by Mary Wine
“Join Mistress Ailis in the front pew,” the earl ordered.
Bhaic smiled, showing off even white teeth, and crossed his arms over his chest. He had his shirtsleeves pulled up, granting her a view of his muscular arms. A touch of heat stroked her cheeks, and she looked back at the earl.
“Shoot me where I stand,” Bhaic taunted. “If ye’ve got the balls to.”
“Mind yer mouth, MacPherson, me daughter is present.”
Bhaic shrugged. “I am nae the fool who brought a woman along.”
“The Regent is the one who insisted me daughter come along!” her father protested. “For a man who thinks we Highlanders are stuck in the Middle Ages, Lord Morton, ye are the one acting like a savage. I never thought to question the terms of yer message as if ye were some sort of English scum.”
“I find myself agreeing with Laird Robertson.” Bhaic sat back down in defiance of the earl’s demand. “So now that I am completely disgusted, what do ye want, Regent?”
“An end to this feud,” the earl informed them.
A ripple went through the sanctuary, the scuffing of boot heels against the stone floor as the men shifted, the reality of their long feud shaming more of them than would be willing to admit it was so.
The earl didn’t miss it either.
“The crown and the king will no longer tolerate unrest in the Highlands,” Morton informed them.
“What are ye planning to do?” her father demanded. “Kill us all?” He chuckled ominously. “Ye’ll nae be the first nobleman who fails at that task.”
The abbey was full of laughter, the sound bouncing between the dark stone walls.
“Come here, mistress,” the earl demanded.
Ailis wanted to refuse, but that felt cowardly. Bhaic was standing up to the man, so she would as well.
“Stay where ye are, Daughter,” her father ordered.
She stood, earning another round of laughter from the MacPhersons.
“Seems ye are as good at teaching yer children respect as ye are at fighting, Robertson!”
Ailis turned around, her skirts flying up to reveal her ankles. She glared at Bhaic MacPherson.
“I am no more afraid of this lowlander than ye are,” she said in a tone that would have pleased even her stern tutor. Her chin was steady and her voice even without a hint of sharpness, just clear determination.
The grin on his face faded, and for just a moment, his expression became one of approval. But she turned and walked toward the earl. She had to fend off the impulse to perform a reverence, because it was such an ingrained courtesy. But he would not receive such politeness from her—even if he was a nobleman. There were plenty who would warn her against such prideful ways, but she had been raised in the Highlands. Respect was earned. And the earl had abandoned polite behavior, so she would as well.
She spoke evenly once more. “I’ll not be lowering meself before a man who ordered a blade put to me throat.”
His lips twitched in response. For a moment, he studied her, running his gaze up and down her length. When his gaze met with hers again, there was a pleased look flickering in them. He was different than the other noblemen she’d met. There was a rough edge to him that struck a warning bell inside her. He was ruthless and unashamed of it. This man had not been raised with servants trailing his heels. He’d dirtied his hands more than once. She was certain of it.
That made him very dangerous.
“Look through those windows, mistress, and tell me what you see.”
A knot was tightening in her belly, pulling tighter as she turned and looked where he pointed. Beyond the sides of the abbey, there were more of the earl’s men, set apart by their britches. They held a line of horses steady beneath thick tree branches; more men stood ready with nooses above the animals.
She felt as though her throat was closing shut.
“Have you lost your courage, Lady?” the earl inquired.
“I have nae,” she countered, but her voice cracked, betraying her horror.
“Enough. Let the lass be.” Bhaic stood back up. “If ye want a fight, man, I’ll be happy to give it to ye, since ye’ve gone to so much trouble to get us all here.”
“Like hell!” her father shouted. “She’s me daughter, and I’ll be the one doing the fighting, since me sons are nae here.”
Ailis gulped down a breath and fought to find her strength before her father lunged across the pews at Bhaic—and unleashed a bloodbath.
“There is a row of horses with nooses dangling above the empty saddles,” Ailis forced out. “Every detail set for an execution.”
The abbey went silent as her words reached every last man. All hints of teasing dissipated, and more than one man looked at the gunners and began to judge his chances. Better to die trying to live than wait for someone to slap the flank of a horse while you felt the bite of the noose around your neck.
“This feud ends here,” the earl informed them. “None of ye recall the reason it began.”
“I do,” her father insisted. “It was a MacPherson who murdered me grandfather.”
“Only after he tried to steal the bride of me own grandfather!” Shamus MacPherson argued, pointing at Liam Robertson. “But it was the money he was trying to steal the most.”
“Me kin are nae thieves!” her father roared. “She found yer grandfather’s bed cold, and that’s a fact!”
Suddenly the men in the pews didn’t care about the guns trained on them. They were ready to tear one another limb from limb. Over three hundred Highlanders began to surge to their feet, but a blast from one of the muskets sobered them. The scent of the black powder was thick, mixing with the beeswax lingering from the morning mass.
“You will end this feud,” the earl demanded. “Scotland needs unity. England’s virgin queen is earning the wrath of most of the continent with her Protestant ways. If we do not want to find ourselves invaded, we will present a united front to the rest of the world. There will be peace between the MacPhersons and the Robertsons so we might all be Scots.”
“I suppose if ye hang us all, there might be.” It was Bhaic who spoke up, his voice strong and steady.
“I find meself agreeing with a MacPherson,” her father groused. “May me father forgive me and no’ rise from his grave to torment me.”
The earl was looking at Ailis. She felt the weight of his gaze, the knot in her belly becoming unbearable.
“Your father’s fate is in your hands, mistress. I leave the choice to you, since they are still intent on fighting, even with the odds clearly against them.”
“I am one person,” she answered slowly, a tingle touching her nape. “What is it ye suggest I do?”
The earl offered her a direct look. One that left no doubt in her mind as to how deadly serious he was. If she failed, he’d hang her kin as she watched. She swallowed the lump lodged in her throat.
“Ye are the laird’s daughter. Alliances are made through highborn daughters,” the earl informed her. He pointed at the altar. “Kneel and take vows of marriage with Bhaic MacPherson, or watch your father and his captains hang. Either way, you shall kneel in prayer.”
She gagged. Her jaw fell open, and she couldn’t seem to close it. So she clasped a hand over her mouth, trying not to retch.
“She will nae do it,” her father snarled.
“Me son will have no part of any wedding with a Robertson!” Shamus MacPherson declared from the pews.
The earl gripped her arm and sent her stumbling toward the priests.
The earl spoke directly to Bhaic. “Then your son will live with the knowledge that he sentenced you and your captains to their deaths. My marksmen have been told whom to spare. If you choose death, your son will live with the knowledge that he stood by and allowed it to happen.”
The gunners wer
e looking down the length of their muskets, the smoldering rope they used to touch off the powder in their weapons held securely in their fingers. They had the ends of those deadly guns cradled in iron holders to help bear the weight and make sure their aim was true. She could see the men in the pews, all trying to calculate their odds of escaping. The first one to move would die; the only chance to flee would be during the melee.
It was a sickening thought, but one she couldn’t dismiss. Highlanders had died in groups before, and at the hands of their fellow Scots too. She looked out the windows at the horses, the nooses nauseating her again.
She looked back over her shoulder at Bhaic.
He was everything she detested. Hardened. Huge. Devil-dark hair and ice-cold blue eyes. Her father’s sworn enemy, and his father hated her. He was glaring at her, hatred tightening his features. She fought to keep her own revulsion from showing.
She had to. The earl would keep his word. She had no doubt on that matter. None at all.
“It is a simple enough choice, madam. Prayers for the living or for the dead. Make your choice,” the earl instructed her.
What a poor marriage it would be. Bhaic hated her: not her nature, but her blood.
But she couldn’t be so selfish.
Better to be hated than live with bloodstained hands.
She climbed to the altar and forced herself to kneel. It felt as though her knees broke beneath the effort. Staying there took every last bit of self-control she had.
“A most sensible choice,” the earl muttered.
“Me son will nae be wedding that Robertson,” Shamus MacPherson insisted.
“That’s on account of the fact that MacPhersons are too bloody selfish to think of anything but their own gain,” Ailis’s father announced. “Me daughter is near gagging, but she will nae put herself above me life. Curse and rot ye, Morton, for using a lass so.”
“Me son is naught to gag over!” Shamus growled. “I’ve got plenty of offers.”
“And the only one that matters is mine,” the earl interrupted. “I offer to end this feud through a marriage, or wipe out the lot of you who continue to persist in fighting over something your grandparents did. Captain, make ready to fire.”
“Ye’ll have yer way, Lord Morton.”
Ailis flinched, the timbre of Bhaic’s tone cutting through her resolve. Panic was trying to take hold of her, the urge to bolt almost overwhelming. She gripped handfuls of her skirt, squeezing until her fingers ached.
“At least today ye will,” Bhaic stated, “because ye are right about one thing: I will nae stand here and watch me clansmen die while I do nae face the same danger. But I say ye are a coward to fight yer battles through the use of a woman and a musket leveled at me father.”
“Alliances have been made through marriage since the dawn of time. Even in the Highlands,” the earl said. “Ye’ll wed that girl and end this feud because your children will share blood.”
Children…
Oh, hellfire. They would have to beget those babes together.
She couldn’t lay with Bhaic MacPherson!
Ailis started to stand, losing the battle to kneel so submissively. She could feel Bhaic closing the distance. Her heart was pounding, feeling as if it might burst.
But a hard hand caught her wrist before she made it very far off the hassock. Bhaic cursed low and long in Gaelic, earning a scathing look from the priest.
“Keep yer hands off me,” she hissed and jerked her hands in front of her.
He cut her a mocking look as the priest began the opening prayer. “That will make for an agreeable marriage as far as I am concerned,” he replied.
She felt the color drain from her face. Ailis looked toward the priest, but seeing him perform the motions of the sacrament of marriage gave her no relief at all. She glanced back toward Bhaic, and saw once again the horses waiting beneath the row of nooses.
Trapped.
She was caught, just like a rabbit.
It was a horrible feeling, made even worse by the sight of Bhaic MacPherson kneeling next to her. His tartan was something she’d been raised to hate and fear. She’d seen many a widow weeping because his clan had fought with hers. The great hall of Robertson Castle rang with curses against them so often, the priest on Robertson land no longer gave out penance for them.
And she was wedding the worst one of all. The laird’s son, the next leader of raids against her own kin. At least he didn’t want to touch her. But he reached down and squeezed her hand. She jumped and made eye contact. His eyes were a startling blue. Not the color of the summer sky, but a vibrant blue that struck her as more intense.
“The priest is waiting,” he growled, startling her back into the moment.
She looked at the priest and nodded, because she couldn’t recall what he’d asked her. The older man frowned but smoothed out his expression quickly.
“Ye must answer with yer voice,” he admonished softly. “Do ye swear to be an obedient wife?”
She bit her lip, rebellion flashing through her. But it was followed quickly by the memory of the horses and the waiting nooses. “Aye.” She had to force the word past her lips. It practically stung. For the first time in her life, she doubted she was going to be able to keep her promise.
She was lying in the house of God.
Breaking a commandment.
And all because of the MacPhersons.
“Aye.” Bhaic’s voice broke through her mental turmoil, the harsh note in his voice grating on her pride.
Why should he be so furious? The answer was simple: she was as hated on his land as he was on hers. The idea punctured her anger and left her feelings unguarded.
As much as she’d not been in a hurry to wed, kneeling beside a groom that detested her had never worried her. Her father had always placed her tender feelings above cold-blooded business transactions that might be sealed with a wedding.
The Earl of Morton was not adverse to such things, apparently.
The priest elevated the golden chalice and brought it toward them. Her throat felt swollen tight, but the burn of the wine made its way down to her stomach anyway. The last of the Latin prayers echoed through the stone abbey as the priest made the sign of the cross in front of them.
“Go in peace.”
Ailis was certain she had never heard three more impossible words in her life. Bhaic jumped up as though the kneeling bench was studded with spikes. His kilt swayed back, giving her a glimpse of his hard thighs before it settled into place.
Why are ye looking at the man’s thighs?
She had no idea and chided herself for mentally lingering on something she saw often enough.
“I will be providing the wedding banquet,” Morton informed them.
More of the earl’s armed men surrounded Bhaic and took him off through the side of the abbey. They gestured her after him.
She went, but she refused to think of the man as her husband.
He was nothing of the sort.
He was a MacPherson.
* * *
The Earl of Morton knew how to celebrate.
The banquet was lavish. A short ride from the abbey took them to a tower belonging to the earl. His staff offered platters of new spring fruit, brought from the shipyards servicing lands far away, where spring came earlier than it did in the Highlands. A full boar had been roasted until it was golden brown, the scent teasing her nose, but Ailis refused to eat any of it.
She was not celebrating.
Bhaic seemed in agreement with her, leaving his plate untouched as the staff continued to carry in platters meant to tempt.
Below them, at the long tables that filled the hall, both of their kin brooded. The only relief from their scowls came when one of them gave in and tasted some of the rich fare offered, gr
inning as they tasted the fine food. Musicians played merry tunes in alcoves surrounding the hall. The tempo would have normally tempted Ailis to tap her foot, but she felt as stiff as a tree.
There was a pretty tablecloth beneath her plate and beeswax candles burning. Someone had made her a wreath of heather and greens for her hair, but she’d tossed it in front of her plate, and it sat there looking sad. Maybe she shouldn’t be so surly. The Head of House cast her a reprimanding look from where she was overseeing the banquet. It wasn’t hard to tell what the older woman was thinking. She was judging Ailis a brat. A girl in a woman’s body, still throwing tantrums because everything was not as she wished.
Life was often unkind. A wise person learned to take joy when they could find it.
The staff had no doubt been working for days to prepare the decorative foods being presented. Every dish set before her and Bhaic gleamed from recent polishing. Yet no one gave the staff any word of gratitude. All her kin wanted was to fight with the MacPhersons.
The MacPhersons had exactly the same thing on their minds. Scathing glances flew between tables as muffled curses mixed with the music. Ailis looked up at the musicians in the alcoves. Music was a rare treat. Most of the time, the days were too full of chores for anyone to have the inclination to play an instrument during supper, and here her kin were, wasting the moment. Ignoring the pleasures while they plotted more bloodletting.
Perhaps the earl had a point.
She felt guilty for even thinking it, but she could see the logic in ending the feud that had gone on for so many years.
Ailis sighed. She reached for the wreath and put it on.
“Pleased with yer circumstances after all?” Bhaic asked, cutting her a hard look. “Was this all a plot yer father hatched to further steal from the MacPhersons?”
