However, if he had no choice then she probably did not either. Even if she did she realized that she would much rather be the one he had to wed than to watch him wed another. Although he was so clearly reluctant, there was the chance for her to make something good out of it, but, if she refused, there was no chance at all. He would be lost to her forever and that, she decided, would be harder to bear than anything else.
“Do ye ken what I wish to speak to ye about?”
“An I read my fither right ’tis marriage, yet your face doesnae look much like that of a suitor.”
“Aye, ’tis marriage I wish to speak to ye about. The king feels a match between us would be a verra good thing.”
‘’Tis hardly the proposal of a young girl’s dreams,’ she mused silently but aloud she said, “Then I ken ’tis set.”
Iain looked at his hands, then glanced at her. “Aye, that it is. Can ye stomach it, lass?”
“Of course. Why should I not be able to?” She saw his hand feint to the scar upon his face. “Wheesht, that is naught. It doesnae pull your face about into a horrid grimace or some such. Might I ask how ye got it? Ye need not say.”
Iain almost smiled. He had never thought himself vain, but some of the reactions to his scarring had cut him deeply, almost as deeply as the knife that had marred his features. In her lovely eyes he could read the truth of her words. A familiar, if long ignored, knot formed in his loins and he inwardly cursed.
“T’was an attack at my wife’s graveside by a mon who felt I had stolen, then murdered, the lass he loved.”
“Oh. Did ye steal her from him?”
“Nay. T’was a marriage sought by her family and mine. I kenned naught of him until t’was done.” He frowned at her. “I dinnae ken why I speak so freely to ye, lass.”
“I shall tell nary a soul and ’tis it not right that I, as your wife, should ken if there be some mon creeping about ready to plunge a dirk into ye? ’Tis a bit of information that could be useful.”
Amusement flickered through his eyes. “Aye, that it could.”
Dangerous, Iain mused. She had an impish sense of humor as well as a directness of speech. Both were things he admired. In their two brief meetings she had affected him more than the most practiced of flirts, drawing him out despite himself. He would have to be more wary. She could chip away at his wall until it crumbled.
“Did ye have someone ye loved?” she asked softly.
“Aye but she was given to anither ere I became betrothed.”
“Is she still wed?”
“Nay,” he answered slowly, beginning to see where her questions were leading. “I dinnae love her still either.”
Color tinged her cheeks. “I am sorry. My tongue oftimes outruns my mind and my good manners.”
“’Tis no matter, lass. I will be honest though it be far from polite. I dinnae want to take a wife. One buried is enough for me. The king doesnae want ye to wed either of your other suitors, doesnae want them with land upon the troublesome border. Our families are both loyal and obedient to the king. He wants our forces joined and that land to be held in loyal hands.”
So romantic, Islaen mused wryly, but she had expected little else. Something had to drive such a man to do what he so clearly did not want to do. It was no surprise that the king was the prod. It also told her that, as she had suspected, she had as little choice in the matter as Iain did.
“Ah, a bulwark against unrest, one place along the border that he need not worry about. In the end, three loyal houses.”
Iain nodded. “All that doesnae mean I will be a poor husband. As I told your fither, I dinnae beat women nor wench.”
“That is nice. Such things could cause strife within a household,” she drawled, her eyes dancing, and was pleased to see a brief laughing light flare in Iain’s remarkable eyes. “I suspicion that Lord Fraser is a wencher.”
“Aye? How did ye espy that in him?”
“Ye will laugh, but t’was because he licked his lips and his palm was sweaty.”
“Sure signs of a wencher,” Iain said in a choked voice and, to the amazement of all, he did laugh, although softly.
The pair became of great interest to all as the news of the betrothal seeped through the hall. An official announcement would be made after they had all dined, but by the time the feast was laid out, it was not really necessary. Neither was it much of a secret that it was a match urged by the king. Islaen did not know whether to be embarrassed, angry or amused as she was seated next to Iain at the king’s table. She was certainly unaccustomed to being paid such a great deal of attention.
Some of the attention was far from favourable. Many a woman thought and whispered spiteful things about her. It did not matter that the king had urged the match. All the women saw was that a tiny girl with little figure and none too spectacular looks had what they had tried so hard to get. To be outdone by a border wench of no great standing was a bitter potion to swallow. The king’s part in it was a salve of sorts, but inadequate. Many of them decided to increase their efforts to draw Iain into a liaison. They felt sure that, once he had become reaquainted with loving and his wife proved sorely lacking, his eyes would turn elsewhere. Knowing that her new husband was romping with another would put Islaen MacRoth in her place.
Islaen sensed all that, could read it in a number of fair faces. It both pleased and worried her. She found pride in the fact that she would soon be wife to a man so many wanted. She worried that she might not be wife enough. Although he had said that he was no wencher she doubted he knew just how great a challenge to resist temptation would now be tossed at his head. Islaen could read the threat to trespass in far too many female eyes.
It also annoyed her that they could not leave well enough alone, plotted to do to her as she would never dream of doing to them. The sanctified bonds and vows of matrimony clearly meant little to them. Their vanity needed appeasing, she supposed, and she felt ashamed for them. There was to be a fight ahead and she dreaded it, for she could not feel sure of victory.
Dissatisfaction was in two male breasts as well. Ronald MacDubh and Lord Fraser were hard put to hide their anger. In each case the money Islaen would have brought them was sorely needed. The lives they led, remarkably similar, were costly. Debts were owed and to people who would not wait patiently for repayment. The chance of getting a well-dowered bride were few and far between for men who were of an increasingly unsavory reputation. MacRoth had been blissfully ignorant of their full characters. It grated to see such a prize go to a man who neither needed it nor wanted it. Such a thing hit them in the purse, where all their sensitivity rested.
They also resented the property MacLagan would get. Opportunity for gain could be found upon the border. The king’s mailed fist was unable to fully control the area. Loyalties thinned in that area making it ideal for a man whose loyalty was only to himself. The chances of anyone outside of the clans or their allies marrying into them and gaining land that way were small. To watch such an opportunity slip into the hands of another man, himself from a border clan, was too much to tolerate. Resentment boiled and fermented in their breasts, aimed itself at Iain MacLagan and gave rise to plots, vague but growing clearer, of satisfactory revenge.
Iain was not oblivious to all the undercurrents. He was uninterested in any female plots, just as he had been more or less unaware of women for a long time. His attention was on the disgruntled suitors. Money and land could stir emotions as easily and as deeply as love when lost to another. The fact that both rejected suitors were in sore need of both only increased the chance of possible trouble.
What was frustrating was that he could not be sure how they would react to their loss. At the moment they looked close to uniting in their anger over losing such a prize. A union like that could be deadly. It was not really for himself that he worried either. Although Islaen was the prize the men sought, she could all too easily be hurt in whatever plan they might form. He was going to have to keep a close eye on both men.
&nbs
p; It occurred to Iain that, for such a tiny thing, Islaen MacRoth was towing a lot of complications behind her. Several of her brothers had hinted that any hurt done to their sister would be repaid in full. Iain wondered if the king knew how easily the strong alliance he sought could become the bloodiest feud the borders had seen in a long time. Added to that was the resentment of two men not known for their even temperament or good sense. There could easily be swords drawn from that direction.
When he recalled that he already had a sword hanging over his head like Damocles, Iain nearly laughed. While he fretted over Islaen possibly getting with child, he was ringed with people who could easily make her a widow before any seed of his could take root. He knew his sense of humour might be thought rather twisted, but such thoughts caused him to smile rather openly when the king called for a toast to the betrothal.
Bemused by Iain’s smile, Islaen responded to the congratulations absently. She did wonder, with a touch of bitterness, why they congratulated her. She had not won the man’s hand nor heart; he had been shoved her way by the king himself, ensnared into marriage by a king who wished to lessen a few of his troubles.
Very firmly Islaen pushed aside that bitterness. It was a feeling that only brought trouble or grief. She had seen the proof of that more often than she had cared to. That was not a poison she wished to seep into her life and marriage. Ruefully, she admitted that she would probably find more than enough trouble in her marriage than she could handle anyways. When Iain’s smile faded she wondered if he had suddenly seen all the difficulties that lurked ahead for them.
Iain’s smile was gone when the king proceeded to announce that he would be seeing to the wedding himself. It meant that the wedding night would take place within the palace, thus killing any hope Iain had of leaving the union unconsummated. His protest that his family would be unable to attend only brought sympathy, no change of plans. Now he would have to exercise one of the various methods used to prevent conception and hope that Islaen would not feel it was a personal affront.
After the king’s announcement Islaen could feel Iain retreating. It surprised her that she seemed to so easily sense his moods. She hoped she was not fooling herself, seeing what was not there or misreading what was. Despite warning herself that she could be, she still felt sure that he was retreating, pulling back into his hard, cold shell, and she felt helpless to stop it. It was something she had no experience with, for her family was the open sort, hiding little of what they felt or thought. She also saw how hard it would be to establish any sort of true bond with him when he could so neatly pull away from her as he was doing now.
She realized her path was going to be strewn with stones. Love was what she sought but her ever-present practicality reared its head. To hope for that was to invite pain. She would instead aim for a congenial relationship. In the ways only a wife could, she would make herself important to him. Watching her brothers’ wives, she had seen how that could be done, how a man could find himself turning to that woman without thought whether there was love there or not. Habit could serve almost as well. Depending upon how demanding he was in the bedroom, whether or not his reputed celibacy came from lack of interest or rigid control, she would learn to give him all he could want until there too no other woman could do as well. She might not attain the perfect marriage, but she was determined to have as near to it as she could get.
Chapter Three
Cursing softly, Islaen struggled to keep pace with the men. Iain and the king were several strides ahead of her. Her three brothers, Calum, Nathan and Donald, kept pausing so as not to leave her behind. She wished fervently that she had not tried to be so fashionable. The houppelande she wore badly hindered her usual lithe, nimble stride.
Vanity, she mused, was a troublesome thing. She had wanted Iain to see that she could be as well dressed as any of the other women in court, women who were making obvious and strenuous efforts to catch his eye. Instead she was stumbling along like an awkward babe taking its first unsure steps. She might be fashionable but she was far from graceful.
“Why did ye wear the cursed thing if ye cannae walk in it?”
She glared at Nathan. “I can walk fine in my chambers. The ground isnae even here.”
Calum snorted in scorn at her excuses. “Ye walk with less skill than Colin’s youngest.”
Annoyed beyond caution, Islaen started to angrily stride away from her brothers. Her foot caught in the long garment and, with a soft cry, she started to fall. Nathan tried to catch her, but she took him down with her. Being on the very edge of a small rise they started to roll. She tried to get out of Nathan’s way but he tumbled over her, then she over him. When they came to rest at the base of the rise, Nathan landed on top of her. It was a full moment before Islaen was able to catch her breath. Then she began to curse a laughing Nathan and struggled to push him off of her.
When he finally moved, it was only to lie at her side still laughing. She could hear her other brothers laughing too, their laughter growing louder as they approached. Hearing Iain call her, she closed her eyes and wished heartily that, by some great miracle, she could simply disappear. It was a shame, she mused, that intense embarrassment could not be immediately fatal.
Iain was unaware of any trouble until the king, his voice trembling with amusement, pointed it out. He gaped at the sight of his betrothed tumbling down the small hill, her slim stockinged legs well displayed. By the time her brother got off of her, Iain was hurrying to Islaen’s side. He had to fight the urge to laugh, something made very difficult by the king’s amusement and Islaen’s brothers’ hilarity. For one brief instant her stillness bothered him, but then he saw how tightly her eyes were shut and how she had clenched her hands into small fists. He reached down and gently grasped her by the arm, ready to help her stand.
“Come along, Islaen, ye dinnae appear hurt.”
Hearing the laughter he could not fully keep out of his voice, Islaen was very reluctant to look at him. “Nay, I think I will but lie here until I disappear.”
“I ken how ye feel, lass, but it willnae happen.”
“Nay, I wager not,” she murmured and opened her eyes.
As he helped her to her feet she decided that his eyes, when touched with laughter, were beautiful. She stood quietly letting him tidy her up as if she were a small child as she wondered if she could bring that light to his eyes more often, preferably without having to embarrass herself.
“How did ye come to have such a tumble?” he asked.
“Wearing that cursed houppelande,” Nathan answered as he handed her one of her shoes that had fallen off.
“An it causes ye trouble why do ye wear it?”
After glaring at Nathan, Islaen put her shoe back on with Iain’s support and answered softly, “I wore it for ye.”
“For me?”
“Aye. ’Tis the fashion and I wished to show ye that I can be as fashionable as all the ladies dancing after ye.”
“Weel, I havenae noticed so many but ye need not go to such reckless lengths, wee Islaen,” he teased and started to remove her now disheveled houppelande. “I care little about such foolish trappings.”
“Oh. Ye mean I near broke my neck for naught?” She flushed with embarrassment when the king himself laughed, for she had thought her words soft enough to be private.
Iain restrained his own laughter with an effort. She flattered him with her attempt to appear the most fashionable of ladies and he did not wish to reward that with laughter, a laughter she could wrongly interpret as mockery. It also amused him that she so openly admitted her ploy, harmless as it was. She was honest almost to a fault.
When they returned to the castle, Iain watched Islaen hurried away by Meg and sighed. Everything about the girl seemed to tug at him. She seemed to promise all he had ever wanted in a mate. It was going to prove to be a severe trial to maintain any distance between them but he would have to. Wondering why that thought should depress him, Iain suddenly realized that he had been neatly encircled
by her brothers.
After pondering seven shades of red hair for a moment, he asked, “Did ye wish to speak with me?”
Duncan, the eldest of the seven at seven and twenty, growled, “Aye, about our wee sister.”
“That is a surprise.”
“We havenae much to say,” Duncan continued, ignoring Iain’s sarcasm, “but say it we will.”
“Aye,” Malcolm, an astoundingly handsome young man of just four and twenty, agreed. “Ye ken that we are muckle fond of wee Islaen.”
“I had noticed that, aye.”
“Ye be a cold mon, Iain MacLagan,” the twenty-six-year-old Robert said with no real criticism shading his voice, “and Islaen isnae accustomed to that. We will be ill-pleased if ye hurt her with your hard nature.”
“Or elsewise,” Duncan growled.
All the brothers nodded one by one and slowly left. Iain soon found himself standing alone. As he moved to go to his chambers he contemplated the warning he had just been given. They had not said exactly what form their retribution would take, but he decided it mattered little. Neither had they said that they would be watching him all the time, but the implication that they would was clear. One needed little imagination to sort out the various particulars of the threat. Any hurt he dealt Islaen would come back upon him twelve-fold, for he was certain that the absent brothers and the father would also stand behind the threat.
As he made his way to his chambers, he saw the many signs of the preparations for his wedding. For a brief instant he felt the natural resentment of a man caught in a trap but he forced it aside. Such feeling could easily turn itself upon Islaen, and she did not deserve it. She was as trapped as he. He wondered how she felt about it.
“Why did ye wear this fool thing when ye ken how poorly ye move in it?” Meg grumbled as she tried to clean the grass-stained houppelande.
“I wished to impress Sir Iain.”
Highland Wedding Page 3
