by Mary Wine
Prickly…
“Hold!”
The crowd turned on whoever shouted, but the sound of hooves followed. Only a fool stood in the street when horses were running. The crowd split, pressing up against the walls of the homes.
Diocail had impressed her before. Today he was every bit the man she’d first thought him to be.
Dangerous.
His people saw it too, looking at their laird as he came into the square, his stallion’s shoes making a loud clopping sound against the brick. He pulled up, Muir by his side as he raised his hand to stop his men. But he didn’t stop—he rode straight toward her. There was a flash of sunlight off the bare blade of his sword as he pulled it from the scabbard in a graceful motion and swung it in a wide arc above her head. It sliced neatly through the rope, sending the two men behind her stumbling back to avoid being sliced along with it.
His horse danced in a wide circle, taking him away from her. She watched the way he controlled the beast, clinging to its back with the strength in his legs.
“Here now…” One of the men behind her had recovered. “We caught her spying.”
A few members of the crowd added a jeer, but they were in the minority, as many of them kept their mouths closed and waited to see what their new laird would do. The children who had been near the front all scattered, and with good reason.
Diocail Gordon was furious.
“A spy, man?” Diocail demanded. “Are ye daft?”
“She was leaving,” he persisted. “On her way back to her noble house with everything she’s heard on Gordon land.”
“Aye,” the second man behind her joined his comrade. “Her husband said plenty about how he was going to use her blue blood to gain himself a position.”
“So ye hang a lass because her fool of a husband wed her for gain?” Diocail demanded. “What man does nae marry for such reasons?”
Agreement rippled through the crowd.
“Why else would she be slipping away from ye?” her would-be executioner demanded. “If no’ to carry secrets back to England and maybe keep our king from inheriting the throne from Elizabeth Tudor!”
The crowd was jeering once more. Their fear had been touched upon by the name of the English queen.
“The Protestants will march up and burn our homes…”
“They want to murder us!”
“Kill our children…”
James Stuart the Sixth of Scotland might have been reared as a Protestant, but a great many of his subjects were still followers of the Catholic faith.
“She ran because she overheard us plotting to wed her to the laird,” Muir tossed out nonchalantly.
Jane recoiled, stepping back into the men who had just fitted her with a noose. Diocail snapped his head around to glare at his captain.
“Aye,” Aylin added as he appeared behind her. The noose suddenly went flying as he pulled it up and over her head and sent it onto the bricks. “Besides, she’s Catholic. All the older English titles are.”
That appeased many in the crowd. They nodded and looked on as the leather binding her hands was sliced.
Her tormentors weren’t willing to see all of their fun ended just yet. “Well then,” one said. “Best get on with wedding her quick, Laird, before she slips away again.”
It was a public stab at Diocail’s ability to control her and the Gordons. The crowd seemed quite eager to test their new laird’s mettle.
Diocail didn’t show any signs of weakness.
“Aye, can nae be undoing a consummated union,” his fellow hangman added with a vulgar thrust of his hips.
She was shaking her head, but Aylin tugged her over to the edge of the scaffold as another of Diocail’s men offered her a hand. Between the two, she was put on the horse with one of the retainers without any effort of her own. Diocail had his hands full dealing with the men of the village, and Muir was watching his back. Having been denied a hanging, they were pressing him for a wedding.
“Best to get the lass inside, Kory,” Aylin said to the retainer behind her.
The crowd didn’t intend to be denied. They clustered around Diocail, which allowed Kory to break away by guiding his horse around the other side of the gallows. When they arrived, the common room of the Hawk’s Head Tavern was empty.
Kory didn’t trust her to make her way inside though. He grasped her upper arm and took her through the door as people came up the street behind them. Diocail came in behind her, cursing in Gaelic.
“Why did ye tell them I want to wed her?” He turned on Muir as he pointed at the window. “Listen to them.”
The crowd had taken up position outside the tavern. They were calling for a wedding, some of them already playing music in celebration.
“The world has gone completely mad.” She meant to think the words, but they crossed her lips as she stumbled back and landed on a bench.
Niven was suddenly there, pressing a horn mug into her hand. He actually lifted it toward her lips as she sat there frozen.
“Drink up, there, mistress,” Aylin encouraged her. “Ye need to collect yerself.”
She drank deeply and gasped as the liquid burned a path down her throat. “Christ, what was that?”
“Gillanders claimed it was his finest whisky. Maybe I poured ye the wrong one. Try this…”
The mug was swapped for another one, and once more Niven lifted her hand up to her mouth. She thought to argue but was distracted by Diocail stepping up and jabbing his finger in the center of Muir’s chest.
“The woman tried to run the second she could. Does that sound like someone I need as a wife?” he demanded.
“The lass just needs to settle in,” Muir responded as he pressed Diocail back. It was part wrestling, part argument.
“Ye’re insane, man,” Diocail ground out. “I’ll no’ be wedding her.”
“Listen.” Muir turned his laird toward the window. “Does that sound like a village that will be forgetting ye did nae make good on yer word?”
Niven tipped the mug against her lips, and she opened her mouth because she was absorbed with the way Muir was fighting with Diocail. Lachie joined in with the captain.
“Normally I would support ye, Laird,” the secretary declared in a soft voice. “But it does seem that in this matter, a wedding would solve a great many dilemmas. There is the state of the kitchen to consider, and with winter closing in, another bride will not be simple to obtain, much less with the conditions at the castle and, of course, how unstable yer own position is as laird. No’ many fathers will agree to a union with a suitably educated lady. Yet we have one here, and her father is no’ close enough to raise an objection.”
Niven was swapping out her mug again when Jane felt the first wave of whisky hit her brain. Somehow, she’d downed two mugs already, and her empty belly was making certain she felt the alcohol quickly.
But Niven was pressing yet another mug to her lips.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, slipping down the bench and getting to her feet before Niven and Kory managed to surround her. Aylin joined them, creating a solid wall.
“Drink up, lass,” Aylin encouraged her in a tone Jane was fairly sure he’d use on a chicken right before he wrung its neck.
“Aye, it will settle yer nerves,” Kory added with a smile too bright to be sincere. “So we can get on with what needs doing. It’s a good match, and we’ll be happy to have ye on Gordon land.”
“Better than yer father’s house, for certain. Judging by what I’ve heard of yer last husband, best no’ let yer father choose ye a second one,” Aylin added.
“I am not getting married to anyone,” she insisted, but Niven wasn’t relenting in his attempts to get her to drink more. He tipped some of the contents of the mug into her open mouth as she spoke.
Jane recoiled and fell on the bench, which just made t
he three retainers bigger and more imposing. They leaned down, clearly intending to keep pouring whisky into her. Desperation made her slip to her knees and crawl past them.
She ended up facing Diocail as he tried to dodge around Muir and Lachie. They both jerked to a stop a single pace from one another. What Jane didn’t expect was to see Diocail in nearly the same condition as she was. His eyes were wide, his face flushed from arguing.
She doubted he felt trapped like she did, but his men didn’t appear to be finished with their attempts to convince him of their plans. Now that Jane and Diocail were facing each other, Lachie tried to take command of the situation.
“I can draw up a contract of marriage quickly.”
Jane shook her head, but the crowd outside the window was growing. Someone opened the door, giving them a glimpse of Diocail and Jane facing each other, and a cheer went up. Diocail flinched, but he drew himself up stiffly and wiped the emotion from his expression.
“I will await ye both in the church.”
Jane turned her head, realizing the priest had come inside to discover whether his services would be needed. While she was struggling with her horror, he opened the door and raised his hands.
“The wedding will be in a bit.” The crowd quieted to listen. “After the contract has been drawn up.”
The door shut behind him as a cheer went up. Jane was shaking her head, closer to fainting than she’d ever been in her life and equally near to screaming in rage.
“I refuse to wed again.” Her head was starting to spin, but that single thought was solid.
“Ye’d leave our laird to face his people as a man who did nae keep his word?” Lachie asked.
“There’s a fine way to be after he kept ye from being raped and fed ye when ye were starving,” Muir added as he sent her a stern look from next to Diocail’s shoulder.
“He’ll be called a liar and worse,” Niven added.
“Aye, he’ll be known as a man who was taken to his knees by a woman,” Kory spoke up.
“No’ fit to be laird,” Aylin said solemnly.
“Enough,” Diocail growled at them all. He grasped her wrist and tugged her toward him, sheltering her with his huge body as he shifted to one side so that he was facing all of his men.
How had she never noticed how much larger he was than herself? She was reduced to peeking around his arm.
“Listen to the lot of ye,” he chastised them. “Sounding like a pack of orphans needing a mother.”
None denied the charge. Lachie and Muir grinned back at their laird unashamedly.
“Sorley will have the kitchen fixed by the time we return, but that will be for naught if there is no’ a mistress to see to the running of it,” Lachie exclaimed, looking like a hungry child. “Mistress Jane is an educated woman, and as a fourth daughter, she can nae be complaining too much about having to take her new house in hand.”
“She’s got the spirit for it too,” Muir added. “Most females would have taken Gillanders’s offer over being turned out in their shift.”
“You cannot simply decide to take me to your home,” Jane declared.
Her outburst caused a round of confident smirks that made her step away from them. Somehow, her refusal struck them as a challenge, and they were a determined bunch.
“Christ,” Diocail muttered. He reached back and grasped her wrist, tugging her toward the stairs. His men took his move as an agreement. Their smiles brightened, and they muttered congratulations to one another as Niven and Kory quickly fetched Lachie his traveling writing desk.
She gasped, her feet sliding against the floor, locked in frozen horror. Diocail turned on her. “Ye prefer to oversee the writing of the contract?”
There was a crinkle of paper as the secretary laid a new sheet out. Jane grabbed her skirts and lifted them. She dashed around Diocail, which was a task considering his size and the narrowness of the stairs. But once she reached the loft bedroom, he came in behind her and kicked the door shut.
It slammed, and he grunted at it before fixing her with a hard look. “If ye had stayed in this room, mistress, that crowd would no’ be out there.”
It was the truth. Still, she faced off with him, confident in her choice. “How was I to know your people would be so bloody suspicious?”
“So a Scottish woman would be welcome in the village near yer father’s house?” he cut back. “No one would question a stranger’s appearance?”
Jane let out a huff in defeat. “Yes, they would.”
It was the truth. Strangers were always noted. No one could afford to lock all their doors and windows, what with the price of locks, so the village relied upon the eyes of its citizens to prevent thieves from making their way into their homes.
“So why did ye leave?” he pressed her. “Ye’ve been treated kindly, Jane.”
“I know,” she answered back, shamed by the truth of his words.
“I asked naught of ye.”
“Which is why I had to go,” she exclaimed, frustrated by Fate’s desire to see her at the mercy of everything around her. Including her own values.
“Ye do nae make any sense, woman.” He turned and paced to the other end of the room.
The reference to her gender needled her. “As a woman, I should just expect to be kept? Well, I won’t be weak.”
He stopped and turned to face her, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated her. “No, I suppose ye would be opposed to taking something ye do nae consider yer due.”
She nodded, relieved he understood. “I truly meant to honor your kindness by leaving.”
He let out a snort and moved closer, pointing toward the street where the muffled sounds of the crowd could still be heard. “The world does nae always respond well to kindness, Jane.”
She tipped her head back and scoffed at the ceiling. “Oh, I know that very well, Diocail Gordon. Fate has never had anything but sharp edges for me.”
He’d intended to lecture her more on the topic but stood still as she agreed. He let out a long breath. “I know that side of Fate meself.”
She believed him. For a moment, their gazes met, and she realized once again how alike they were. Both were trying to survive on their own terms. Perhaps she did not know the details of his life, but clearly he had been shaped by circumstances hard enough to make him strong. His forearms were cut with hard muscle, which only came from practicing with the sword currently strapped to his back. His demeanor declared it as well—the way he masked his emotions, carefully guarding his feelings. Sometimes, it was best to take the pain of the flesh and console yourself with the knowledge that your emotions would be spared because you had kept them buried deep inside yourself.
“Is your home truly in such dire straits?”
She likely shouldn’t have asked him. It wasn’t the sort of thing any man would like to admit, much less a laird who was trying to establish himself.
He grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. “It is. The last laird was a miser who let the place fall to ruin while squeezing his staff nearly to death in his attempts to hold onto what he perceived as his.”
“That’s why you give some of the rent back.” She’d seen him do it quite often.
“Aye,” he nodded. “I expect loyalty, but give due consideration in return.”
“And now I’ve given the villagers cause to doubt you.” She breathed out a low sigh. “I am sorry for it.”
He contemplated her for a long minute. She felt the muscles along her neck tightening as his gaze sharpened.
“Ye’ll just have to be facing what yer actions have brought upon us both,” he said with a nod.
“I don’t understand…”
One of his eyebrows rose. “Do nae ye, lass?”
Her breath froze in her chest, her belly twisting with a very strange sort of sensation. She might have labeled it excitement,
except for her absolute abhorrence for marriage. No matter how attractive the groom might seem.
She was shaking her head, her lips moving, but no sound made its way out of her mouth.
Diocail only cocked his head to one side in the face of her blunt refusal. He pressed his lips into a hard line before he turned and walked across the chamber to the table. A bottle of whisky sat there; he pulled the rope stopper from it and poured a generous amount into two mugs. He tossed one serving down his own throat before he looked back at her.
“I do nae believe either of us has much of a choice in the matter. I can take ye back out there and declare ye a spy or stand firm with what Muir said about ye fleeing a match with me. If I try to tell them ye ran because ye have reservations about being kept, they will declare ye unnatural and burn ye as a witch.”
“You and your men can ride away,” she argued, “and drop me on the road. These are villagers, not trained retainers such as your men. For all that they might yell at us, their horses are not trained as yours are. They will be left behind.”
“True,” he agreed. “But I do that, lass, and word will spread far and wide that I am no’ a man of me word. That I consort with English spies and set them free.” He answered her in a tone that made it clear he had no doubt he spoke the truth.
An ugly truth at that.
“In case ye do nae understand just what that means to a clan such as the Gordons, allow me to explain.” He refilled his mug and drank its contents in one swallow again. The bite of the whisky made his lips tight when he lowered the mug. “The clan will split, and there will be fighting over who is to take the lairdship. After me, there are at least five men with equal claims. Blood will flow in the spring until one faction takes enough lives to silence the others.”
More than an ugly truth—a horrific one, it would seem. It left them staring at one another. Jane felt the weight of the burden and witnessed it in his brown eyes. He might easily have left her to the justice of his people, but he stood there, willing to share circumstances with her.
“So.” His voice was low, and she realized it indicated he was trying to hide his emotions. “What do ye want to do?”
