by Mary Wine
Willy looked around and then back at his cousin. “We’ve business to attend to.”
Leif’s interest perked up. “The sort that will put coin in our hands?”
“If we play the game right.”
Leif started to reach for his whisky, but pushed it away instead. They’d left their pitiful farms behind to make solid coin. But moving fleece was hard work. Leif was interested in something more profitable, for certain.
“Rolfe McTavish rode out today to arrange a ransom for that Grant woman he stole,” Willy began.
“Aye.” Leif nodded. “I saw him leave.”
“Seems old Laird McTavish fancies seeing one of his daughters wed to the War Chief of the MacPhersons.”
“Marcus is already wed,” Leif said in disappointment.
“But the union is no’ consummated,” Willy continued. “I heard from one of the men who heard it straight from the Grant woman’s mouth and also from Marcus MacPherson the night they stole her. There is also no contract. Seems the two wed to avoid a nasty bit of business planned by the Earl of Morton.”
Leif spat on the floor. “Damned Protestant.”
“Aye.” Willy confirmed his own distaste. “Think on it, man. She’s our cousin.”
“She is?” Leif questioned.
Willy waved his hand in the air dismissively. “In some distant manner, I’m sure. No’ that it matters all that much. If we were to go to old Laird McTavish and offer to take our little cousin home, that would leave the way open for his daughter to wed Marcus MacPherson.”
“Where is the part where we earn coin for this?” Leif asked impatiently. “All I’m hearing is that we are getting saddled with a woman to escort. Besides, I hear the old laird is half out of his mind. That’s why no one ever sees him anymore and his sons are running the clan.”
“His secretary is intent on securing alliances, and he is in control of the man’s signet ring and coin. He’s already told me he’s interested in discussing the matter with us. I just needed to find ye to work out the particulars of the arrangement.”
Leif weighed Willy’s words for a long moment. “All right, then. I’ll go with ye, but I’m warning ye, there had better be a good sum of silver involved, or I’ll no’ be dealing with that devil woman.”
* * *
Laird McTavish was sitting in a huge chair that looked like a Viking throne. He wasn’t the frail old man they expected to see. No, he was proud and burly, but one of his legs was missing from the knee down, and in its place was a wooden peg.
“Speak one word about me leg, and ye’re dead men.”
Leif and Willy immediately stopped staring at the missing limb. Laird McTavish grunted with approval.
“Highlanders do nae respect a man who is missing a leg,” he said bitterly. “Even when it was lost defending his own land.”
He was lost for a moment in anger, his face drawn tight as he clearly raged against the blow Fate had dealt him.
“Tell me what business ye seek to do with me.”
Willy cleared his throat and began. “The Grant woman. See, she might have taken vows with Marcus MacPherson but there is no contract, and yer own son heard Marcus admitting the union is unconsummated. We also heard ye wish yer own daughter to wed Marcus.”
“Continue,” Laird McTavish instructed.
“She’s our cousin, Helen Grant is,” Willy informed the man. “If ye were to speak to yer own priest about an annulment, on the grounds that her father never agreed to the match and might well have made another contract for her, we might escort her home while ye return one of yer daughters to Marcus in her place.”
The chamber was silent for a long moment. McTavish made a low sound in his throat.
“It’s true that I’ve a mind to see me daughter Joan wed to Marcus MacPherson,” Laird McTavish declared. “Or Breana. It matters not which one. And your plan is a bold one that puts me daughter at risk.”
The secretary moved forward. “Gain is earned through brazenness. If Marcus took her, without chaperone, we might press for a wedding.”
“While me daughter suffers being an unwanted bride,” Laird McTavish muttered, clearly in thought. “Still, strength begets strength. It would be a position to be envied. Me daughter has been raised to expect naught from life that she is no’ willing to challenge Fate for. That is the Highland way.”
“We would only expect a small amount—” Willy began, but Leif interrupted him.
“A fair amount of compensation for taking that Grant woman where she’s likely to protest going.”
Laird McTavish chuckled at them. It was the crusty laugh of a man who enjoyed pitting himself against the odds. “Rolfe has ridden out, ye say?”
“Aye,” Leif confirmed.
Laird McTavish slowly nodded. “I’ll send for ye when he’s back and the time for the swapping is at hand. Ye’ll take the Grant wench back to her father. On that, I will no’ tolerate ye playing me false, and ye’ll do it without molesting the lass. I may be interested in using a bit of trickery to gain what will be best for the McTavish, but there will be no disgrace involved.”
Leif nodded as the secretary pressed several coins into his hand. Willy’s eyes brightened at the amount. It would take them months to earn as much hauling fleece, and an entire harvest to do it while farming. For sure, it was slightly dishonorable, but honor didn’t keep a man’s feet from feeling the chill. Good boots did that, and Willy needed coin to buy boots.
“Keep out of yer cups,” McTavish ordered them. “Or ye’ll be gossiping like a pair of old women. Me son Rolfe will no’ break his word, so if he hears of this plan after he’s struck a deal with Marcus MacPherson, he will balk. If that happens, ye’ll be losing that silver as quickly as ye gained it.”
“Aye, Laird.”
“As ye say.”
Willy and Leif nodded to him before they turned and left the chamber.
The secretary waited until Leif and Willy had left and the door was firmly closed. His laird looked at him with solid purpose in his eyes.
“Write a letter to the bishop,” Laird McTavish instructed his man. “Make it…humble enough to no’ offend the man’s pompous ego. I have no talent for that sort of thing.”
The secretary smiled as he hurried to the small table where his tools were laid out. He placed a new sheet of parchment down and dipped a quill into his inkwell. When the letter was written, he took it to his laird. The secretary read it aloud twice before his laird slapped his knee.
“There is a reason I pay ye well, man. Ye have the gift of diplomacy in yer words.”
The secretary nodded once to acknowledge the compliment before heading back to his desk.
“I will seal it now,” Laird McTavish said. “Find me a pair of riders who can keep their mouths shut. We’ll be sending this now and beginning the process. Tell me daughter Joan to come to me. I need to tell her she’s about to be wed. And no’ a word to me son, on pain of losing yer tongue. Rolfe has a sense of honor that can be a hindrance in times like these when an opportunity is ripe for plucking.”
* * *
“This is no’ helping,” Bhaic said.
Marcus and Symon paid him no heed, continuing to try to choke the life out of each other. The rest of the men were placing wagers as they stood in a ring around the two combatants, shouting encouragement.
Bhaic lifted his tankard and decided to enjoy the moment, since there was no talking any sense into his brother. After all, Symon really should not have taken the risk, considering Marcus had bested him the last time they fought over Helen. It would seem that when it came to his new wife, his brother Marcus had no sense of humor.
Which was going to be something Bhaic planned to enjoy to the fullest.
Finally, Symon threw his hands up in defeat. There was a chorus of groans as some men handed over money and others cheered as
they received it.
Symon stomped over to the table where Bhaic was sitting and wiped the blood from his nose with his shirtsleeve. A girl came by with a pitcher of fresh ale that she poured into their tankards before she set the pitcher down, pulled free a cloth from her belt, and finished cleaning Symon’s face.
“Later, mistress.” Marcus sent her off with a tone that said he wasn’t in the mood to argue. Symon watched her leave and grunted as he peered at Marcus over the rim of his mug.
Symon chuckled at the look Marcus sent him in reprimand. He set his tankard down. “By Christ’s sweet mother, ye have gone and let yer heart be claimed by a woman. I never thought to see the day.”
“Keep talking, and it will be the last sunrise ye enjoy,” Marcus warned.
“Back to the business.” Bhaic tried to gain control with a civil tone. “We’ve got the McTavish to deal with.”
Symon took another long draw off his mug. “We’re here right enough. Cooling our heels and waiting on the man. Seems he could be a bit more attentive to the matter, since he’s the one gaining profit from this venture.”
“He’s trying to make me sweat.” Marcus reached for his mug, but he drew his fingers back when he touched it. He didn’t need his wits dulled, although the ale allowed him to enjoy every moment that crept by, while his mind reminded him of how possible it was for Rolfe McTavish to keep Helen.
“Marcus MacPherson,” Rolfe bellowed as he came through the front door of the tavern. He came closer as men shifted away from the table. “How’s the head, man?”
“Careful, McTavish,” Marcus warned. “I’ve recently become aware of just what a bitch Fate is. She enjoys making sure she does nae miss any of us mortals.”
Rolfe McTavish flashed him an arrogant grin before he lowered himself onto the stool waiting for him at the table.
The tavern was normally a boisterous place, filled with men on their way to Edinburgh and those returning to the Highlands. It was a rare spot that could be considered neutral. In spite of that fact, the occupants had fallen silent, and many of them had tossed down coin and left. The tavern might not sit on clan land, but no one missed the potential for trouble from the men sitting at the far table.
“State yer demands.” Marcus made it clear he was holding his temper back.
Rolfe grinned.
“Do nae test me patience,” Symon Grant warned. “Me father is on his deathbed, and I do nae care a bit for the fact that ye have made me waste time coming down here.”
Rolfe sent a hard look toward Marcus. “I suppose I could have expected ye to make sure ye had a strong position when ye faced me tonight.”
Marcus scoffed at him. Rolfe sobered. “Aye, to business.”
* * *
“That is no’ Helen.”
Rolfe McTavish stiffened, hearing the deadly tone of Marcus’s voice.
“What game are ye playing, McTavish?” Marcus demanded.
Rolfe glared at him as they stared at each other over the heads of their horses. Their men were lined up, most of them looking rather bored. They had seen hostage exchanges before, and there wasn’t likely to be any fun now that the ransom had been paid. Those men now raised their eyebrows and turned their attention toward Marcus because they heard a fight brewing.
“Helen is never so submissive.” Marcus moved closer to Rolfe. “What game are ye playing, McTavish? I’ll warn ye, I’m finished with being yer toy.”
Several of the McTavish retainers clearly took offense at Marcus’s tone, moving their hands closer to the hilts of their weapons. But Rolfe held up his hand.
“I’ve noticed that about her meself. That woman is a vixen and no mistake.” He looked at the figure sitting meekly on top of the mare. As one of his men led the animal forward, the figure sat still, her bound hands visible through an arm slit in the cloak she wore. The hood was pulled down, hiding her face completely. Rolfe moved his horse beside her and yanked the hood off her head.
There was a squeal and a protest from the mare.
“Damn ye, Joan. What game is this?” Rolfe demanded.
Joan didn’t get a chance to answer before Marcus lunged at Rolfe, knocking him clean off his stallion. The animal rose up onto its hind feet, pawing at the air. Men cursed as they shifted and tried to maintain control of their horses while Rolfe and Marcus rolled across the rocky ground.
Bhaic and Symon were the only ones who could interfere. The rest of the clansmen considered it a matter between lairds’ sons and held back.
“Ye’re a dead man!” Marcus shouted at Rolfe as Bhaic pulled him back.
“I’ve no part in this,” Rolfe said, trying to defend himself.
Marcus snarled and broke free from his brother’s hold. He ran straight into Joan, cursing as he realized he’d plowed right into a female. She rocked back on her heels and landed against Rolfe, who had come up behind her. He cupped her shoulders and tried to shove her aside.
“No,” she insisted. “No more fighting.” Joan turned her attention toward Marcus, who was growling at her. She lost a great deal of her color before she took a deep breath. “Me father did this. He ordered me to do it, and he made sure Rolfe knew nothing about it because he knew Rolfe would no’ break his word to ye.”
“Is nae that a pretty little speech,” Marcus sneered. He turned his attention to Rolfe. The look on the man’s face cut through his rage, but only enough that Marcus reined in the need to murder him. Marcus knew his share of liars, but there was disgust in Rolfe’s eyes and self-loathing on his face.
“Me father,” Rolfe ground out between clenched teeth, “would consider it worth the risk. To gain an alliance with the MacPhersons.”
“Ye think we’d honor such a thing?” Bhaic snapped. “No’ while I draw breath.”
“He said ye’d ease yer thinking once ye accepted there was no being rid of me,” Joan said. Marcus glared at her, wanting to detest her. Instead all he noticed was the relief in her eyes. She was a pretty enough female, but she was wary of him. His gut twisted because the one woman who didn’t look at him like that was out of his reach.
“Where is Helen?” he demanded.
Joan shook her head. “I do nae know. Me father does nae explain himself to me.”
“He will explain himself to me,” Rolfe said in a deadly tone. Joan’s eyes widened with surprise before she skirted out from between them. Rolfe locked gazes with Marcus. “I give ye me word.”
* * *
“Aye. Learn yer place.” Leif smirked. “It is at me feet.”
Helen tasted blood in her mouth. She’d hit the ground face-first because her wrists were tied behind her. The best she could manage was to turn her head to the side to protect her face as best she might. Pain went through her head; the initial connection from Leif’s knuckles was now a throbbing ache.
“Ye heard Laird McTavish,” Willy called out to his partner.
“The laird said we could no’ molest her.” Leif contemplated Helen. “I’m only teaching her to mind me.”
“Ye were no’ hired to be her tutor,” Willy said. “Come and eat.”
Helen lifted her head and rolled over. Leif watched her strain to sit up while bound. There was no way to right her clothing, and he took a good, long look at her legs while she struggled to get her skirt to cover them.
“That rabbit does smell good,” Leif said. He rubbed his groin through his kilt and grinned at her. “We’re only hired to take ye home. If ye want to eat, well, ye’ll have to be earning yer way since I promised no’ to molest ye. Now, if ye were to throw yerself into me arms, that would no’ be breaking any promise I made to Laird McTavish.”
“If he told ye to conduct yerself as a man of honor, best ye think long and hard on mistreating me,” Helen responded.
“Ye have been at court and with the MacPhersons, the McTavishes, and now us. No one expects ye to be virg
in, so it will nae matter if I take a bit more pay for transporting ye home. It’s hard enough for a man no’ born to a noble line to make his way. I intend to extract all the payment I can for helping Laird McTavish gain the alliance he seeks. Ye don’t eat unless ye please me.”
“I prefer an empty belly.”
“Ye’ll change yer thinking in a few days.”
Leif’s expression was confident. Helen stared at the way his eyes gleamed with anticipation. Lust could be so ugly on a man. She was certain that moment lasted for an eternity, while she was tormented by the fact that hunger might be more powerful than her will at some point. Hopelessness drew its claws across her soul, leaving burning marks that were a hundred times more painful than the spot on her jaw where Leif had struck her.
Time seemed to be moving in slow motion, allowing her to realize how dire her circumstances were. In that moment, she watched the shadows shift behind Leif, like the wind blowing through the trees. A shuddering of light, and then two hands clamped down on Leif’s face, one on the chin, the other on the head. There was a twist and a crunch before Leif stiffened, his eyes bulging in that last moment of life before he slumped to the ground and his breath rattled out of his chest.
She was frozen, staring at the place where Leif had stood. Helen blinked, unable to grasp what her eyes were telling her. It was too good to be true, too fine a gift from Fate, and yet Marcus knelt down beside her, remaining still for a long time while their gazes locked.
A tiny sound of relief escaped her lips. She thought she saw his mouth twitch on one side, but he moved his attention to the ropes binding her ankles.
“I have ye now, lass,” Marcus whispered in her ear. For all that there was a note of possessiveness in his tone, it was the most wonderful sound she had ever heard. It cut through the pain, slicing it clean in half and leaving her with nothing to fret about. Nothing at all, which mean blackness took her as its captive, leaving her in her rescuer’s arms.
Which was perfect in every possible way.
* * *
“Of course I did nae tell ye,” Laird McTavish said. “Yer damned sense of honor is yer Achilles’ heel.”
