Their donation to the clan came in his warrior skills and vegetables from their garden.
A sudden fear popped into her mind. What if Drostan wanted a nice biddable wife to stay home and take care of their bairns, do nothing outside their home? Would he expect her to change for him?
If the thought hadn’t been so horrifying, she might have laughed. Her mother, Kyla, might not be a talented archer like Dyna and Branwen, but she certainly didn’t shy away from conflict. She’d always followed Grandsire around, ever since she was a wee lassie, and although Aunt Gracie and Aunt Sela were the laird’s wives, it was Mama who ran the keep like the head of an army, always providing for everyone, dividing up tasks in a manner that was fair yet exacting.
Although Chrissa and her mother often argued, it wasn’t their differences that set them apart, or so Grandsire said—he thought they fought because they were too much alike.
She shook the thoughts away. Surely Drostan knew her by now, and if he wanted her, then he couldn’t expect her to sit home on her bottom and do cross-stitching.
She knocked on the door, and Drostan’s father swung it open. “Good morn to you, Chrissa. Did you bring Drostan with you?” Inan Chisholm had been a handsome man at some point, though Drostan looked like a mix of his mother and father. She recalled his mother, but not that well.
The woman had been ornery, of that much she was certain.
“I thought he might be here. He’s not?” she asked, glancing around the messy hut.
A voice called out to her, and she spun around, surprised to see Drostan just arriving. “Did you want something?” he asked, his gaze worrisome.
She wanted to tell him she was not there to cause trouble or confront his father, but only to update him on what she knew.
As he came up behind her, she turned back around to face his sire, Drostan just over her shoulder, close enough for her to feel his heat and pick up his pleasing scent. Both of those things sent her belly into a spiral, as if a thousand butterflies had just set flight inside her.
What the hell was happening to her?
“Are you not well? You’re flushed,” Drostan said, his lips close to her ears.
She quickly sidestepped so she could face him, taking the temptation of their closeness. “I’m fine. I ran a bit to get here.”
“Come inside, both of you,” his sire said with a smile.
Poor Drostan. His father was a conundrum. One never knew how he would be. He could be kind first thing in the morn, but once the ale came out, he changed, bristling like a quill-backed hedgehog. And there was no denying he had some old-fashioned notions.
She followed his father inside, surprised that Drostan’s hand moved to the small of her back to usher her in. He moved past her to the table, setting a few things down. “Papa, I brought you a fresh bowl of porridge and bread still warm from the oven. They gave us honey this morn, also.”
“My thanks to you,” the older man said, sitting down at the table and motioning for them to do the same. He broke off a hunk of bread and took a bite with an eagerness that suggested he was starving. Nodding to Chrissa, he said, “Have some while ’tis still warm. I’ll not eat it all. Then tell me what they say about our warriors going to battle.”
Chrissa peeked at Drostan and said, “Our men will fight with King Robert on Midsummer’s Day. We’re waiting on word from the king, but if he’s agreeable, the plan is to send out one group to assist in training his troops and another to search out information about the English.”
“You mean spy?” Inan said. “My son would do a fine job at that.”
“Papa, I can earn my way by working hard,” Drostan said softly, taking the seat between his father and Chrissa just in case he was in a swinging mood today. “We’ll see where they send me.”
Inan waved a hand, and Drostan’s hand instinctively went to his eye as if he needed to protect himself.
His father noticed and said, “My apologies to you, Drostan. ’Twas an accident. I didn’t mean it.”
Drostan nodded his head, avoiding Chrissa’s gaze. “Eat your bread, Papa.”
So much for his taking a branch to his eye, although she’d known better than to believe his story.
“Where’s Sky?” she asked, just thinking about the wee pup who was missing.
“I left her with Hendrie. Testing him to be my squire if I’m fortunate enough to be chosen.”
“We’re awaiting news from the king’s messenger, Drostan. I came to let you know. Naught will be decided until we hear from him. He’ll likely be back later today or on the morrow.”
Drostan nodded and took another bite of bread.
“Chrissa,” his father said. “I would have thought you’d be married by now. You are not going to fight are you?”
“Aye, I wish to be there. This could be the largest battle in the history of Scotland. I’ll not miss it. I have plenty of time to marry and have bairns, if I choose to.” She snuck a quick glance at Drostan, looking away when she discovered he was staring at her.
“’Tis a shame your sire hasn’t found a match for you.” Inan shook his head slightly. “If you weren’t of noble blood, my son here would make a fine husband. I’d hoped for that one day, but I suppose it won’t happen. And you are much like your mother. She’s a headstrong woman. I don’t know if you’d be happy giving up your archery, your freedom, to stay home and clean for Drostan and me. He needs a hard-working lass who will move in and care for both of us, cook our meals. Do you not agree, Drostan?”
Chrissa glanced at Drostan to see how he would react, and she wasn’t surprised that he stared at his father, his jaw slack.
“What’s wrong, son?”
Drostan gulped and stared at the table. “I don’t see my wife doing those things, Papa. I like that Chrissa is a strong archer. If she were my wife, I wouldn’t ask her to change.”
His father scowled, though he kept his tongue, something she was grateful for at the moment. She didn’t wish to be blamed for any arguments between father and son.
She had to try to diffuse the situation. “My grandsire allows us to choose our own spouses,” she said, tilting her head. “Why did you think we’d be a good match?”
From her peripheral vision, she could see Drostan tilting his head, listening.
“You two were inseparable when you were younger. Why, I recall the day you tried to teach Drostan how to nock an arrow. You two giggled and laughed for hours.” Glancing at Drostan, he added, “I recall your mother…your mother saying you belonged together.” He paused and stared at the table, his features tightening as if freezing over. “She should have stayed.” He shoved away from the table, rubbing his arm where he’d taken that fateful slice so many years ago.
“Papa, there’s no reason to dredge up the past.”
His father sighed and returned, sitting down with a hard plunk. “Not for me, but you two should think on all you’ve been through together. You made a pledge to each other a long time ago. I think you’ve both forgotten.”
Chrissa had no idea what he referred to, but she thought it a fine note to leave on, so she stood and said to Drostan. “As soon as I’ve learned of the chieftains’ choices, I’ll find you. I must go, but my thanks for the bread.” She grabbed a small hunk to take with her.
She left, hurrying down the path and through the village, heading to the archery field. Practice would help her sort through her confusing thoughts. Poor Drostan. While his sire had been kind this morn, she knew it had hurt Drostan to see him dwell on his old hurts and pains—wounds that only worsened due to the amount of ale he drank. His memory was apparently fine though—better than hers in some ways. She had no idea what event he’d been speaking of.
“Chrissa,” a voice came from behind her. “Wait for me. Please?”
She turned around, crossing her arms so she’d appear stronger than she felt. Willing the slight misting of tears away. When he caught up with her, she started walking toward the field again, Drostan keeping pace beside
her. She didn’t look at him, because if she did, she felt sure she’d shed more tears.
“Do you remember?” Drostan asked.
“Do you?” She risked a quick glance his way, and fortunately, he wasn’t looking at her.
“Until he said that…it was so long ago I’d forgotten, or at least I’d stopped thinking about it, but I remember now. You fell climbing up the tree, and I came to help you. You were crying so hard, and I needed to find help for you.”
“But I didn’t want any help, probably.”
“Nay, you surely did not.” She glanced at him briefly again, seeing the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’d never heard some of the words coming from your mouth. There was quite a bit of cursing after you fell, and I couldn’t figure out how to move you.”
Then it came back to her. “But you stayed with me until my sire came on his horse. You figured out how to help me. I’m sure you did, though I barely recall it.”
“Something else happened that day,” he said, stopping them both. He looked into her eyes, putting a finger on her cheek to turn her gaze to his. “We vowed to marry when we were older. The only stipulation was that we had to marry in the summer. You wanted a big festival with all of your cousins present. The Ramsays, too.”
Chrissa had completely forgotten this information. Hugging herself, she looked up into his eyes. Had his eyes always been so expressive? “I did?” she asked in a small voice, her gut telling her he was right.
“’Twas what you said. And you said you’d only marry me if I was a good enough swordsman to defeat half the warriors in Scotland. I’d have to be the strongest in all the land to marry you because your mother would accept naught else for her daughter.” The volume of his voice had dropped as he spoke, though she had no idea why. “It was as if you wished me away, but I took it as a challenge.”
“I said all of that?” But she knew the answer. As he told her about that day, the memories came creeping back, grasping her in their warm, honeyed embrace.
“You don’t recall the last thing you said to me, do you?”
She shook her head, unable to speak for the words that stuck in her throat, words that would cause a flood of tears to slide down her face.
“You said that I was the only one you would ever want for a husband, but I’d have to work hard for many years. Then you made me promise to work hard. I had to promise…”
She nodded, tears finally coming and spilling over. They’d been so young, she must have been only six or seven summers. Staring at the ground to gather the gumption to say the words, she finally lifted her chin and said, “I made you promise to be the best swordsman ever. To be in the lists every day.” She swiped at the tear, pursing her lips. “Silly words from a bairn.”
“They weren’t silly,” he said. “I promised, and I still do go every day. But until Papa reminded us, I never knew why.”
“Drostan, don’t be ridiculous. You don’t go because of me.”
“I’d forgotten it until my sire reminded me.” They both stood there silently, considering that long ago day when they’d promised themselves to each other. He finally nodded to her, a small smile on his face. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the lists. I have work to do.” He smiled at her over his shoulder. “I made a promise to someone.”
***
The following morn, Drostan was still thinking about the promise he’d made—the pledge that had been given and forgotten…but only because he’d internalized it so deeply it had begun to guide his behavior. Now that memories of that day had come back to him, they were crisp and clear. He’d been nine or ten probably. And he’d thought Chrissa was the finest lass in all the land.
True, he had not been checking out how her arse looked in her leggings back then. He’d been more intrigued by her skills. She was the shortest person at the archery field, but she was dedicated and could beat many others who were twice her size. He’d never seen another lass shoot like her except for Dyna Grant. And even then she’d made him feel special. Their time together had always been so comfortable, as if they were at home with each other.
Still, none of that changed a crucial fact: she lived in the keep and he didn’t. He had no noble blood. Some of the other warriors teased him about that. Once, after he returned to the lists from working with her in the archery field, one warrior had spat on the ground and said, “You’ll never be good enough for that one. Her mother was spoiled and so is she. Give up on it before she breaks your heart.”
If anyone could break his heart, surely it was her. For he knew what lay beyond her boldness. He knew that when she tugged her braids it was a sign she was feeling vulnerable. And that she thought the setting sun a thing of uncommon beauty. She was a complicated lass, and he loved her more for it.
Loved her more. Aye, he did love her. And it appeared he’d done so since he was a laddie.
He made his way toward the lists, pleased to see Hendrie running toward him, Sky tripping over the high grass as she attempted to follow. He made his way over and picked up the dog, who responded with a wee yip as she cuddled close to his warmth. “You love to snuggle, do you not, Sky?”
Hendrie said, “She’s smaller than many hound pups. ’Tis why she likes to be close. The air can be cold for her at night.”
“How do you know so much about hounds, Hendrie?”
“I raised many on Ramsay land. They have more wolfhounds than they can handle. ’Tis why the chieftain brought a litter here.”
“You left the clan?”
“Aye, a while back. My da wanted to return to the deep Highlands. Mama met Papa at one of the Ramsay festivals, and he moved there for her, but we came to Grant land after her mother passed on.”
“And you? Did you wish to move here?”
“I’ve always dreamed of being a Grant warrior. Papa had the skills, so they accepted him as a warrior and Mama worked in the kitchens. She was a fine cook.” A pained look crossed his face. “They’re gone now.”
“How did you lose them?”
“Both from the same fever. I was sick, but I got better. They never did. My uncle took me in.”
“Sorry to hear that, lad. ’Tis hard to lose a parent, and you lost them both at the same time.” He looked at the lad, realizing he must have a strength in his core to have gotten this far. “So ’tis your goal to be a Grant warrior still? Is that why you wish to be a squire?”
Hendrie laughed and peeked over his shoulder. “I couldn’t go to King Robert’s camp any other way. I have to find someone who will be chosen for the cavalry in order to come along. They’re the only ones who will wear the armor and need a squire.”
“Why me?”
“’Tis like I said, you’re the best swordsman of all.” He made a face. “Well, other than Connor, Alick, and Derric. After them, you’re next. But you’re not a member of the lairds’s family like they are, so you’re my best hope.” He shrugged his shoulders and said, “And I like puppies. Will you please take me?” Hendrie’s eyes looked huge in his wee face.
“I’ll do my best, lad.” He tousled Hendrie’s hair, then moved over to the lists.
Twice now the lad had told him he was of the best swordsmen. That meant he’d accomplished something.
Would it be good enough to fulfill his end of Chrissa’s pledge?
Chapter Five
Dyna came rushing toward Alex from across the hall. He wasn’t surprised. He’d been expecting her, and he had an odd feeling that he knew exactly what she was about to say.
“Grandsire, I’ve been having dreams again.”
He pointed to the laird’s solar, not far away. “We’ll talk inside. I know why you’re here.” He used the thick, wooden arms of his chair to push himself to a standing position, then grabbed his wooden stick, a new one crafted for him by his grandsons Alick and Broc. The lads had worked on it for hours to ensure it was the perfect height for their grandfather.
She stopped
abruptly. “What? How could you know I’ve been having seer dreams?”
“Inside first, then I’ll explain it to you. Just stand next to me and I’ll be fine.”
He made his way to the large chair behind the desk and indicated for Dyna to close the door behind her.
“How could you know about my dreams?” Dyna asked, clearly stupefied by his declaration.
“I’ll explain to you, if you can tolerate one more story about the olden days.”
Dyna broke into a wide grin. Many of his grandbairns teased him about his habit of telling old stories, though it was all done out of affection. “You know I will always love your stories. But I’m guessing this is not one I’ve heard retold ten times.”
“You are correct.” He sat down and leaned back in the chair. “This story is from my childhood, although I’m amazed I can remember back that far.”
“’Tis something Great-Grandmama or Great-Grandpapa told you?” she asked, her tone one of excitement. Dyna was an old soul, and she’d always cherished his stories.
“I was about ten summers, if I recall, and Aunt Brenna would have been eight then. Mama told us about the fae…”
Dyna’s face brightened. “I love fae stories.”
He nodded and then continued, “While some faeries like to taunt and tease people, the fae typically stay hidden. My mother told us they watch over our land to ensure evil never overtakes good. Sometimes they have to step in and offer tools to help guide us along. The fae have what she called chosen ones, people they empower with gifts others don’t have.”
He paused, watching his great-granddaughter absorb this information. Dyna was more aware of uncanny things than most because she had been given the gift of sight.
“Evil, good, chosen ones… What does it all mean, Grandsire?”
“Mama told Brenna and me to be aware of the cast in the land. ’Tis a feeling, an unnatural aura created by a surge of evil.”
A strange look came over Dyna’s face. “I’ve been dreaming about storms and rain and…darkness, Grandsire. Is that what you mean?”
The Scot's Deception (Highland Swords Book 5) Page 4
