by Cathy MacRae
“He’d like ye to drip a bit of meat next time,” Michaell murmured. The dog wiggled, begging her to share. Despite herself, Mhàiri grinned.
“The two of ye have the same look on yer faces. Yon pup wants a bit of my supper. And ye? Ye want something, though I dinnae know what.”
“Only a bit of your time, Mhàiri. Will ye listen to what I have to say?”
Oh, Michaell. You dinnae know how yer betrayal stings. Four years ago, I would have given ye anything ye wished of me. Even yesterday, I would have greeted ye, happy to see yer face again. But your being here has changed everything I thought about ye and has wounded me deeply.
She shrugged, shoving her thoughts deep inside where she could no longer hear them. “Aileen said I should listen.”
She took another bite, giving Michaell a bland look. Though time was running out for her to find the magnificent brooch, she could not bring herself to provide him encouragement.
Mhàiri was still angry with him. Would his story tilt her favor? His next words could easily mean the end of his plans and dreams, the difference between success in his eyes—and at long last, to his father as well—and dismal ruin. He’d not seen her in four long years, but they’d grown up together and he knew in his heart she was the only woman he wished to marry. Failure to convince her of his innocence in the downfall of Siller Stane Keep was not an option.
He hesitated as doubt crept in. Why should she believe me?
“Tell me why ye are here, Mhàiri. Would ye satisfy my curiosity?”
As a ploy to get her mind off her anger it was weak, but all he could think of.
Mhàiri nibbled the meat pie then set it aside. “I wished to see the keep again.”
Michaell frowned. “Ye could have come here with a dozen soldiers to protect ye—and waited for the blizzard to pass.”
She shrugged, sliding her gaze to him then away.
“Why now?” he insisted.
Mhàiri heaved a great sigh. “My grandfather has betrothed me and I wanted to see my home again. Is it so difficult to imagine? My grandfather wouldn’t understand . . . .”
Michaell felt as if the air had been punched from his lungs. Why hadn’t he considered Mhàiri’s betrothal to someone else? In his mind she’d always been meant for him. Her grandfather had no right . . . .
Her grandfather had every right. And Michaell had only hours—if that, before Lord Scott surely sent someone after her—to convince Mhàiri to listen . . . and hope they could figure out a way to thwart her grandfather’s plan.
“Do ye wish to marry this man?” The question tore Michaell’s heart, but he had to know the truth of her heart.
“Nae.” Mhàiri’s soft voice sounded wounded, lost.
“Is there someone else ye’d rather wed?”
She flashed him a hot look. Uncertain if he’d overstepped the boundaries or if he’d stood a chance at her heart before she’d thought him complicit in the raid, he lowered himself to the hearth and slowly placed his hands on his knees, prepared to tell her everything.
“I was not a party to the raid here that night,” he began carefully. She glowered, but did not speak, and he chose to interpret that as a good sign.
“After I left ye and yer ma near Claver Hill, I returned here, hoping to do whatever I could to minimize the damage to the keep. I dinnae know what, exactly, I could accomplish, but I managed to blend in with the soldiers—it being dark and them as drunk as lords—and, er, misplaced a few items they’d dragged from the castle.”
Mhàiri tilted her head in a show of interest. Michaell continued, encouraged.
“A small chest that contained yer ma’s jewelry—it should have been under guard, but I dinnae stop to point that out to the drunk bastard who sat on it. And yer da’s sword.” He shrugged. “That was a bit harder, and the man dinnae wish to part with it, but he was sotted as well and gave me less trouble than he should have.”
The right side of Mhàiri’s mouth quivered. Relief flooded Michaell.
“I have them in the chest yon, and they are yers.”
Mhàiri broke off a piece of meat pie and offered it to Henry who took it neatly and swallowed without chewing. His anxious amber gaze fixed on Mhàiri’s fingers, his small body quivering in anticipation.
Mhàiri returned her attention to Michaell. “Thank you. The gifts mean a great deal to me. But, I have two questions—to start with. If ye werenae part of the raid, why do ye now sit here like the lord of the place? And, if it wasnae ye who betrayed us to the English, then who?”
“I can answer both questions. The traitor was a soldier who dinnae like living here without a lord in attendance. He felt having a woman in charge of the keep was demeaning, and he sold out to the highest bidder—the English. They’ve maintained this over the years as an outpost, a place to launch other raids. My da, who holds the most land in this area, was harried constantly by the pack of English. I wanted to restore Siller Stane, and he wanted a reason to push the English back across the border. Ye are right—I am the lord of the place.”
He paused, giving Mhàiri a chance to think this through. She’d been a girl when they’d last spoken. Had she thought of him at all these past four years?
She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to continue.
“I have four older brothers who are well-known for their reiving against the English—and a few Scots when we’re feuding. They are all married, settled, and maintain their own homes. They urged da to send soldiers here with me to root out the English and rebuild the keep.” He clenched his fists, recalling how the Kerr had dismissed his plan, calling instead for Michaell’s older brother William to oversee Michaell’s efforts.
“I am the youngest son, and next to youngest child, and my da doesnae believe I am capable.” Michaell affected a light-hearted tone, but the words slashed like a knife.
“It took me a good bit of time to convince him I could do this, and more to set the place to rights. The English were a slovenly lot and after they were routed, it has taken Aileen and her wee army of women—and more than a few carpenters—a few months to get things in order.”
Mhàiri fed Henry another piece of pie. He gobbled it and scooted closer to her side, his begging eyes inviting pity.
“Why did ye do it? What did it matter to ye—beyond sending the English back to their side of the border?”
Michaell dared touch her hand.
She shifted her gaze from Henry, eyes wide. “Why?”
“I wanted to give it back to ye, Mhàiri. ’Tis yer home. I’d planned to offer for ye as soon as I was finished here. As soon as Yule was over, and the keep complete, I planned on making ye my wife.”
Memories of their childhood friendship flooded Mhàiri’s heart. Ever had he championed her, and she’d loved him for it. Loved him like a brother. His earnest eyes told her he wanted more, that he’d done everything for her.
Could she believe him? Would it make a difference if she did? Grandfather posed so many complications. If he’d signed the contract—and she had no reason to believe he hadn’t—her betrothal to Lord Henderson was unbreakable. And if he died before she returned with the brooch—she simply could not let that happen. As miserable as she’d been in his household, she would do her best to ransom Gregor Scott before her grandfather died. And before her uncle’s time ran out.
“Michaell, I dinnae know what to say. I have never thought of being yer wife, though ye were ever my dearest friend. The last time I saw ye, I was but fourteen summers and trying my best to keep my ma alive. I wasnae attracted to any man—in that way.”
“Has there been anyone since?”
“My grandfather hasnae allowed me to be close to anyone. Ye were right. It has been lonely.”
“Tell me of this man yer grandfather wishes ye to marry.”
Mhàiri leapt up in agitation. “Richard Henderson . . . .”
“What?” Michaell bolted to his feet. “He’s no fit match for a sweet lass!”
Mhàiri tossed him a wry
look. “I know what manner of man he is, Michaell. I dinnae wish to marry him. But he wants my land as it abuts his, and no one has truly claimed Siller Stane lands in four years.”
“The land is mine, now. Surely he knows this. I have been here six months. Word would have reached him. And your grandfather.”
“Mayhap he does, and thinks he can have it and the keep without bloodshed if he marries me.”
“Coward. I willnae allow this to happen. He will have to fight me for ye and the land.”
Mhàiri’s eyes welled with tears as emotions too powerful to name surfaced. She drew a deep breath to regain her composure. “No one has championed me in a long time. Thank ye.”
“No matter the outcome, Mhàiri Burns, I will always be yers to command.”
Mhàiri touched her fingertips to his cheek, the stubble on his jaw reminding her he was no longer the lad she’d known. His smoldering gaze promised her more than the laughter they shared when she was tossed from her fat pony as a child. She was a child no longer, and his look swore to heal her hurts, her disappointments, her heart.
She took another breath and pulled her thoughts back to what she must accomplish before she gave in and flung herself into his arms. If she was to save her uncle and break her betrothal to Richard Henderson, she had much yet before her.
“My grandfather is ill, and ’tis likely the only reason I could slip away.” Mhàiri’s neck heated at the partial lie. Had he been hale and hearty, she would have found a way to get to Siller Stane. However, the odds of her making it without confrontation would have been much lower. Giving in to her heart, she decided to trust Michaell.
“I came here because I wished to see my home again. But there is another reason.” She told him of the beautiful brooch that had belonged to her mother, a brooch that was possibly worth her uncle’s freedom—and more.
“I know there is a secret chamber in this headboard. I saw my mother place something in it years ago. ’Tis possible ’twas the brooch’s hiding spot—though ’tis also possible the brooch no longer resides here.” She paused to catch her breath.
“Will ye help me find it?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The brooch suddenly hung like tun-weight about Michaell’s neck. If he acknowledged its presence and gave it to Mhàiri, she—notwithstanding the weather still howling about the keep like a hungry wolf—would be free to leave. It was tempting to hold back, keep her here a few more days, get to know her again and hope she came to care for him as he helped her search for the brooch. But could he deny her?
The truth was, he couldn’t.
He forced his hand to the leather thong at his neck and pulled the velvet bag from beneath his tunic. He drew the cord over his head and, with fumbling fingers, opened the bag and poured the brooch into his hand. The jewels glittered.
Mhàiri’s eyes widened.
“I found this earlier today.” Michaell took her hand and placed the golden ornament in her palm. “I meant to give it to ye as a betrothal gift.”
Mhàiri stared at the decorative pin, then shrieked and leapt forward, flinging her arms about his neck. The impact of her body against his sparked a thousand shooting stars and thrummed through his veins like potent whisky.
He wrapped his arms about her and leaned his cheek against her hair. She stilled. A tremor coursed beneath his hands.
“Thank ye,” she whispered. She lingered in his arms a moment more, then drew back slowly and reclaimed her seat on the edge of the bed. She traced a fingertip over the jewels. They winked as if sharing some mystery.
“It appears to be verra old, and worth quite a sum.”
“Och, Michaell, ’tis not only the brooch, but what it hides.” Her eyes sparkled as she gave him a mysterious look.
She turned the ornament over, continuing to run the tip of her finger over the design. Her hand halted suddenly and she dug her fingernail into a tiny flower carved into the back. A small snick sounded and a dark line edged the brooch. Hands trembling, Mhàiri widened the crack until the brooch opened into two halves. A sliver of wood, silvered with age, lay embedded in what appeared to be a shard of rock crystal.
“What is it?”
“’Tis said to be a piece of the True Cross,” Mhàiri whispered. “’Tis beyond price, and a treasure that willnae go to de Percy. My uncle’s ransom is 50 pounds. The brooch alone should suffice.”
“That is quite a lot for the ransom of a laird’s son. No disrespect intended.”
“Och, aye. But Grandfather was angry when Uncle Gregor was captured. He’d gone against Grandfather’s orders and he swore Uncle Gregor would receive no funds from him. De Percy responded by doubling the ransom. And stipulating he wouldnae take the trade in cattle or sheep.” She sighed. “Hopefully, de Percy will accept the brooch and be happy to rid himself of my uncle, who is a brash man and a bit difficult to manage.”
“Knowing de Percy, he may still drive a hard bargain. Simply because he has both the upper hand and little love for the Scots.” Michaell touched the edge of the jewelry reverently. “But in the end, he will accept the brooch. ’Tis worth more than the ransom he currently demands.”
Mhàiri closed the brooch carefully, folding it within her fingers. She stood and Michaell rose to his feet. “Och, Michaell, ’tis beyond my wildest hope. I hadnae thought to find it so quickly. I dinnae know how to thank ye.”
Her eyes sparkled, lips parted slightly.
Michaell stepped closer, placed his hand lightly on her sleeve, feeling every warp and weave against his fingertips, aware of the warmth of her skin through the cloth. He lowered his head, inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair. He threaded his fingers through the plaited tresses at the back of her head, cupping her head in his palm.
“Like this.”
Mhàiri’s eyes closed at the touch of Michaell’s fingers at the nape of her neck and she melted as his lips touched hers. Colors as luminous as the lights in the north sky burst inside her. She leaned into his embrace, giddy with the sensations of his hands and mouth. She was no longer the long-suffering granddaughter of Lord Scott, doomed to wed a man who did not want her, but the young woman Michaell Kerr had chosen for his bride.
A crash doused them in reality. Henry yipped and leapt onto the bed as if the platter rattling to a stop on the floor had chased him to the tall mattress. Giving the tray a glower, he sank onto the thick coverlet and proceeded to devour the meat pie he’d stolen.
“Henry!” Michaell’s scold was half-hearted and breathless. He cleared his throat and pulled Mhàiri against his chest. She rested there, hand tucked beneath her chin, one arm about Michaell’s waist. No place had ever felt so good, so right. All her accusations and anger against Michaell faded like mists on the moors. He was her hero and had saved her once again. But she had a more pressing task ahead, and regret at leaving his arms would not save her uncle.
“I must go.” She gently broke from his embrace.
“Ye cannae,” he protested. “’Tis late and the weather is bad for travel. Yule feasting begins tomorrow, and . . . .”
Mhàiri placed three fingers over his lips, stalling his objections. “My uncle willnae live past Yule. I will wait here the night, but must be gone on the morrow.” She inhaled swiftly, blocking the pain of leaving Michaell. “My horse is sheltered in a copse just beyond the wall. I must bring him inside for the night.”
“I will send someone to fetch him. Rest easy.” He stroked a braid over her shoulder and Mhàiri’s heartbeat quickened.
Overwhelmed by the desire to return to his arms, she twirled slowly, grasping for distraction. Her gaze lit on the little terrier greedily licking stains off the bed cover and rushed to his side, shaking a scolding finger.
“Henry! Ye are a naughty pup. Did Michaell not explain eating in bed attracts rodents?”
“That would suit Henry just fine.” Michaell’s voice tightened, his eyebrows tilted together over his nose.
Mhàiri’s heart twisted, knowing he thought she spurned him. �
��Dinnae be angry with me, Michaell,” she murmured. “Let me catch my breath. I am at a loss . . . .”
His smile returned. “’Tis the first night before Yule. Whatever ye wish for this night will come true.”
“Truth?” She flashed him a merry grin. “What if I make more than one wish?”
His hand lifted then dropped back to his side. “It will be granted. I promise ye, Mhàiri.”
Their gazes locked for long yearning moments. “And if I dinnae know what to ask?”
“Another kiss would be simple enough to grant.”
“How will ye know ’tis what I’ve wished for?”
This time his hand reached her cheek, smoothing the pad of his thumb across her skin. “I will see it in yer eyes. In the way ye part yer lips, inviting me to kiss ye.”
Happiness and something unidentifiable swept through Mhàiri. She sighed.
Michaell lowered his hand. “Go to bed. Ye will be safe here. I will be in the hall below with the others. Heat from the great fireplace will rise up the stairwell and help keep this chamber warm.” He nodded at the bed. “Keep Henry with ye. He’ll alert ye if anyone or anything approaches.”
Mhàiri nodded, afraid if she spoke again she’d ask him to stay. It was impossible to want him so and know she was expected to marry Lord Henderson. If Baron de Percy rejected the offer of her brooch, Richard was her uncle’s only hope.
Michaell gripped one of her hands then kissed her cheek. A moment later, he was gone.
Mhàiri crossed to one of the windows and, pulling the shutter open, peered through the narrow gap. Wintry air stole her breath, but she remained at the opening, staring into the night. Snow spiraled from the sky, tossed about by the howling wind, obscuring much of her view.
It didn’t matter. Her mind was filled with visions of winters past. Of sunlight on snow, sparkling like diamonds across the fields, piled atop laden branches. Of happy shouts in the bailey as the lads pelted each other with snowballs. A smile lit her face as one of the remembered lads—tall, lanky Michaell Kerr—paused to glance up at her window.
