Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  "I would be honored if ye would tell me the rest of the story," Aila said hopefully, looking first at MacLaren then at Chaumont. She had managed to get MacLaren to divulge a bit about his past experience with a woman in France, but she guessed there was more to the story. She felt sure it was something she needed to know if she was ever to understand her new husband.

  "I would be happy to enlighten you," said Chaumont, pausing for a moment and glancing at MacLaren, who voiced no complaint. "We had just finished a bloody battle, defending the lands of Montois, when your husband rode off to see the countess."

  "Countess?" asked Aila.

  "Countess Marguerite de Montois." Chaumont spoke the name with flair. "A very lovely creature, but unfortunately without the character to match. She accepted MacLaren's proposal of marriage at a time when she was already betrothed to Gerard de Marsan. When MacLaren arrived at Castle Montois, there was apparently some disagreement as to which of the men she would actually wed. Marsan made his position clear enough." Chaumont pointed at the long scar down MacLaren's face. "But it was MacLaren who drove the point home." Chaumont paused, the irrepressible smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

  "The countess was none too pleased with this turn of events and called for her men to arrest MacLaren. I do believe she wanted to use his skull for a chamber pot. I was alerted by one of Marguerite's ladies that she had submitted to the English. Unfortunately, I was unable to warn MacLaren before his audience with the countess. I stitched up his face, which was bleeding like a mother—"

  "Chaumont," interrupted MacLaren.

  "Begging your pardon, madam. What do you think of my handiwork?"

  Aila ran her finger down the length of the angry scar. MacLaren froze at her touch, but stared at nothing but the road.

  "I think ye make a verra good knight but a verra poor seamstress."

  Chaumont roared in laughter.

  "The only relevant bit of that story," said MacLaren, his own lips twitching, "is, when Chaumont learned the countess had betrayed us, he sent word to pull back the men off of Montois land. If they had stayed at camp, they surely would have been murdered as they slept, since the land then belonged to the English."

  Aila frowned. "I'm confused. Ye say ye were protecting Montois from the English, and then ye say Montois had submitted to the English. Which was it?"

  "Ah, that part confused us all," said Chaumont with his characteristic smile. "The Countess Marguerite of Montois convinced MacLaren to defend her against three English captains, which he did, but not without cost." Aila felt MacLaren stiffen, though he said nothing. "We were unaware the lady was in negotiations with the English for her submission to them. MacLaren's defense of her made her land more difficult to obtain by force, and thus she was able to exact a higher price for her switch of loyalties to the English Crown."

  "So Countess Marguerite was the one who—"

  "Dinna say her name," growled MacLaren. I dinna wish to hear that whore's name on yer lips."

  Aila was silenced. Chaumont took the subtle cue and rode ahead, leaving MacLaren and Aila to ride along in awkward silence. Aila pondered his words, more clearly understanding his easy distrust of women. He would forever carry the visible reminder of the last woman who betrayed him. Other scars were not as visible but deeper and more painful. How could she ever gain his trust?

  Aila did not have long to ponder this thought since they were now approaching Dundaff, its seven towers rising high above them. They rode up the narrow path to the castle. Though the road was a main thoroughfare, it was kept narrow on purpose, to make a siege of the castle more difficult. Aila struggled to find the words to break through the icy shell around MacLaren. She did not wish to re-live her parent's marriage in her own life.

  "Not all women are like that woman," she said to MacLaren, who had not looked at her since the talk had turned to his betrayal.

  "But ye are a woman."

  "Aye," declared Aila, sitting tall. "And I am a Scot and a Graham."

  MacLaren looked down at her, the intensity in his eyes unnerving. "Ye are a MacLaren now."

  "Aye," replied Aila with a soft smile, "that too."

  MacLaren sat taller and drew her closer. Shouts rang out as they entered the portcullis and emerged into the lower bailey. Aila took a deep breath, and the tense muscles in her back eased. She was home and had made a fragile peace with her husband. All was well. Except, of course, she still needed to face her parents, who would be furious with her, and somewhere there was a traitor trying to kill her husband and send her to McNab. She sagged against MacLaren's chest. But other than that, all was well.

  "Go get some rest," said MacLaren softly as the stable lads raced to take their reins and provide the required assistance.

  Aila nodded. There was nothing she would rather do right now than remove the filthy gown. "I should present myself to my father first. He will be most displeased with me," she mumbled grimly.

  "I shall speak to yer father. Yer discipline is my responsibility now."

  Aila wondered if that was any sort of improvement.

  "And the stable master?" she whispered.

  "I will tell him. Is there anything else he should be told?"

  "Nay, I've told ye all." Their eyes met, and she waited for him to express his disbelief. He said nothing and instead handed her down to a waiting page. After dismounting, MacLaren took her by the arm and walked her to Rory.

  "Take her to her tower," he called to Rory. To Aila, he said, "Stay in yer room, and trust no one. Rest and refresh yerself. I'll send a lad for ye to come to supper. Dinna walk alone. And Aila, I expect ye to eat yer meals wi' me from this time forward."

  Though weary, Aila gave MacLaren a weak smile. "I will be there, sir."

  MacLaren watched her as she walked away. She was rather bedraggled, but still she managed to capture his attention.

  "Well, what do you think of your errant bride now?" asked Chaumont.

  MacLaren shrugged. "I want to trust her, but some times she says or does things that show I canna rely on her to speak true."

  "She has the look of an honest mademoiselle to me. With what do you find fault?"

  "She told me she has ne'er eaten in the Great Hall. That seems unlikely, does it no'?"

  "Warwick, my good fellow," Chaumont called out to the Master of Arms as he dismounted. Warwick glanced around as if judging the possibility of escaping an audience with the French knight. But Chaumont walked up to him with a carefree smile, ignoring the older man's scowl. "I hear Lady Aila eats most often in her own chamber?"

  "Aye, she eats wi' the Lady Graham in their tower."

  "How often does she come for meals in the Great Hall?"

  "Ne'er that I ken. Now I must attend to the men." Warwick moved away from Chaumont, barking orders to the stable lads and the soldiers.

  "There now." Chaumont turned back to MacLaren. "Perhaps your cherie is more honest than you know. Fast, too. How did she come to ride so well?"

  "Taught by the best. Her brother was the fastest rider I've e'er seen." MacLaren caught Chaumont's eye, adding, "She's faster."

  Twenty-Four

  AILA THANKED RORY FOR HIS ESCORT TO HER TOWER entrance and dragged herself up the stairs. The siren call of her waiting bed beckoned her. She debated whether she wanted to bathe first or just go to sleep. Before she made it up to her room, her mother called for her.

  "Aila? Aila, is that ye, darling? They told me ye returned."

  Aila cringed. She did not want to see her mother. She did not have the energy to fight with her; she needed rest. She looked with longing up the stairs to her room but walked into her mother's quarters instead.

  "I am well, Mother."

  Lady Moira Graham sat in her usual chair, with Maggie bustling about, caring for her many needs. Both the maid and her mistress stared at Aila in shock. Aila knew her gown was beyond repair. She tried to smooth her hair and was dismayed to find leaves and bits of twig. She must look a sight.

  "What ha
ppened?" Lady Graham's face was white.

  "I was kidnapped by McNab, I escaped the next

  day, MacLaren found me, we were attacked by McNab at night, and then we rode home."

  "Och, my poor darling. 'Tis a shame ye ne'er made it to the convent."

  Aila held her tongue.

  "I suppose we must now accept that MacLaren for yer husband, though he's hardly good enough for ye."

  "He's a good man, Mother," Aila said in a low voice.

  "He is what he is, and there's naught to be done about it now. How I wish ye could have joined the convent. 'Tis no' fair, but life ne'er is. If yer father had only consulted me, I would have made a better match for ye. A Campbell perhaps, or maybe a Douglas—now there would have been a good alliance."

  "I am content wi' the match made for me."

  "But no, he woud'na ask, and now ye're trapped in a loveless marriage wi' a grasping knave, concerned only wi' yer money— "

  "And the land, Mother," shouted Aila. "Dinna forget about the land. I ken well enough why he married me, but I dinna care. I will have him for my husband, him and no other, ye ken? And I winna tolerate ye berating him e'er again."

  Maggie gasped. Lady Graham's eyes went wide, and her face froze.

  No one spoke.

  Aila wondered what she had just said. She had never spoken to her mother like that.

  "Well said, my love."

  Behind her, MacLaren leaned against the door post. "Come now, ye must be tired after yer long ordeal. Time for rest. Maggie, can ye escort my wife upstairs and see that she gets a bath and some sleep? I wish to have an audience with Lady Graham."

  Aila wandered past him and up the stairs. He followed her progress with warm eyes. She gave him a groggy smile and continued to her room. Love? Had he called her love? She was asleep before she could answer her own question.

  MacLaren watched until his wife made it to her door, partly because he liked looking at her and partly because he wanted to make sure she didn't fall down the stairs. When she was safe in her room, he faced down the mother. MacLaren entered the room, shutting the door behind him. It wasn't quite proper, but he didn't care. It was time to have words with Lady Graham.

  "I ken ye feel I am an inadequate marriage partner for yer daughter," MacLaren began, "but as ye said, there is naught we can do about that now. I would ask for yer blessing on this union."

  Moira shifted in her chair and regarded MacLaren through shuttered eyes. "And what makes ye think I would e'er grant ye such a request?"

  "The happiness o' yer only child?"

  "I ken a bit more about caring for Aila than ye do," said Moira, her voice stinging with warning.

  MacLaren tried a new tactic. "Ye are verra correct about the reasons I married yer daughter, but that does no' mean I winna take care o' her. I swear to ye on my honor, I will protect her wi' my verra life if need be."

  Moira seemed to relax a bit and nodded for him to continue.

  "I also am concerned for yer welfare, Lady Graham."

  "And why would ye be concerning yerself wi' me?"

  "As ye said, I am a grasping knave, Lady Graham. I want my children to inherit Dundaff. Therefore, I am determined ye shall be Graham's only wife." MacLaren paused to let the implications of his state ment be understood. "I want peace between us. I ask that ye support this marriage, and in return, I will do all in my power to see to yer welfare."

  Moira's eyes gleamed, and a slow smile spread on her face. MacLaren knew his proposal had been accepted and they were down to negotiations.

  "I want Aila to remain at Dundaff," said Moira.

  "Nay, she must live at Creag an Turic, but we can visit."

  "Twice a week."

  "Once a quarter."

  "Once a week."

  "Once a month."

  "Done!" she said, smiling in a calculating sort of way. "And I want regular visits from any children ye may have."

  "Done," said MacLaren.

  "And I want ye to be faithful to her. If I hear ye have been sowing yer seed around, I will withdraw my support."

  "That is none o' yer concern," said MacLaren, his eyes narrowing, "but done."

  "Sir Padyn MacLaren," she said with a radiant smile, "ye have my blessing. Welcome to the family. Now go and bathe yerself before ye come into my presence again."

  MacLaren bowed and quit the room. One dragon slayed. He wondered how many more this marriage would require of him.

  Twenty-Five

  AFTER HIS NEGOTIATIONS WITH LADY GRAHAM, MacLaren spent a long afternoon with Laird Graham, discussing all the new information he had discov ered. MacLaren kept his meeting with Graham small, including only Chaumont. Graham had wished Warwick and Pitcairn present, but MacLaren respect fully requested they not come. All the men on the journey were suspect, even Graham's top men, as unlikely as that seemed.

  At first Graham argued and raged at all MacLaren had to say, but he calmed down soon enough and got down to the business of planning their next move. For all his bluster, Graham was a practical and thoughtful man, one MacLaren found he could respect. His reasoning was sound, even if his body was broken. He reminded MacLaren of his own father, and MacLaren felt an odd twinge when speaking with him, feeling that beyond his material profit, he had gained other more intangible but no less valuable things through this alliance with the Graham clan.

  Graham railed against the idea that there was a traitor amongst his men or that any of them would have signaled the location of the camp to McNab, allowing a slaughter. Yet the truth was plain. They compiled a list of the men who had gone with MacLaren and examined each one as a potential traitor, but none appeared to be a likely candidate. MacLaren found Graham to be a fair but generous master, his soldiers were well treated and their needs tended, so he could find little cause for grievance.

  Yet someone was trying to help McNab, but why? How could anyone amongst Graham's own clan benefit from having Aila and the substantial inheri tance of Dundaff pass to another clan? There were more questions than answers. And yet, though he was loathe to admit it, Aila's little adventure had caused their enemies to reveal more than they intended. They now knew for sure McNab was their enemy and one of Graham's men was a traitor. As they ended their council to give the men time to prepare for supper, MacLaren felt a keen sense of apprehension.

  "Be watchful," he said to the Graham laird before he left. "To inherit yer land, ye must first be dead. I fear for ye."

  "And I for ye, my lad, since by marrying my daughter ye put yerself at the same risk." The men clasped hands and clapped each other on the back. "Take care o' her, my son, she's all I've got left."

  "I will," replied MacLaren softly, feeling tears well up in his eyes at being called "son." He broke from Graham and marched to his quarters, trying to get hold of himself. Must be lack of sleep playing with his emotions. He would not let it get the better of him. Crying was such an unmanly thing to do.

  MacLaren sat at the high table next to Graham, waiting impatiently for his bride to arrive. He had once more left room for Aila to sit next to him and hoped she would not embarrass him again. He had accepted her explanation with some distrust and was hoping to find her true. This time he had sent Rory to escort her to the table. He had been forced to send him twice, since the first time Rory returned with word that the maids insisted she was not quite ready. What was there to do? He bathed and dressed in ten minutes at most. He clenched his fists, fearing this may be the start of another very disappointing night.

  Leaning over to talk to Chaumont, he heard Aila's arrival before he saw her. The collective gasps in the room silenced all conversation. He looked up and gasped too, his jaw dropping open. Lady Aila had entered the Great Hall. The assembly stood, and people bowed as she passed. Her gold gown shimmering in the candlelight, she indeed resembled royalty. Her auburn hair hung in long ringlets, and her face was framed with a gossamer chaplet veil. She was the most beautiful creature MacLaren had ever seen. He stood transfixed, watching her approach. All
eyes were on her. Her eyes scanned the crowd until they found his. A small smile played on her lips. She approached, her eyes for MacLaren alone.

  She walked up to the head table and first greeted her father, as was proper.

  "I'm sorry, Father, for…"

  "Enough, child, 'tis all forgiven." He gave her a warm embrace. "Ye look much like yer mother." It was quite a compliment. He smiled down proudly at his daughter and then motioned for her to take her seat by her husband. MacLaren had to fight the urge to grab her and steal her away, back to their chambers, or perhaps even a dimly lit passageway would do.

  "A toast to the marriage of the Lady Aila and Sir Padyn MacLaren!" Chaumont was first to find his voice, and the rest of the assembly joined in the toast, cheering the happy couple.