by Willa Blair
He’d walked into this with his eyes open, Jamie berated himself, hoping to sound out Fletcher. Instead, Fletcher cornered him into agreeing to something he’d learned he did not want to do. Though his duty was clear. Toran had sent him here to secure Caitrin’s betrothal as well as Alasdair’s signature on the treaty. Damn. “I dinna think ye’ll need my interference,” he finally said. “Caitrin is a lovely lass, and the MacGregor will surely want her to wife.”
“Nonetheless, this is precisely the reason I requested the Lathan provide escort. In matters such as these, another laird’s approval carries weight. Ye stand for the Lathan while ye remain here. I require ye to do as yer laird surely bid ye, despite any feelings ye may harbor for my daughter. She is the daughter of a laird and is destined to be the wife of a laird. She will never be yers.”
Jamie’s eyebrows drew together as Fletcher remonstrated him, but he knew better than to interrupt. Finally, Fletcher wound down and Jamie stood. “I will, of course, do as my laird Lathan bid me. Ye can rest assured of that. Now, if ye will excuse me, I must prepare for a meeting with the MacGregor.” Fletcher inclined his head and Jamie took his leave. Pompous ass. Jamie had actually started to like the man, but his lecture grated. Or was that Jamie’s conscience gnawing at him? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t escape the fact that Toran sent him here to secure Caitrin’s future. On the other hand, a betrothal did not have to include the expected groom. Cheered by that thought, Jamie went on his way.
****
The steward arrived at Caitrin’s chamber after the midday meal with the dowager Lady MacGregor’s polite summons. Caitrin knew better than to refuse, though she wasn’t certain she was ready to meet Alasdair’s mother, who, she’d been told, had just returned to the keep from a visit away. The steward led her along unfamiliar hallways to the door of the ladies’ solar, where he paused. A handsome woman close in appearance to her father’s age rose from her place in the circle of chairs occupied by several other ladies and came to greet them.
“Ah, ye must be Caitrin Fletcher.” She took Caitrin’s hands and looked her over. “Lovely, ye are, my dear. I am Madeleine MacGregor, of course, Alasdair’s mother.”
“Thank ye,” Caitrin said, remembering her manners despite the cold sweat that popped out on her back at seeing the meeting she thought would be private, would be very public, indeed. At least, Alasdair’s mother seemed charming, much as her son had been this morning. “I’m pleased to meet ye.”
“And we are, to meet ye. Ah, a moment, dear,” she said, released Caitrin’s hands and turned to the steward. “Thank ye for finding her so quickly. That will be all.” The man bowed silently and departed in haste, clearly uncomfortable in the midst of so many women. Caitrin smiled behind her hand. No doubt, he was well practiced at making his escape as quickly as he could whenever his duty brought him here.
“Poor man,” Madeleine said, chuckling, as she steered Caitrin to a thickly padded upholstered chair in a sunny spot. “I usually detain him longer just to watch him squirm, but today, I’d rather focus on ye.”
Caitrin swallowed as she took a seat. Did she mean to make Caitrin squirm? That did not bode well for her acceptance here.
The dowager Lady MacGregor, Madeleine, had to be her first conquest. She had ruled the keep for years and could help or hurt Caitrin in a thousand ways. Caitrin gave her a tentative smile. Relief rolled through her like the warmth from a draught of whisky when Madeleine smiled back. Finally, the tension eased out of the room and conversations started among the other women.
“We are pleased to have ye join us,” Madeleine announced with a nod to Caitrin in a voice that quelled the other exchanges. “There must be much ye wish to learn about MacGregor and the keep. We will assist ye, should ye marry my son.”
Should ye marry my son? Suddenly Caitrin felt even more on trial than she had when she first spied the room full of women. She gathered her scattered wits and nodded. “Thank ye, Lady MacGregor.” She looked around the circle of faces, noting curiosity on some, skepticism on others. Time for some of Jamie’s diplomacy. Whether she remained here or not, she would do well to make what friends she could. “I will need all of ye to work with me, to teach me, everything I must learn about yer impressive keep. It will be my honor to care for the clan, its home, and its people, should the wedding take place.”
With their brute strength and weaponry, the men of the clan were dangerous, but the physical wounds they could inflict would not compare to the damage these women could do. Caitrin had to gain acceptance from as many of these ladies as she could. Most of them. All of them, if possible. She wasn’t sure she possessed that much charm. Or patience.
But her statement seemed to satisfy Madeleine, who took her seat and made the introductions, naming the other women as they settled themselves. Caitrin expected Madeleine to judge her prospective daughter-by-marriage, and to watch how the group responded to her, before deciding whether to help or hinder. But the smile seemed genuine, a good omen.
Then women started peppering her with questions. “Have ye seen our gardens?” “Have ye met the bairns?” “The priest?” “When will the banns be posted?”
Caitrin did her best to answer them, breathlessly fitting in a few questions of her own as her confidence in their acceptance grew.
They had lost men at Flodden, but not as many as some clans. Children were valued here, and there were a lot of them. The men took care of the fields and the herds as well as the fighting and the brawling. The women took care of the keep, the meals, the clothes, and anything else that made a keep a home.
Caitrin wondered if her wish for the lasses to learn archery would be well received by their mothers, much less her own prowess with a bow and arrow, not to mention a short sword and a dirk. Best not to reveal any of that yet. Finally, the women began to gossip among themselves, and Caitrin drew in a relieved breath. Her first meeting seemed to go well. Even Madeleine seemed satisfied. She spoke with a woman on her other side, and Caitrin suspected if she’d failed in some way, Madeleine would be watching her like a hawk. If she disapproved of Caitrin, surely there would still be tension in the room.
Caitrin bent to her stitchery, listening to the ladies around her with only half an ear. Now that she had a chance, she thought back to the morning and Alasdair’s odd behavior. Had he actually been trying to charm her? He’d been polite, if firm, in describing the duties he expected a wife to undertake. She didn’t have to like it, but he had not described anything unusual. Her hackles had gone up only when he asked about her time at Lathan. The question seemed innocent enough at the time, but as she had at their first meeting, she sensed something amiss about him, or about his purpose behind the question, that gave her a chill. Could a question be a lie?
The size and scope of the MacGregor library still astounded her. Unable to get the memory of the place out of her mind, she determined to find her way back there—alone. It would be wonderful to indulge her love of reading without Alasdair, or anyone else, looking over her shoulder.
MacGregor had settled himself in a comfortable chair and allowed her to explore. She’d happily pulled one book after another from the shelves and exclaimed over several. He’d been amused she would show such enthusiasm, and she supposed he would now consider her well and truly on the hook, ready to accept him on the promise of access to that library, if nothing else.
The thought of all those loaded shelves, all those books waiting to be read and studied, used in the classroom or for entertainment for years to come, made Caitrin smile over her embroidery. But books could be borrowed. A husband? Well, those got borrowed, too, granted. But not, she vowed, hers.
Unfortunately, she was getting the impression her prospective groom had already been well used. While most of the ladies were friendly enough, two were ignoring her and one, a blonde with a rounding belly she’d noticed frowning her way during yesterday’s evening meal, now glared daggers at her. Did she carry MacGregor’s child? Or simply resent a Fletcher as the future l
ady of the clan? Surely, this woman risked much by showing her disdain, but one bad apple...Caitrin sighed and looked away. Starting off on the wrong foot with these women would carry repercussions that would last for years.
“And who are those men who brought ye?” The pregnant blonde, Sorcha, finally spoke as Caitrin met her challenging gaze. “Aye, especially the tall one with the dark hair. Reddish, but very dark, it is.”
Jamie? Well, she should not have expected him to go unnoticed by women here. Caitrin had enough trouble keeping her eyes off of him. Staying out of his arms. She had no reason to think she’d be the only one he tempted. The only one longing for him. But would he indulge?
Nay, that was none of her business. He was her friend, not her betrothed. Only her friend, nothing more. She had to keep her distance from him, both for appearances’ sake, but also to prevent either one of them from acting on the attraction they felt for each other.
Wasn’t Jamie in the same quandary? He’d made his interest in her clear, but he was as conflicted as she. He was her friend, not her betrothed. He had been forced to deliver her to another man, whether he wanted to or not. He had no claim on her. Another man did—or was about to. If she hadn’t been surrounded by other women, she would have laughed at the irony. Sorcha’s question had put the shoe firmly on the other foot.
But for her to point another woman, especially Sorcha, in his direction? She paused, her needle poised over the cloth in her hands. Nay, she couldn’t do it. Her heart wouldn’t let her. In answer, she shrugged and smiled then told her, “I’m sure ye will meet them all at meals.”
Besides, Sorcha really had no business asking. Her delicate condition implied she had a husband. But judging by her demeanor, her condition was the only delicate thing about her.
****
A rustle in the undergrowth, followed by the hounds baying, alerted Jamie their prey lurked somewhere ahead. He and Fletcher exchanged glances as MacGregor pointed left and right, signaling his men to flank the foul-tempered beast they were hunting. Wild boar. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Fast. Many a horse, hound, and man had been gored in the attempt to trap and kill one, often by another boar near the quarry, unseen until too late.
Hunting boar was far from Jamie’s favorite sport. A red deer and a brace of rabbits would do just as well to feed a crowd, and hawking took more finesse, but propriety demanded he accept the MacGregor’s invitation. No doubt, MacGregor meant to test his mettle, and Fletcher’s. Only a bear, if there were any left in these parts, would pose more of a threat to its pursuers.
MacGregor lifted his longsword over his head, a feral grin lighting his face as he caught first Fletcher’s and then Jamie’s gaze. He brought his fist down level with his chest and kicked his mount forward. Flankers began beating the undergrowth around them, attempting to herd the beast toward the center and flush it with the help of the hounds. Jamie nocked an arrow, but kept his longsword in easy reach in case the beast charged. One arrow would not stop a boar, but several might, if they had time. If not, the fight would finish at close-quarters, the tusks and massive weight of the enraged and wounded beast only as far removed as the length of steel in a man’s hand.
He shifted and his horse advanced, Fletcher’s mount aligned on its flank. Jamie kept his gaze on the undergrowth in case the boar doubled back on the hounds. MacGregor and his men were hidden by the trees, but Jamie could hear them swearing as the beast escaped them. Fletcher moved off at an angle, and Jamie kicked his horse into a trot. Ahead, the hounds’ yelping signaled they’d cornered their prey again, but before Jamie could get close enough to see the situation, the excited baying erupted into canine screams of pain, quickly cut off. Jamie shook his head. The boar likely broke through, injuring or even killing a few of the dogs. Between the whimpering and barking hounds and the shouting, Jamie could not hear the boar. Had it kept going? Or did it linger somewhere in the undergrowth, nearby?
He turned his mount in Fletcher’s direction, meeting up with him quickly in a small clearing. They sat silently, listening, for several minutes as the confusion ahead of them sorted itself out. They could hear MacGregor berating one of his men for allowing the hounds to escape his control and giving the order for the injured dogs to be put down. Jamie and Fletcher exchanged a frown. If the hounds were hurt too badly to save then the master of hounds had let them get too far ahead of the men’s weapons. The dogs were no match for the tusks, especially of an enraged male boar. MacGregor continued to order his men into the woods, and the heavy beat of horses hooves replaced the shouting.
Suddenly, the undergrowth erupted on Fletcher’s side of the clearing. The boar charged straight for him, knocking his mount onto its side as Jamie fought to control his horse. The boar veered and gored the horse as it went down, trapping Fletcher half underneath its heavy back as it thrashed once and then stilled.
“Here!” A chorus of men’s voices answered Jamie’s shout as he fired one then two arrows in quick succession at the retreating boar. Its hind hooves disappeared into the brush as he leapt from his mount to go to Fletcher’s aid.
“Fletcher!” He knelt by the trapped man. He was alive, but his legs and one arm were pinned. He’d been fortunate to have fallen in such a way the horse’s bulk protected him from the charging boar, but Jamie had to free him or he’d be an easy target if the boar came back.
“Alive,” the man groaned, panting. “Get me out from under this infernal beast, will ye?”
Jamie snorted and managed to tug Fletcher’s arm free while the man groaned with pain. MacGregor and his men arrived then.
“Where’s the boar?” MacGregor’s demand didn’t surprise Jamie. The hunters had become the hunted. They needed to know where the next attack might come from.
“That way,” Jamie indicated. “I need some of yer men’s help to get Fletcher free.”
“First things first,” MacGregor answered and kicked his mount into motion, signaling his men to follow. The remaining hounds ran after.
Jamie surged to his feet, appalled they were leaving an injured man behind. “MacGregor!”
The retreating hoofbeats made it clear no one had turned around. Jamie swore then knelt by Fletcher.
“I’m going to try to free ye,” he reassured the wide-eyed older man, whose rapid breathing and sweat-covered face told Jamie that he had begun to panic.
“Ye canna do it by yerself.”
Jamie studied the ground around Fletcher and the horse then pulled his claymore and dug at it. Good. He found a layer of loam of at least a hand’s depth. If he could dig enough of it away around Fletcher’s trapped legs and if the horse’s body didn’t settle into the trenching, he might gain the space he needed to pull Fletcher free.
He set to work, pausing only a moment when shouting and baying erupted, followed by cheers. MacGregor had gotten his boar, it seemed. Jamie shook his head. Fletcher used his free arm and shoulder to shrug, which cheered Jamie. If his efforts had calmed the man enough for him to pay attention to what was going on around them rather than focusing on his pain and entrapment, Fletcher might better tolerate the situation until help returned. Jamie bent back to his digging. It quickly became clear he would not be able to reach far enough by himself, but he kept at it, not wanting to worry Fletcher.
One of MacGregor’s men returned, took a look at what Jamie was doing and spurred his horse back the way he came. In minutes, the rest of MacGregor’s men, followed by MacGregor, now covered in boar blood, arrived.
“What have we here?”
Jamie cut him a sharp glance. MacGregor knew full well what had happened. He’d ridden right past in his pursuit of the boar. But Jamie held his temper. “If yer men can lift the weight of the withers, even a little, I think I can pull Fletcher out. I’ve cleared the loam around his legs as far as I can reach.”
MacGregor waved his men over. They gripped the mane and shoulder and heaved. The horse’s body shifted a fraction, but not enough.
Fletcher groaned but didn’t budge despite
Jamie’s best efforts to pull him free. “Again!” Jamie ordered. This time, they managed to clear a bit more and Jamie, gripping Fletcher under both arms, tugged for all he was worth.
“MacGregor, ye, too!” Jamie ground out through clenched teeth.
With an oath, the MacGregor dismounted and lent his shoulder to the men trying to shift some of the weight off Fletcher’s legs.
Jamie tugged harder, ignoring Fletcher’s groans and cries. He managed to move the man a few inches, no more, before the men dropped their burden.
“Again!” Jamie told them. “Get that wither up as high as ye can.”
One of the men moved around the horse, grabbed a foreleg and pulled while the others pushed. This time, it was enough.
Jamie managed to pull Fletcher free. He knelt and ran his hands along Fletcher’s legs. Not broken, thank the saints for that miracle. The soft loam had cushioned Fletcher’s limbs enough to prevent a break, but he would be badly bruised.
“Can ye stand?” Jamie asked as Fletcher sat up cradling his arm.
“I believe so.”
Jamie took Fletcher’s good arm and helped him up, but the injured man cried out and went down again before he fully gained his feet.
MacGregor, whom Jamie had heard ordering his men to retrieve the boar and the tack from Fletcher’s mount, approached. “What’s amiss?”
“My knee’s twisted,” Fletcher panted. “Won’t take my weight.”
“Ye’ll ride with me back to the keep,” Jamie said.
The MacGregor helped get Fletcher settled behind him. “Have the healer take a look at ye,” MacGregor said.
Jamie had no doubt it was an order.
“I’m going to enjoy hacking that boar to pieces,” MacGregor continued. “It cost me a horse and two good hounds.”
And nearly the life of the Fletcher, Jamie thought, but he kept quiet as he turned the horse away and kicked it into motion.
