When a Laird Loves a Lady (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 1)
Page 3
“I imagine David told him. Gowan is Lord of the Isles, and as ye said before, the lass is his niece, though I dunnae think he’s ever met her.”
Rory Mac scratched at his chin, a contemplative look coming to his face. “Ye ken, Gowan likely didn’t argue David’s plot to ask ye to sacrifice yerself ’cause Gowan thinks binding ye in marriage with his niece will make ye feel a certain fealty to him.”
Iain had thought the same thing, and if it was true, Gowan was partially right. Once he was married to the MacDonald’s niece, Iain would join forces with the laird to defend the MacDonalds if the need arose, but the old laird was a clot-heid if he thought that would make Iain any less wary of the cunning laird trying to steal MacLeod lands.
“What do ye ken of the lass?”
“Nae verra much. Her name is Marion.” He turned the name of the faceless woman over in his mind. He felt nothing, except the inevitableness of the marriage. Perhaps David had done him a favor. Iain had no wish to marry, but he did have a duty as laird of the MacLeod clan to produce an heir. He’d tried to forget the duty, but David had pointedly reminded him. So now he’d marry some pale, pampered Sassenach who he’d not really like. At least he’d not make the same error again and fall in love with his wife. Loving and losing Catriona had nearly destroyed him. He had no wish to love like that again.
A Sassenach would never take the place of the beautiful, delicate wife, whom he’d vowed to keep from harm and had failed. He was safe from being bewitched by de Lacy’s daughter, but he’d treat the woman well, which was a great deal more than she could have expected from Froste. The thought made Iain grin.
“I may take no pleasure in remarrying,” he said, “but I take a sinful amount of pleasure in the fact that I’ll be relieving Froste of the woman he wants—or rather, the land and title he wants. The man deserves more for what he did to Neil, but this is a good start. Come, let’s pick up the pace. The quicker we collect my soon-to-be bride from her home, the faster we can be on our way to Scotland.”
As they rode through the day and into the night, Iain steeled himself for the likely tears from the Sassenach when she learned she was to marry a stranger, and a Scot at that, as well as the anger from de Lacy when he either realized or suspected that his king had checkmated him. It would be a boon if Froste was at de Lacy’s home when they arrived, and Iain could tell the knight to his face that he wouldn’t be getting his coveted land or a title.
By the time the castle came into view, Iain felt prepared for anything. Yet his lips parted in surprise at the thick, smoke-filled air that swirled around the castle, which stood high on a hill. The smell of burning wood drifted in the air from the bailey, from whence large flames flickered. The drawbridge from the bailey to the land beyond was down, and knights and servants swarmed across the length of the bridge and in front of the bailey. Torches of orange light peppered the darkness surrounding the source of the fire.
Iain stared at Rory Mac, who had already unhooked his sword from where it had been strapped on his mount. “Be ready,” Iain commanded, “but hold for my word. I’d rather nae fight my future wife’s father just yet, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“As ye wish,” Rory Mac said, in spite of his scowl. He was clearly itching for a fight, as he often was. He did not have a temper, but he certainly wasn’t afraid to yield when challenged, and that was one of the reasons he was so useful to Iain. The man would listen when told to hold, but he’d also fight to the death when ordered.
Rory Mac muttered under his breath, indicating he had more to say on the subject. “I say it’s best to have our weapons drawn. If King Edward is right in his suspicions, de Lacy and Froste may decide to kill us both to prevent their king from outmaneuvering them.”
Iain nodded, reaching for his own sword to make sure it was where it should be. It was, of course. “I dunnae think we need be worried at the moment. Openly defying King Edward’s orders would be akin to declaring war, and since they’ve no notice of this and, therefore, have been unable to make any preparations, I dunnae think they are foolish enough to do that. They’ll want, at the very least, to appear as if they are going to obey until they can gather their knights. Besides”—Iain flashed Rory Mac a grin—“the king gave us leave to kill either man if they try to kill us.”
Rory Mac scowled at Iain. “Ye might have said so.”
Iain chuckled. “I just did.”
“What other details should I ken?” Rory Mac asked, his tone impatient but amused.
“Well,” Iain said, drawing the word out just to annoy his friend, “we’re to make it seem as if King Edward did nae ken anything about the future marriage of de Lacy’s daughter and Froste, and that the king simply offered the woman to me as a sign of trust that he means to continue talks of David’s release.”
Rory Mac snorted. “We’re to lie?”
“Aye,” Iain scoffed. “Just like Englishmen.”
Both men laughed at that and spit toward the ground at the same time.
As they neared the first group of what appeared to be servants and a young page, a warning horn blasted from high above the hill where the lookout tower stood. Iain assumed the horn had sounded to signal their approach, and his hand automatically returned to the hilt of his sword. As the men drew closer, Iain quickly assessed them and concluded they were indeed likely servants. For one, they were weaponless, and for another, their dress was simple, as a servant’s would be. They wore woolen hose, hats, and thick, unadorned woolen coats. There was a woman, dressed in a plain skirt and cloak of the same material as the men. She was also weaponless. The woman’s wide eyes locked on him. Beside her stood a boy—no, a page—likely no more than a young lad by his slight build and hairless face. The cloth of his clothes was finer than the others’, and he had a dagger sheathed at his side, which he withdrew as he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders.
The woman grabbed for the boy’s arm, making his graceless attempt to quickly withdraw his weapon even more graceless. He shrugged off the woman’s hand. “Halt, Scot!” he demanded as two older men flanked his sides.
Iain bit back the laughter in his throat. “Sheathe yer weapon, ye young fool, before ye get yerself killed. I’m steady as a slow-trickling stream, but my companion is a nervous sort.” He tilted his head toward Rory Mac, who was clutching the hilt of his sword.
The boy’s eyes, brightened by the torches, moved from Rory Mac to Iain and finally settled there. “You really are a Scot!” the boy exclaimed, as if he thought his eyes might have deceived him. Hearing Iain’s thick brogue must have confirmed the poor lad’s fears.
It was an accusation, to be sure. Iain released the chuckle he’d been holding back. His merriment pierced the momentary silence around them. “Aye. I’m Iain MacLeod, laird of the MacLeod clan, and I’m here on business from yer king. Are the Baron de Lacy and his daughter in residence tonight?”
The boy’s face fell, and the older woman, who stood a few feet behind him now, burst into tears. The boy reached for the woman’s hand and clung to it as he glanced over his shoulder. When he turned back, worry pinched his young face. “The baron is approaching.”
Iain stared in the direction the lad had looked and heard the thundering of horses’ hooves as a line of knights came galloping across the bridge. Iain tensed, and he and Rory Mac exchanged a look of shared understanding—be prepared.
Twelve knights formed a V shape headed by a man of about fifty, Iain judged from his graying hair and weathered face. He rode a white mount, and his surcoat was adorned with a gold, fire-breathing dragon. The man Iain assumed to be the baron appeared to be expecting a battle by his dress. Either the king was correct in his suspicions or de Lacy was a man who liked to be ready for the unexpected at all times.
He pulled his destrier to a halt a handbreadth from Iain. The men behind him did the same. He swept his narrowed eyes over Iain, lingering on his sword. “I’m Baron de Lacy. What business have you here?”
“I’m here by the
“If you are the chief, where are your clansmen to defend you?” the baron demanded, his face showing no hint of how he felt about what Iain had just told him.
“I dunnae need defending when I travel, Baron. That is the sign of a weak man,” he added, disliking the baron more with each of the man’s words.
“A man surrounded by skilled knights is the sign of a strong lord,” the baron countered.
Iain was about to refute the man’s comment but thought better of it. His time was best spent on the road home, not being drawn into an argument. He shrugged. “We’re simply nae in accordance.” He withdrew the scroll sealed by King Edward and held it out. “This is for ye.”
The baron took the scroll, studied the seal, and opened it with the tip of a dagger he had produced. When he finished reading, he offered Iain a cold smile. “I’m afraid you’ve traveled here in vain.”
“Ye mean to defy yer king, then?” Iain asked, cutting his eyes to Rory Mac, who gave him an almost unnoticeable nod that he was ready to fight if needed.
“Of course not,” de Lacy replied, his words smooth—too smooth. They sounded measured to Iain. He studied the man and noted his hands gripping his horse’s reins so tightly that de Lacy’s knuckles were white. The man was angry, very angry, and very good at hiding it.
Baron de Lacy offered a thin-lipped smile. “I must admit King Edward’s decree does come as a surprise.”
Iain shrugged. “I’m afraid ye’ll have to take that matter up with yer king. But I strongly suggest ye produce yer daughter.”
Baron de Lacy’s mouth twisted wryly. “If you care to grab a torch and help search the sea for her body, I’ll be happy to let you take her back to Scotland with you.”
Iain stared at the baron for a minute before he responded. He was sure the man was telling him—without the slightest hint of sorrow—that his daughter had drowned, which explained the confusion in the outer keep, the torches, the people who looked as if they were searching for someone, and the woman’s tears of moments ago. What he didn’t know was whether her death was an accident or not. If not, then whoever had killed Marion de Lacy was now his sworn enemy. In spite of the fact that he’d never met her, she would have been his wife. The moment she had become his future wife, she was his to keep safe. If she had been murdered, it made no difference if the person had not known she was Iain’s. Ignorance changed nothing. He didn’t ever intend to fail to keep a woman that was his safe again. He didn’t care what Father Murdock kept telling him about Catriona’s death. It mattered not that he knew she’d been wracked with sickness all her life. His heart told him he should have been able to save her from anything—including herself.
He flicked his gaze to the inner bailey where smoke still rose up in the distance, and another possibility struck him. Had a fire been set to distract the knights so the Sassenach could be captured and whisked away? He would keep the thought to himself for a time. “Are ye thinking she was murdered?”
“No,” the baron replied, his voice indifferent. “There’s no Englishman fool enough to cross me.”
Iain didn’t miss the way the baron tapped the king’s scroll against his leg. The implication that there was one unnamed fool was apparent.
“Marion couldn’t swim,” de Lacy continued. “And the dim girl seems to have gotten too close to the sea cliff and fell over.” He drove a fist into the palm of his hand, then stilled, seeming to realize he was showing emotion. “Andrew there”—he pointed at a knight who hung his head in what appeared to be shame—“found her cloak, but he didn’t manage to find her. Did you, Andrew?”
The knight slowly looked up, his gaze settling on Iain. “I did not. I failed to keep her from all dangers.” His voice was hoarse and full of sorrow, and made Iain wonder if there had been something between this knight and the baron’s daughter.
Not that it mattered a great deal if she was dead.
“What makes ye sure she drowned?” Iain asked.
“Her cloak was found tangled in the tree brambles by the cliff’s edge. She was always a foolish girl. And now she has ruined—” He stopped and scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “Forgive me. I am simply distraught.”
The stiff words rang false. The man was not upset at all. Iain felt sure de Lacy was angry that he no longer had his daughter to entice Froste to join him in overthrowing the king. Iain also didn’t doubt that de Lacy would secure Froste’s allegiance some other way. He could still offer to make Froste a baron, and if de Lacy became king, he could easily grant Froste land. There would still be war between the king of England and de Lacy. Iain was sure. What he didn’t know was what new requirements King Edward would demand before he’d talk further of David’s release. Iain was certain his sword arm, and those of his men, would still be needed.
Iain eyed the baron for a long moment. The man sickened him. No loyalty meant no honor. And not loving your own child meant the man had a black heart. “I’m sorry for yer loss,” Iain managed to choke out through the offense compelling him to tell the baron what he thought of him.
“Yes, it’s a pity,” the man answered with no trace of sadness. “Her marriage to William Froste would have allied me with a great many knights. And of course,” he added, “her marriage to you would have pleased my king, and I always aim to please Edward.” Sarcasm rang through each word.
The man’s callousness further kindled Iain’s ire. The woman was dead, the marriage off. It was time to head for home. He’d been ordered by King Edward to send confirmation of the marriage through one of the king’s knights stationed with the Dominican Friars in Newcastle. Iain would abide by that plan, as he and David had talked of what to do if the marriage did not occur for some reason. David wished for Iain to go to Skye and speak with Gowan about securing funds to offer King Edward to come to the table of negotiations.
“We’ll be going now,” Iain said, “since ye’ll nae need our help searching for yer daughter’s body.”
“Do stay. I’m sure as a beastly Scot you enjoy a good beating, and I have several to deliver,” the baron said with a smirk.
“I dunnae enjoy the discipline of any man,” Iain replied through clenched teeth. Sometimes it was necessary but never pleasurable.
Beside him, Rory Mac, who had surprisingly held his tongue thus far, made a derisive noise from deep in his throat, implying without words what he thought of de Lacy.
“That’s a shame,” de Lacy replied, flicking his gaze to Rory Mac and then back to Iain. “The first one will be a good one. The man is stout as a tree. I would guess it will take twenty licks to attain a response. The idiot set fire to my stables.”
Iain frowned. “Purposely?”
“He says not, but he’s the stable master. He should know to be careful. If you care to stay, I’ll even let you have the first turn punishing him.” An odd smile pulled at de Lacy’s lips.
Iain knew plenty of leaders who enjoyed punishing their men, but he wasn’t one of them. With a nod of farewell to the baron, Iain tapped his horse gently and motioned Rory Mac to follow. Once they were a good distance from the baron and his men, Rory Mac spoke.
“We’ll be going to war,” he grumbled.
“Aye,” Iain agreed, stress already vibrating through his veins. “I do believe Edward was correct about de Lacy and Froste, and I dunnae have a doubt the man will still demand we fight for him before he will release David.”
“Are we going back to speak to David?” Rory Mac asked. His tone didn’t display the misery the idea brought him, but his grimace did.
Iain laughed. “Nay. David told me to go home and speak to Gowan about raising money if the marriage did nae proceed.”
Rory Mac blew out a sigh. “That’s good to hear. Are ye glad that ye’ll nae have to marry?”
“Aye,” Iain admitted. “And I feel terrible about it. I would never wish ill on anyone, nor death.”
Rory Mac nodded. “Still, ye likely would have had to kill de Lacy in the future, and then yer wife would have hated ye.”
“Perhaps,” Iain said, wondering for the first time what sort of woman Marion de Lacy had been. Having met her cold father, he suspected she was a quiet sort that started at her own shadow. Or maybe she leaped to her own death to avoid marrying Froste. Either way, he felt sorry for her.
Without a cloak, the cold night air cut through Marion’s gown and chilled her to the bone. As she shifted from foot to foot—as much from impatience to leave Newcastle as from the cold—Marion wrapped her arms around her middle and watched warily as Neil bickered with the captain of the birlinn. It seemed the man had changed his mind about leaving tonight as the air felt damp, and he thought a storm was brewing. Yet, while a storm may be coming at sea, she’d chance the voyage rather than stay so close, where she could easily be dragged back to her father if her deceit was discovered.
“Ye listen to me,” Neil shouted at the captain. The Scot had obviously lost his temper, and Marion had lost hers, as well. She was finished with waiting around for Neil to solve the problem. She could solve her own problems. This needed the soft touch of a woman, or money at the very least. She strode toward them, not caring that Neil had commanded she stay put. She was done with men commanding her. As she neared Neil and the captain, both men turned to look at her.
She straightened her spine, preparing for battle. It was dark and quiet on Pilgrim Street. She’d seen no sign of anyone other than the guard that had let her into Newcastle, yet her nerves tingled as if something bad was coming—or more like someone was coming to get her. Surely it was her imagination, but the feeling was there all the same, stirring the sense of urgency she felt to stormy proportions.
“Gentlemen,” she said in a sweet voice.
Neil raised his red eyebrows as a scowl turned down his lips.
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