Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  The coat had cost him a considerable sum and was a fine piece of work, embroidered with gold thread along the edges and held together with gold buttons down the front. He recalled, with some repul sion, he had commissioned the coat to wear to the French court, in large extent to impress the Countess Marguerite. Both the countess and Laird Graham's daughter had been born into higher rank and privilege than he, and he wondered if Aila also thought herself beyond his touch.

  "Ye seemed reluctant to wed this morn," MacLaren said, edging closer to his suspicions about her pride.

  "I was surprised." Aila gazed over the green valley below. "I have always been destined for St. Margaret's." She turned to him. "Have ye ever had yer life change in a moment? And everything ye thought ye knew was gone, altered forever?"

  "Aye, I have experienced something o' the like." Indeed, his whole world had been shattered with the blink of a traitorous eye. Perhaps her hesitation was not a rejection of him, but rather shock and surprise. He could understand that.

  MacLaren was trapped once again by a pair of green eyes. He moved closer to her, keeping his eyes on hers. He reached out and softly stroked the side of her face. Her eyes widened, and her breathing increased with the quick rise and fall of her chest underneath her thin chemise. Bedding her was his duty. He was certain he would be diligent with his responsibilities.

  Aila's eyes broke from his and fluttered around, as if looking for purchase, before landing on the sleeve of his surcoat. "Ye've changed yer clothes since this morn."

  "Aye," said MacLaren, his arm dropping by his side, his suspicions raised once more. He wondered if his current attire was more to her liking. He did not wish to elevate false expectations in her. Best to set her straight now. He did not wish to deal with a fractious wife.

  "May I ask why ye made an offer for me to my father?" Aila's voice was soft, and MacLaren noted she once again was chewing on her lip.

  "Graham proposed the alliance to me. I accepted."

  "Oh."

  "When we return to Creag an Turic, I rarely have

  occasion to wear such as this." MacLaren watched for Aila's response.

  "Creag an Turic?"

  "My home… and yers now, too. 'Tis no' so grand as Dundaff." MacLaren was disappointed at the look of panic on Aila's face.

  "But I canna go wi' ye. I must stay at Dundaff. I canna leave my mother."

  MacLaren's jaw set, and he fell back upon the mask of grim determination he was so accustomed to wearing. It was as he expected. She would never accept him.

  "I'm sure yer mother will miss ye greatly. Forgive the intrusion, m'lady. I'll let ye continue wi' yer dressing." He gave a short bow, turned on his heel, and left.

  Laird Archibald McNab arrived on horseback to the meeting place. The appointed glen was far removed from any known road or path and would provide the necessary privacy for the occasion. McNab swung down easily from his horse and wrapped the reins around a low-hanging branch, stepping into the secluded glen surrounded with dense forest. The wind swirled around the trees, picking up leaves and debris, hitting McNab in the face. He squinted and put up his hand to shield himself from the angry gust.

  When he opened his eyes again, a man was standing before him. Startled, McNab jumped back, putting his hand to his sword hilt. The man merely gave him a caustic smile. It was he alright, dressed in a roughly woven peasant cloak and cowl he had obviously used to sneak unnoticed from Dundaff. McNab cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure. He did not like this man, this traitor of his own people. He would use him, surely, but he had no love for a man who would accept coin in exchange for his loyalty.

  "Did yer laird receive the message?" McNab asked. He had drafted what he considered to be a very polite offer for the Lady Aila in return for his protection against the marauders.

  "Aye, but dinna plan yer wedding to that Graham wench any time soon."

  "Why no'? What other choice does he have? "

  "He decided he'd rather have MacLaren for a son in-law and married his daughter off today."

  "What? How can this be?" McNab accused the cloaked man. "Ye said he'd have to give Aila to me. Ye said it would be easy."

  "Dinna worrit yer head o'er MacLaren. I'll take care o' him. He'll be dead before morn. But ye need to remind Graham o' why he has no other choice than to form an alliance wi' ye."

  "How could ye let this happen? Ye said the lass would tell us if Graham tried to plan a marriage wi' another."

  "Do ye wish to whine like a wench or do some thing about it? I have a plan, if ye're man enough, which I doubt."

  "What would ye have me do this time?" asked McNab with suspicion. The traitor had been helpful in giving information on the movements of Graham's men, giving McNab the ability to set fire to the fields without risk of being caught. It was supposed to be easy. He had not planned for MacLaren to be involved. Shame he had to die.

  The traitor held out his hand. Disgusted, McNab handed over a bag of coin. The hooded man made a show of opening the bag to count his bribe, enjoying the insult the action delivered. At length he appeared satisfied, saying, "Graham's soldiers stay wi'in his walls tonight. While he sleeps away the night, ye need to burn all ye can. Remind him o' what he needs to fear."

  "But tonight? I canna go out tonight. 'Tis St. John's Eve. The spirits are out tonight. And if I burn too many fields, my own clan will suffer."

  The hooded man laughed without humor. "Ye decide what sort o' a man ye are. Are ye afeared o' the faeries? Or are ye a warrior? Me thinks ye are what everyone always said about ye. Worthless."

  McNab reached for his sword, but the man simply faded away back into the trees.

  The traitor smiled and strode away. Stupid, stupid man. Does he really believe I would betray my clan for naught but a few coins? He set a quick pace back to the castle. Ah, but this is sweet. Graham will wake tomorrow to find MacLaren dead and more o' his precious fields burnt. He'll be forced to wed Aila to McNab. Then, when the timing is right, I'll kill the weasel McNab and that fat bastard Graham. I'll say I slayed McNab trying to protect the life of my laird, but alas he died in my arms, asking me to carry on in his stead. Then I'll take Aila for myself. I hope McNab winna have her breeding by the time I get her, but no matter. If it be so, I'll drown the bairn in the loch. He chuckled, looking up at Dundaff, perched high on the rocky cliffs in the distance. Patience, patience, and all is mine.

  Seven

  AILA REMAINED ON THE TURRET LOOKING AT THE empty space that had once been her husband. He had not offered for her. He had not wanted her. Her father had arranged the marriage, though for what purpose she was still unaware. Her face still burned where MacLaren had touched it. No one had ever touched her like that. She had been aware of a sudden desire for more. She wanted to feel her whole body pressed against his. She shook her head at her own shocking response to him. Perhaps it was a good thing she would not be a nun.

  Though she supposed it should not have been a surprise, the thought of leaving Dundaff was a shock. This place was all she knew. Her mother needed her. Her people needed her. It was her home. MacLaren's reaction to her concerns had been dismissive. She did not understand him. His feelings seemed to fluctuate, sometimes kind, sometimes cold; they were a rather unstable lot.

  The sun was low on the horizon. It was St. John's Eve at last. The burghers of Carron walked up to Dundaff for the festivities, their torches forming a line of lights up the steep path to the castle gates. A tremor of excitement coursed through her. This would be the first time she attended a feast or even ate in the Great Hall.

  Walking down to her room, Aila was accosted by various servants and lady's maids. Soon they were swarming around her, preparing her for the banquet, chattering and clucking like mother hens. Lady Graham's own personal attendant, Treva, arrived to do her hair. As the skilled woman plaited and crafted her hair, Aila wondered if her mother had sent Treva, or if the valued attendant had come on her own.

  At one point, she was left alone with the ta
citurn woman and seized the chance to voice her concerns. "Treva, I may need to live wi' Laird MacLaren," said Aila.

  "I expect so," returned the lady's maid.

  "My mother depends on me. I am concerned for her welfare."

  "I've been serving Lady Graham for twenty years now. I warrant I can care for her." Treva stopped her work and looked directly at Aila. "Dinna worrit yerself now. Yer mother winna starve."

  "Thank ye, Treva. I'm much relieved." And she was.

  With wide grins, the maids came back into the room. They had completed the alterations to the gown and were clearly proud of their work. Senga entered, carrying a fine carafe with red jewels, saying a ghillie had brought the whiskey from a well-wisher in the castle for their wedding night.

  Aila took the red-jeweled bottle and admired the craftsmanship before placing it on the side table. Everyone seemed so happy to rejoice in her marriage; Aila was truly touched.

  "Look at ye now. I ne'er kenned to see ye a bride," said one maid as she affixed the veil.

  Nor I, thought Aila.

  "What a night ye'll have tonight," said another, and the maids giggled in response.

  "Ye'll be wi' child in no time."

  Child?

  Aila's mouth went dry. Of course a man would be wanting heirs; why hadn't she thought of it before?

  "Aye, he'll have ye breeding soon, t'be sure." Because her future had consisted only of the convent, she had given little thought to marital relations between man and wife. How did a man impregnate his wife? Would he want to do that to her? Tonight? Her heart beat faster. She glanced at the whiskey on the table. She never drank potent spirits, but perhaps tonight she would make an exception. The women around her all seemed to be more knowledgeable on the subject, and she wished for some basic clarification. It should be the role of her mother, but Aila knew better than to request help from that quarter. Despite her curiosity, she was embarrassed to admit ignorance to her servants, and they finished their work before she found the right words.

  Dressed to the satisfaction of her maids, she felt like an entirely different person, one she knew not. Her ladies stepped back and looked at her, smiling. Maggie even had tears in her eyes.

  "Ye look verra bonnie, m'lady."

  For once in her life, Aila believed it to be true. The bodice of her silver kirtle had been lowered and made more formfitting, revealing cleavage that had never before seen the light of day. The full skirt of her gown had been modified to add a short train. Over the kirtle she wore a sleeveless surcoat, open at the hips, pale blue in color and richly embroidered. It fit snug across her chest and was tied tight with silk ribbon, giving those never-before-seen parts of her some added lift. Low on her hips she wore a gold belt from which her small dagger hung. Her hair had been plaited and styled on the top of her head, falling in auburn ringlets down her back. A gold circlet mitre was placed on her head and held a gauzy veil that delicately framed her face. She felt exposed with her hair loose… and excited… and free.

  The maids discussed whether she should go down on her own or wait for an escort. To Aila, who had never attended meals in the Great Hall, it felt wrong to arrive without an invitation. MacLaren would surely escort her or send a ghillie at the very least. She dismissed her maids with a smile and watched out the window, tapping her toe as she waited for her escort. This was going to be quite a night.

  MacLaren prepared for the evening meal with some reservations. Aila's reaction had been disappointing, yet perhaps the lass needed a little time to adjust. Or maybe she would try to have him killed, like another beautiful woman had once tried to do. He shook off those unpleasant thoughts and took an emerald neck lace out of a wooden box. It had been his mother's and now would go to his reluctant bride. He may not have as many worldly goods in comparison to her father, but he wanted her and her kin to know he could still impart gifts of value.

  Looking down at his attire, MacLaren regarded it with disgust. The fancy clothes, the expensive gifts, it all reminded him of the last time he had courted. His jaw clenched. He would not play the fool again. He changed back into his Highlander's garb. He was a MacLaren and proud of it. His lady wife best accustom herself to her fate.

  "Slàinte!" called a man when MacLaren entered the Great Hall.

  "Slàinte mhath!" MacLaren returned, wishing him good health. A goblet of whiskey was pressed into his hand, and MacLaren made his way through the crowd to the high table.

  "Slàinte mhor!" yelled another man, not to be outdone by wishing all present great health.

  "Slàinte mhor a h-uile là a chi 's nach fhaic," called out Chaumont. The Scots cheered. Being in Scotland less than a year, Chaumont's grasp of Gaelic was tentative at best, but he had managed to memorize certain phrases such as, "Great health to you every day that I see you and every day that I don't." It went a long way toward improving his acceptance in the clan. He walked up to MacLaren with a wide grin, and the two men sat down next to Graham at the high table.

  "Arrogant bastard," muttered MacLaren, though the corners of his mouth twitched momentarily in an upward direction.

  "True on both counts, I'm afraid," Chaumont responded with great cheer. "Careful now, wouldn't want folks to see such an undisciplined show of emotion."

  MacLaren, who had just taken a sip of whiskey, choked, trying not to laugh, and was barely able to avoid spraying the table. When he was able to talk, he cursed Chaumont with great creativity and felt much more himself.

  Chaumont's smile faded as he noticed MacLaren's choice of dress. MacLaren was wearing his thick pleated plaid, belted around the waist and thrown over one shoulder, a large broach pining it to a linen shirt dyed saffron yellow.

  "How could you betray me like this?" Chaumont asked, his expression pained.

  MacLaren was confused by the question. He cursed Chaumont on a regular basis, but Chaumont had always laughed back at him. "How have I offended ye?"

  "By abandoning all sense of fashion—what on earth are you wearing?"

  MacLaren raised his cup to his friend. "I am a Highland laird. 'Tis best my wife and her clan ken it well."

  Chaumont stared at MacLaren's bare knees and shook his head.

  "You look like you're wearing your bedroll."

  "Conveniently, it can be used as that. 'Tis quite comfortable," MacLaren added.

  "Yes, I think we all can see how comfortable you are."

  MacLaren snorted but shifted to a more modest position.

  The feast was brought out by young lads, first to Graham, then MacLaren, and then the remainder of his guests by order of importance. Graham acquitted himself well, providing the roasted meat of sheep, fowl, and wild pigs. Venison pies were in abundance, as were salmon, haddock, and cod. Pastries, bread, and cheese were brought out on large trays, along with plates of wild cherries and roasted apples. Of course whiskey flowed like water, along with wine, cider, ale, and mead. As the first course was served, MacLaren looked around for his missing wife, hoping to see her soon.

  "Where's your bride?" whispered Chaumont.

  MacLaren sliced through his meat with a hard slash of his knife and said nothing.

  "She did look a bit on the terrified side this morn. Perhaps you've scared her away," Chaumont continued. "Though I am certain any bride would look the same when they saw you as groom."

  "Attention, my friends, yer attention please." Graham stood at the table, and the room filled with people hushed into silence. "Many blessings to ye this St. John's Eve. Though many of us have borne great losses this past year, still, together we have survived. And now we have reason to celebrate. Tonight I introduce to ye our neighbor, Sir Padyn MacLaren. He has recently returned from France, where he fought valiantly against the Sassenach devils. He is here with his men, seasoned warriors all. And I announce to ye tonight, an alliance between our clans in the marriage of Sir Padyn to our own Lady Aila."

  Shouts echoed in the hall as people got to their feet to cheer. MacLaren stood and acknowledged their enthusiasm for this uni
on. If only he could feel the same. He would feel a lot better if Aila was sitting obediently beside him. Where was she?

  By the time the dessert was presented, MacLaren realized—with the familiar ache of betrayal—that she would not be coming to the meal. Though no one had said anything about it, he could only imagine what they must be thinking of him. She had publicly rejected him at his own wedding feast. His anger increased while the sense of humiliation grew, though he took great pains to keep it behind a cold mask of detachment. He considered finding her and dragging her forcibly down to the meal but decided that would create an even greater scene, providing more interest for the gossipers.