for these past years. I am sorry the auld laird dinnae approve of a match between ye and his daughter. But she is wed and it is in the past.”
The Macraig’s skin blanched, his look haunted. “Ye dinnae know what ye speak. It would have been a good match and benefited both our clans.”
“Da, we can still correct this. We can still forge an alliance between the Macraigs and the Macrorys. The laird’s daughter, Gilda—”
“Nae!”
Ryan recoiled at the force of his sire’s response. “Why—”
“Dinnae bring this up again. There will never be an alliance between us.” His father sank into his chair. “Besides, ye are betrothed to Laird MacLaurey’s daughter, Mairead.”
Ryan’s heart clutched. He was well-acquainted with Conn’s sister, older by nearly a year. Mairead had never outgrown her childish resentment of feeling as if she’d lost her parent’s favor to their son and heir. Very little pleased her and she’d made Ryan and Conn’s lives miserable as lads. Repaying her constant carping with boyish pranks had landed them in repeated trouble.
Had his da lost his mi
nd?
Ryan cleared his throat, alarm drying up all moisture. “Ye cannae be serious.”
“Aye. The Macraigs make their own alliances.”
“Da, that woman is a menace. I spent ten years around her and I willnae marry the targe.”
“Ye will. I began negotiations with Laird MacLaurey in the packet I sent with my soldiers who escorted ye home.”
“There is no love or even kindness between Mairead and me. I tell ye, I willnae do this.”
His da’s face contorted with rage. “Ye think to marry for love? I suppose ye have yer eye on Laird Macrory’s bastard daughter?” His voice rose shrilly. “She isnae good enough for ye!”
Ryan’s face blanched. “What are ye saying?”
“The Macrory isnae her da. She was four when he wed her ma, and Riona wouldnae name the sire.”
Ryan’s ears rang and his mind faltered at the unexpected, vicious words spewing from his father’s mouth. “I would have no trouble choosing between an evil-tongued woman of certain parentage and a sweet-tempered lass without her father’s name,” he shot back.
“Ye have no choice. Yer betrothed will be here within the month.”
* * *
Ryan slung his cloak across the room with enough force to send it skimming across the top of the chair to land in a rumpled heap at the foot of his bed.
What the hell was he going to do? Ryan glared at Conn. His friend nudged the door closed with a foot and propped his shoulders against the sturdy portal.
“What has ye more worked up? The fact the Macraigs will have to deal with the pirates on their own, or the fact ye willnae have a chance in hell of seeing the red-headed lass again?”
“Shut up, Conn.” As soon as the snarl left his lips, Ryan gestured wearily. “I am sorry. I am not angry with ye. I just need to think.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I dinnae know what to do.”
Conn shoved away from the wall and strode to a chair. He folded his tall frame into the seat and propped his feet on the hearth, motioning to a flask on a small nearby table. “Pour us both a drink and sit down before ye damage something.”
Ryan stalked to the table and splashed whisky into a mug. He stared into the amber depths for a moment then tossed back the fiery liquid. With a grimace, he prepared a second libation for himself and one for Conn. Sketching a mocking salute with his mug, Ryan downed the contents in one gulp.
