Highland Spitfire

by Mary Wine

  “She was off in the woods with Lye Rob.”

  Symon crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye know, it’s a fine good thing ye are nae jealous of the lass.”

  Bhaic growled and shoved his friend, but Symon only rocked back on his heels, regaining his balance with a smirk. “Ye’re so busy being mad at the facts that have landed her in yer hand, ye have forgotten to look at what a pretty little treat she is.”

  “Shut yer mouth, Symon.”

  Symon raised one finger instead. “On second thought…”

  “The devil take ye,” Bhaic said. “I’ve got a fine memory. Mark me words, yer day is coming, me friend. The day when a lass twists yer insides with naught more than a look.”

  His friend sobered. “It’s that intense?”

  The disbelief in his friend’s tone was only a fraction of what Bhaic felt. He looked at Ailis, his gaze running along the length of blond hair cascading down her back. She had a pert nose and twin dimples in her cheeks. But it was her curves that made him ache the worst. His cock began to stiffen again, hardening enough to press against the heavy wool of his kilt. The damned thing had risen too quickly and too often at the sight of Ailis.

  Of course, she was his wife.

  That fact made his lust far less unseemly, at least in theory.

  But the application was going to be tricky.

  His lips twitched.

  He tried to fend off his amusement. There really were too many complications waiting for them if they tried to make a go of their marriage.

  But all he wanted to do was grin at the jest fate was dealing him. All of his adult life, he’d been told chasing skirts was a sin. Now he had a wife, one the church would agree was his for the taking, but she was the only woman in the Highlands he had no business craving.

  His enemy’s daughter.

  The ghosts of his grandfather and great-grandfather were no doubt planning a nighttime appearance to let him know what they thought about him bringing a Robertson bride home.

  Even the thought of the specters wasn’t enough to cool his passion.

  But all the passion in the Highlands didn’t make for a good marriage.

  * * *

  “I’m drunk,” Liam Robertson declared.

  Ailis studied her father for a moment. “No, ye are nae,” she corrected him gently. “Ye never drink so much that yer wits desert ye.”

  Her father sniffed, a guilty flush darkening his complexion. “Well now, Daughter, ye do know me well. The times have been few, and only yer brothers were present.”

  “How would ye know?” Ailis questioned. “If yer wits were dulled, how would ye recall the number of times?”

  Her father puffed up. “Because of Highlander honor!”

  “Aye, honor.” The word left a sour taste in her mouth. She would be upholding the family honor in a far different way.

  Her father sighed. “Are ye sure ye want to do this, lass? It’s true I planned to decide the matter of yer future soon, but I would nae see ye frightened of yer groom.”

  “I am nae frightened of Bhaic.”

  At least not completely scared of the man.

  That would have to do.

  Her father raised one of his gray brows. “Bhaic, is it?” He frowned. “I’m nae so sure I like the way that name crosses yer lips so easily.”

  She felt her own face darkening, and lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “We are wed.”

  “No, ye aren’t,” her father stated firmly. “Words uttered by a servant of God do nae make ye wed. Nae in the Highland tradition. Ye be married, I agree with that, but to be wed, the union must be consummated.”

  There was a question in her father’s tone, which the answer to might set her free, but it would also start the fighting again.

  “Ye would have chosen a groom for me based on alliances.”

  “Aye,” her father agreed.

  Ailis looked past her father at the men who were still enjoying the newly forged peace. “MacPherson and Robertson retainers at ease in one another’s company, it’s a fine alliance.”

  But it also reminded her of just how little she factored into the arrangement. Bhaic didn’t value her, only what she brought to his clan.

  As if that’s anything new when it comes to marriages…

  It wasn’t, and she needed to stop thinking like a child. A laird’s daughter kept her mind on what she might do for her clan.

  Ailis nodded.

  “Ye look as though ye are trying to convince yerself, Daughter.”

  She resisted the urge to shrug and stood steady. “It is the first time I’ve had to face such an arrangement, and it is a bit…sudden. I will do just fine.”

  It was also intense, the way Bhaic affected her.

  “Aye, it is sudden,” her father agreed and hugged her tight.

  His embrace was a familiar one, and it almost broke her control. But she managed a smile when he released her and turned around to face her future.

  The sight of two MacPherson retainers behind her made her pause.

  “You’ll be watched…”

  Of course she would be. The peace was too new, too fragile to chance her being scooped up by a rival clan.

  Highlanders.

  She was one of them, proud of who she was, but for the moment, she was sick unto death of their feuding ways.

  But her feelings were irrelevant. She was the vessel used to secure peace.

  So she would have to play her part.

  She was a Robertson, and she was no coward.

  * * *

  MacPherson Castle.

  Ailis stared at the dark stone structure, absorbing the reality of seeing something no one else in her clan ever had. It had towers that rose four stories, and at least four of them, from what she could see. It was perched on the edge of a peninsula that jutted out into a huge loch. The dark water surrounded the structure on three sides, making it rather ominous.

  They rode through the village in front of the entrance to the castle. People came out of their homes to see the laird returning, but they glared. The dress she’d been so excited to wear to the festival this morning felt revealing, her unbound hair some sort of sin.

  A few of the clansmen leaned over and spit when she passed, the scowls on their faces making their position clear.

  She bit her lower lip and forced her chin level.

  Her mare felt her discontentment, pulling on her reins and trying to refuse to follow the line of MacPherson retainers. Ailis reached down and patted her neck gently, wishing it would be so easy for someone to reassure her.

  The memory of Bhaic kissing her neck surfaced.

  But that only served to unsettle her more.

  By the time they reached the gate, her heart was racing. Her lungs were working hard to keep pace. Her mare carried her beneath the huge gates into a massive keep at the center of the castle. Women were spilling out of its huge double doors, calling out to the returning men. Children clung to their mothers’ skirts, older ones coming down some of the steps as Shamus and his captains happily smiled and began to dismount.

  The cries suddenly died away. Shamus looked up at the women, trying to deduce what had deflated their joy. He followed their stares to Ailis.

  “Aye,” he said as he climbed up the steps of the keep. “Me son’s wife. Ailis Robertson.”

  That seemed to be the extent of the welcome he could manage. Her name drew more than one hiss. She slid down from her mare and ended up facing a young lad, maybe ten years old. He was one of a small army of boys who had rushed out to take the horses. He stared, his jaw hanging open and his hands frozen in midair on the way to take the mare’s reins.

  “Here now.” Bhaic suddenly appeared, thumping the boy on the back. “It’s a horse, lad. I’m pret
ty sure horses do nae have clans. Get on with yer duties.”

  The boy jumped, his cheeks darkening with the reprimand before he grabbed the reins and led the mare away.

  It left her facing Bhaic. He’d hooked his hands into his belt and stood contemplating her. Around them, activity stopped, everyone waiting to see what would happen.

  Well, at least she was not the only one trying to decide what to make of their union.

  He offered her his hand. There was naught to do but take it; still, she felt as if every muscle she had was frozen. The tension around them tightened. She forced herself to move, lifting her hand and placing it into his waiting one.

  The connection of their flesh made her shudder.

  He turned and led her through the frozen ranks of retainers and up the stairs of the keep. The women parted, but what turned her stomach was the way they pulled their children behind them.

  “This is Duana, me father’s Head of House. She’ll see to ye.”

  Duana wasn’t pleased with her assignment. The older woman was plump, and surely her features could be called kindly. At least when she wasn’t scowling.

  Bhaic gave her only a short nod before moving away down one of the passageways with the rest of his father’s captains.

  Which left her facing Duana.

  The woman’s lips were pressed into a hard line. She had dark eyes, and dark hair peeked out from beneath the linen cap she wore. Her apron had several spots on it, and the scent of fresh bread clung to her skirts, but that was the extent of welcome coming from her.

  “God save me,” Duana uttered, but the heavens were silent, leaving her staring at Ailis. “Come along,” Duana said with a jerk of her head. She didn’t wait for a reply but turned and started down a passageway. The sun was sinking, making the passageways dark. No one had lit the lanterns hanging every so often from large iron hooks.

  Ailis shivered.

  It was a silly, childish response. Robertson Castle looked very much the same at twilight. Yet tonight, it felt as though the darkness was creeping up the walls from the shadows to engulf her.

  “This will do ye well enough.”

  Duana fit a key from the large ring that hung from her belt into a door and turned it. Ailis tried to control the urge to gag.

  The door had a lock on the outside of the room?

  Her mind was racing, jumping to conclusions that were horrifying. The Head of House grunted when the lock opened. “Go on with ye. I’ve supper to see to getting served.”

  Duana was gone with a grumble.

  At least she wasn’t going to be locked into the room.

  Stop being childish.

  The door had stopped half-open. She pushed it open and saw nothing but darkness. There wasn’t a window in the room at all. The air was musty from the door being closed. Moving inside, Ailis used the little light left in the passageway to investigate her surroundings.

  It was a modest room, to say the least. The reason for the lock became clear as she looked at one side of the room and saw a long worktable there. On it were stored several boxes and lengths of fabric. She moved over to it, smiling when she spotted a small pewter plate with a pile of dry thatch on it. Lying on the edge of the plate was a flint and a length of iron. A half-burned candle was there as well.

  Ailis picked up the flint and struck it. Sparks flew, dropping down into the tinder. She blew softly on it until a taper of smoke rose and at last a flame. She held the candle to it, smiling when it lit.

  “That’s better.”

  Her voice echoed around the room, if she could really even call it a room.

  Well, do nae call it a cell…

  No, that would only clear the way for her resolve to crumble. And honestly, that was all she had. So holding tight was essential.

  On the other side of the room…

  She smiled and walked across the bare stones that covered the floor to where a bed frame sat. Rope was threaded through it to support a pallet.

  Better than a hard cot…

  Better?

  She snorted. There was nothing better about the entire room.

  And she wasn’t going to stomach it.

  But when she turned, her hair fluttered like a wave. That stopped her. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she’d need to look the part. At the moment, she looked like a half-grown child. Certainly not the new mistress. Little wonder the Head of House thought it a simple matter to humble her in such a way.

  Well, Ailis would just have to set her mind to showing Duana that she was woman enough to take her place.

  She went back to the table and opened the boxes. One held an assortment of sewing tools. Tiny silver needles that she couldn’t help but admire. There was also a fine pair of cutting shears that had been recently sharpened. More than five dozen pins and an entire box of fancy silk threads for embroidery.

  Little wonder the room was locked.

  The fabric was all linens. Lightweight, thicker ones, but all of it intended for shirts and chemises. There was a box that had all the scraps folded neatly inside, to be made up into caps or used for patching.

  She opened another box and smiled when she spied a comb and small mirror. There were hairpins too, and several cosmetics. Ailis ended up unrolling the pallet and sitting down on it, because the only other item in the room was a stool she perched the mirror on. Her hair was tangled from being down all day. It took some time to work the comb through it and braid it.

  By the time she’d finished, her temper had cooled. She replaced the items and sat down on the bed to think. It was all well and good to march into the kitchens and demand her place. Bhaic could hardly blame her.

  Or would he?

  Honestly, she knew very little about him. What did he want from their marriage?

  Peace?

  Aye. That was their common ground, yet it was a very undefined thing. Clearly Duana didn’t think very highly of her presence. No, she would have to think hard and long about how she was going to approach winning the respect of the MacPhersons. Demanding her place was her right, but such would be expected.

  Far better to earn her place. It would take time and resolve.

  She giggled, rolling back onto the pallet as she dissolved into a fit of laughter. Never, ever had she thought she’d be contemplating how to impress MacPhersons!

  God had a very funny sense of humor, it seemed.

  * * *

  “I’ve been lied to.”

  Bhaic turned his head as his half brother sat down next to him. Marcus was older than him by six seasons and the product of a handfast that hadn’t made it to marriage. His bonnet had one black feather raised on it, proclaiming his status as War Chief.

  Marcus flattened his hand on the table. “I was told there was a Robertson in this castle. A pockmarked hag, with blackened teeth and breath that could make a demon faint—”

  “Ailis is nae—”

  “I am no’ finished, little brother,” Marcus interrupted. “She has hair as course as straw and the shriveled mounds of a grandmother. So”—he pounded the tabletop—“where is this creature you’ve been saddled with? Ye know I enjoy watching ye suffer.”

  Shamus looked down the table. “Aye…where is the lass? Did ye leave her passed out in yer bed already? She’ll have to be building up some strength if she’s going to be yer wife.” His father chuckled. “Just like me, he is! A beast with the lassies.”

  The captains at the table roared. Bhaic didn’t join them. Marcus was the only one to notice, his brother’s face sobering.

  “Mistress Duana,” Bhaic said.

  The Head of House looked up from where she was directing two serving girls behind his father.

  “Where is me wife?”

  Duana’s expression tightened. “I did nae know she needed s
hepherding. Forgive me. Me attention was taken up by prayers for me murdered husband.”

  There were grumbles in the hall from those listening in. The name Robertson was spat out.

  “My marriage is about making sure there is nae any more blood spilled.” Bhaic stood up, his body tight with fury. “Now, what manner of welcome did ye give to me bride?”

  Duana lost a little of her confidence, but only so far as to look somewhat less than annoyed. It was a far cry from being ashamed of her lack of attention. “I took her on down to one of the sewing cells. Making yer shirts is a fine place for a Robertson to begin life here. She has much to atone for.”

  There were chuckles in response. Bhaic sent a hard look toward some of his father’s captains. They didn’t suffer his reprisal gracefully. One of them, known as Angus, spit on the floor in open protest.

  “There will be no more of that.” Shamus spoke solemnly. His father glared at his captains. “She’s a lass. One doing her duty. So she’ll be given the respect such deserves.”

  “If she has no’ the courage to face this hall, I say send her home before she whelps weakling babes,” Angus said.

  “I apologize for being late.”

  The hall went quiet. Bhaic froze as Ailis made her way down the center aisle. His father’s retainers glared at her.

  Damned if she didn’t ignore them all.

  Bhaic found himself watching her with pride. She made her way forward at a steady pace, stopping only when she made it to the base of the stairs that led up to the laird’s table. Her expression hardened just a tiny amount before she lowered herself.

  His father grunted. “See now? There’s the lass.”

  “A truly hideous hag…” Marcus muttered under his breath. “I’ll weep for yer fate.”

  Ailis had put her hair up. Somehow, she looked more mature, more confident. When she made it to his side, Bhaic realized she’d used a light coating of cosmetics too. Gone was the allure of innocence that seemed to define her, and in its place was a promise of something very enticing.

  The scent of a woman.

  “Weep for yer own fate, Marcus,” Bhaic said softly, “for she belongs to me.”