Highlander's Sword

by Amanda Forester

  Outside in the courtyard between the chapel and the main residence hall, MacLaren and the abbot faced each other, swords drawn. Father Barrick had demanded he leave. MacLaren had refused to go; he was on shaky ground, and he knew it. Chaumont and Mary stood nearby, and many of the nuns watched the scene, not sure what to do.

  Chaumont came up to MacLaren and spoke softly. "Watch yourself, my friend. He's a Templar."

  "How would ye ken?"

  Chaumont looked away. "I know most of the old Templars out of France, those that survived the slaughter, that is."

  MacLaren nodded, storing this information away for future questioning. There seemed to be much he did not know about his friend.

  "Are you sure you want to pursue this?" Chaumont asked. "You are on holy ground. If you attack an abbot on Church grounds, you'll be excommunicated for sure." MacLaren weighed his options. He wanted desperately to talk to Aila. He distrusted this abbot, but he had to admit Aila had tried to run away to the convent before for just this purpose. It was possible she had changed her mind again. Would he fight the abbot and drag her back against her will? Silently, he prayed for wisdom.

  He sighed and resheathed his blade. "I've no' come to fight ye, Father. I wish only to speak wi' my wife. If she wishes to stay, I winna press her." MacLaren was resolute. Aila was not Marguerite. He understood that now. If she chose God over him, how could he feel betrayed? Perhaps it would be the better choice for her. He realized he loved her enough to let her go, if it be her wish. Time would heal his heart. Eventually. Maybe. Not.

  "Nay, wait!"

  MacLaren turned with a jolt. It was Aila. His heart raced to see her, but then he frowned. Her dress was torn, her face smudged with dirt, her hair a mess. What had happened here?

  "Father Abbot says ye wish to stay." MacLaren addressed Aila. "If that be so, I will leave at once. Tell me true for now and evermore. Do ye wish to take orders, or do ye wish to be my wife?" MacLaren spoke without emotion, preparing to walk away with at least a shred of his dignity intact.

  Aila glanced between MacLaren and the abbot. Both men waited on her answer. "When my father said I was to marry ye, I was given no choice. Now, I do have the right to choose. But I would no' wish for bloodshed, especially no' in this holy place." Aila frowned, the concern clear in her eye.

  "Go on, lass. 'Tis time to choose," MacLaren said gruffly.

  Aila glanced nervously at Father Barrick then straight ened her shoulders. "Sir Padyn MacLaren, I would be proud to be yer wife for the rest o' my days."

  MacLaren closed the gap between them and seized

  her in a kiss. She melted into his arms, and MacLaren wanted to hold onto her forever.

  "Noooo!" shouted the abbot and rushed forth with his sword. MacLaren pivoted quickly, drawing his own blade and blocking the abbot's attack that would have cut Aila to shreds.

  "I dinna want to fight ye, Barrick, but I will defend my wife to the death, whatever the consequences," MacLaren snarled.

  "She was meant for the convent, until you poisoned her mind. I will not let her leave with you. Her inheri tance belongs to the Church," seethed the abbot, striking again against MacLaren's sword.

  "Her inheritance belongs where her father wishes. The Church has no right to interfere."

  "Please, ye must no' fight o'er my inheritance," begged Aila as Chaumont dragged her away from the fight. No one was listening to her. She yelled louder, "My husband is a righteous, God-fearing man who intends to give my dower lands, the land the convent and abbey were built on, to the Church."

  That got everyone's attention.

  MacLaren and the abbot stopped and stared at her. MacLaren frowned.

  "That is very generous of you, Sir Padyn," said Sister Enid as she limped in between the combatants. "We greatly appreciate your kind remembrance of our poor community."

  The abbot scowled at MacLaren. "If this be your intent, give me your pledge now."

  MacLaren had no intention of giving Aila's land to the Church. He needed her land for himself, yet he had not considered the holy community that had already been built on it. All eyes were on him now—the abbot, Sister Enid, Chaumont, Mary, Gavin, and Aila, who looked up at him beseechingly. Give up the land? That is why he had married her in the first place. Suddenly he felt the eyes of God on him as well, and felt ashamed at his own greed. It all belonged to the Lord anyway. He rolled his eyes heavenward. The land was gone.

  "Aye, I pledge Aila's dower lands to the Church." MacLaren knew in that instant that he may have given away all of the land he had coveted, should Graham bear another legitimate heir. He didn't care. More than the land, he wanted Aila, not her inheritance, just Aila. Aila smiled up at him, the recognition of what he had given away not lost on her.

  "I accept your pledge and will hold you to it," replied the abbot, looking most irritated as he resheathed his sword. "Thank you for your generosity to our community. You are welcome anytime. Now get thee gone." MacLaren smiled at Father Barrick's back as he stalked away, knowing only the last part of that statement had been the truth. It did not matter. He had all he had ever wanted.

  Thirty-Seven

  AILA SNUGGLED CLOSER INTO MACLAREN'S ARMS AS they rode back to Dundaff. She protested that she could certainly ride, but MacLaren smiled and said she would not be getting away from him that easily. Silly man; she had no intention of getting away. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his strong arms around her. She pressed her face into his neck to breathe in his scent and wrinkled her nose.

  "Ye need a bath." But Aila must not have minded it overmuch, because soon she leaned into him again.

  "It will have to wait." MacLaren urged his mount off the trail and into the dense forest.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Somewhere we can be alone."

  Memories of the last time MacLaren had taken her into the forest to be alone flooded back to her. Heat flushed across her skin and she inhaled quickly. She tried to snuggle closer to the man who held her, but the steel plated cuirass was a bit unsatisfying. They rode a little way until coming to a secluded spot. Trees surrounded the glen, and shafts of sunlight shone down through the leaf canopy.

  MacLaren dismounted and helped Aila do the same, not releasing her once her feet were on the ground. Aila wrapped her arms around his chest and pressed into him. With all his armor, it was like hugging a tree trunk.

  "I need to undress a wee bit," said MacLaren with a slow smile, removing the harness that held his claymore.

  "Here?" asked Aila.

  "Here," said MacLaren as he removed his surcoat.

  "Now?" Aila's eyes gleamed.

  "Now." MacLaren spoke with authority.

  MacLaren deftly unlaced his shoulder armor. Aila had enjoyed watching him dress. She was enjoying this more. MacLaren had more difficulty unlacing the plates at his elbows, giving Aila time to ponder their encounter with the abbot.

  "Why did ye agree to give away the land to the Church?" Aila asked in a small voice, wondering if he would be angered at her for speaking for him.

  MacLaren shrugged without halting his work. "If I had not given it up, it would have been a fight 'tween me and the abbot. No' that I would mind dispatching that bastard, but the Church would no doubt take offense at his death. Giving up the land was the only way to leave wi' ye and no' be excommunicated for it."

  "So it was right for me to speak so?"

  MacLaren released the plates from one of his arms and began to work on the other. Aila chewed her lip and waited for his response.

  "Aye, lass," he grumbled, "ye did well."

  Aila hugged herself and smiled as the warmth of his words washed over her. For MacLaren, this was high praise indeed.

  "But yer clan," she asked, "what will ye do for them if ye dinna have my dowry?"

  "I pledged yer dower lands to the Church, no' the coin." With some fierce tugging, the plates on his arms gave way. "Yer father was most generous with yer fortune, and I warrant I can buy more land when I need it
. And I plan on keeping yer mother hale and hearty so our bairns will inherit all o' Dundaff someday."

  Aila smiled. It would all be well. Her smile broad ened, thinking on his desire to keep her mother content. It would ne'er work, but it would please her mother immensely to have someone try. "I've ne'er felt so happy."

  "Ah, but I hope I can amend that. I plan to make ye happier still," MacLaren said in a husky voice then cursed as he tried to remove his cuirass, which was strapped across his chest and tied in the back.

  "Do ye… Can I help?"

  MacLaren struggled a bit more before surrendering. "Aye, I've ne'er tried to undress wi'out the help o' my squire."

  "I would be most honored to assist." Aila curtseyed and set about to help him undress. Unfortunately, she proved to be a very poor squire and struggled with the lacing.

  "Hurry," MacLaren commanded. It did not sound as if his patience would hold much longer.

  "What kind o' knot 'tis this? My word, but I've made it worse."

  "Take my dirk to it."

  "Nay, wait, I've got it." The cuirass fell to the ground. MacLaren heaved the mail hauberk over his head, and it fell with a clank. With determination, Aila set to work on the cuisses tied to his thighs. She knelt before him, head bowed, intent on her work. MacLaren took several deep breaths. He groaned, put his hand on the top of her head, and cursed violently in French.

  Aila looked up at him reproachfully. "I do speak French, ye ken."

  "My apologies." MacLaren ran his hands through his hair and looked up at the sky, taking several more deep breaths. Aila bent back at her work.

  "Have ye got it yet?" His voice was harsh.

  Aila started at his tone. "No' yet. I am trying my best."

  "Have ye e'er seen a grown man cry?" MacLaren asked, his voice raw.

  Aila looked up at him, unsure.

  "Ye're about to if ye dinna unlace me quick."

  Aila tried to hide a smile. "Maybe we should return to Dundaff for yer squire."

  "I am in earnest. I will cry."

  "Yer squire is quite the demon wi' a knot," commented Aila.

  "Take a blade to it."

  "I might hurt ye."

  "No' any more than ye are right now. By the saints, lass, give me my knife." MacLaren grabbed a blade and proceeded to cut the laces of his Italian armor. Aila put up her hands to stifle a giggle. He was so dear, cursing himself blue, trying to contort around to release himself from his own gear. When he removed his arming doublet, she gasped. Bright red blood gleamed on a fresh white bandage.

  "What happened?" She had seen injured men before, but the sight of MacLaren's blood made her a bit sick.

  "Joust with the Duke of Argitaine. My tussle wi' the abbot must have ripped the stitches."

  "Och, ye poor dear. We should return to Dundaff and get it tended."

  Standing now in naught but linen drawers, MacLaren stopped his work and looked at her. "I swear to ye, if ye deny me now, my only recourse will be to throw myself on my own sword."

  Aila smiled slowly. "I'd hate to be the death o' ye."

  "No doubt ye will be, but no' today. Come here."

  She went willingly into his arms and sank into his embrace. He smelled distinctly male, a musky scent of sweat, whiskey, and blood. MacLaren pulled back slightly and stared into her eyes.

  "Why did ye choose me o'er life at the convent?" MacLaren asked, his gray eyes intense.

  "I found I loved ye more." Aila bit her lip. Had she said that out loud? She looked away, unwilling to see distrust or mockery.

  Slowly he pushed aside a stray lock of hair, his fingers gliding along her hairline. His touch tingled on her skin, sending ripples through her like a smooth stone thrown into calm waters. With his thumb, he lightly traced down the side of her face and brushed across her lower lip. Her heart quickened, beating with every ripple of sensation. She looked up, her lips parted.

  "Ye love me." His eyes never left hers. It was more than a statement of truth; it was a command.

  She twined her arms around his neck and closed her

  eyes. His kiss was soft and warm. She wanted more. She slid her fingers up through his hair and pulled him down to her, deepening the kiss. He growled low and needy, lifting her off the ground and kissing her thoroughly. By the time her feet touched the ground again, the world swirled around her in patches of bright color, and she was glad he held her close, for she was not sure she could stand.

  But still… but still, he had not said he loved her.

  Aila's own clothes proved much easier to remove, and MacLaren had divested her of her gown before she quite knew what was happening. His linen drawers and her chemise took but a moment more to remove, and she shivered at the new sensation of standing naked as the trees surrounded them.

  MacLaren said nothing, but spread her chemise on the grass and pulled her down onto it with him. He moved slowly, as if not wanting to spook a skittish filly, his eyes never leaving hers. She blushed at being so exposed, but soon she was completely covered with a warm male blanket. She gasped at the sensation, so much of her touching so much of him. Aila ran her hands over his bulging arms and down his back. Everything about him was muscular and hard.

  MacLaren groaned. "Ah, but ye are beautiful." He nuzzled her neck and rocked his hips on hers. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, and she was suddenly very glad she had decided against the vow of chastity. His demanding kiss, hot and urgent, made her doubly sure of her choice. She returned his kiss and felt the world start to spin again. Good thing she was lying down.

  Whatever he was doing, she wanted more of it.

  She threaded her fingers through his hair. She ran her fingers down his back. She pulled him closer until…

  "Ow!" Oh, but that hurt. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face to the side, determined to bear it silently. Padyn stopped, resting his head beside hers on the ground. Aila breathed deeply, feeling her senses heighten. The wind lightly rustled the leaves of the trees above them and the birds sang softly. Sunlight filtered down through the trees like golden ribbons from the heavens. She felt the broad shoulders of her husband begin to shake.

  "Are ye… well?" she whispered, wondering if she had done something wrong.

  "Aye." His voice was raw and anguished. "I love ye so much. I dinna wish to hurt ye, but I want ye something fierce."

  Aila inhaled sharply at his revelation. "Ye love me?"

  "Aye," growled Padyn slowly.

  "Ye love me?" she said louder, a smile reaching to her toes.

  MacLaren lifted his head, looking at her with a frown. "Aye, that's what I said."

  Tension and fear and pain slid away, and she felt flushed with a joy she thought beyond her grasp. "Ye love me!"

  "Hush, woman, ye're disturbing the trees."

  Aila giggled and hugged him with arms and legs. "Ye," she whispered, planting a small kiss on one of his cheeks, "love"—she kissed the other cheek— "me." She kissed him softly on the lips.

  MacLaren groaned and deepened the kiss, starting to move again. Aila surrendered to the sensation, feeling one with the creative force around and within her. Ripples of sight and sound coursed through her until the world around her faded away, and all that existed in the world was her and Padyn and the urgent tension that was building between them. She dug her fingers into his back, desperate for something, until all the colors and sounds smashed back into her. She arched and cried out, her own voice drowned by the primal roar of her husband.

  Padyn collapsed on top of her, utterly still. Aila panted for breath, finding it hard to breathe with his weight on top of her. Had she killed him?

  "Padyn?" She received no answer. "Do ye live?"

  He moaned and rolled over, taking her with him. "I knew ye would be the death o' me."

  She cuddled to him, laying her head on his chest. She was warm and happy. She smiled her first wicked smile. "Och, look, Padyn, the trees are gone. Ye scared them off wi' all your bellowing."

  Padyn opened hi
s eyes, confused. Aila started to giggle.

  "Daft woman," he muttered, yet his lips twitched into a smile, and a rumbling sound came from his throat.

  "Are ye laughing?"

  "I ne'er laugh." But the low rumble continued, and soon her pillow started to convulse, he was laughing so hard. He held her closer, and they laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto his chest. Spent and sated, she sighed contentedly.

  "I love ye, Padyn."

  "Aila," he said, speaking her name with a low contented purr that sent aftershocks shivering to her core, "saints preserve me, but I love ye, too."