by Cathy MacRae
His clipped manner this morning could be excused after the battle he and his men had fought on their behalf, but what she did remember of him was not endearing. If . . .
Riona swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. Not ‘if,’ but ‘when’ her father passed and her brother did not return, she would become a ward of the king, giving Ranald complete power over her life.
Her fingertips traced the raised ridge of a three-inch scar running along her collarbone, outlining the last memory she had of Ranald Scott.
Chapter 2
Ranald was shown to a room on the second floor of the castle after seeing Finlay and the rest of the Scotts given lodging with the Macrory soldiers. He expected resentment to erupt between the two clans, but he trusted his captain to manage things in the barracks. Their choices were few. Open defiance of the king’s men would ensure retaliation from the crown. Resentful, reckless, and angry the Macrory soldiers may be, but not, Ranald hoped, entirely stupid.
He unbuckled his heavy leather belt, laying his claymore across the bed. Slipping the rest of his weapons from their various hiding places, he placed them on the bed as well. He unwound his plaide and shucked out of clothes that would require a good boiling to clean them to a wearable degree, dropping them across the back of a chair.
A sudden rap at the door had him reaching for claymore and dirk. Slender fingers reached around the panel to hold it open as two burly lads manhandled a tub through the door.
Ranald dropped the weapons back to the bed and quickly donned his shirt. The leine hung a bit above his knees, shorter than his kilt. It wasn’t much of a shield. If what he remembered of the laird’s daughter as a child remained true, iron would not protect him from her.
“Place it by the hearth,” Riona instructed as she entered the room.
After settling the tub close to the comforting warmth of the carefully banked fire, the lads hurried from the room, leaving Riona and Ranald alone. She glanced at him, her expression unreadable.
“‘Tis been a while, cousin,” Ranald said, breaking the silence.
“Aye. Nearly ten years, if memory serves.”
“Ye were a wee lass.” He returned her regard, and more. “Ye have grown.”
She tossed her head, the embers’ glow sparking highlights of red and gold from her hair as it bounced across her shoulders. “Ye havenae changed,” she retorted. “Still an annoying lad.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “No’ such a lad, milady.”
“Nae. The king’s man, now. I wondered why he sent ye.”
“Ye mean ‘me of all people?’” Ranald formed a mirthless grin. “‘Twould seem he has grown fond of clan Scott.”
“And ye are kin to us,” Riona admitted grudgingly.
“Aye. A stroke of luck for him.”
“There is Kinnon.”
Ranald gave a slow, sad shake of his head. Despite their differences as children, he wasn’t willing to hurt her. “Lass, ye know he has been reported missing in France.”
Her curt nod betrayed her distress. “He will come home.” The firm avowal seemed to deny the obvious.
“With his shield, or on it?” It may not have been the smartest thing for Ranald to say. Her face blanched.
The lads appeared at the door again, hefting steaming buckets of water, effectively halting their conversation. Riona stepped back, giving way before the brigade.
“I’ll send a lass to help ye.” Her eyes held a haunted look as she fled the room.
Ranald leaned his head back on the edge of the tub. A servant girl had cleared away his filthy clothing and departed, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He’d regretfully turned down the offer of further assistance from the pretty lass, his thoughts shifting longingly to the sweet widow he’d reluctantly forsaken when he’d accepted the king’s command.
The king’s mandate weighed heavily on his mind. When Laird Macrory died, if his son, Kinnon, did not return to lead the clan, the king’s position was clear. Ranald, newly raised to the title Lord Scott, would marry the laird’s daughter.
He didn’t need any entanglements with a serving lass to answer for if the wedding went forward. He could recount plenty of family history to learn from. His brother Eaden had dealt with a former mistress who all but destroyed his marriage, which had begun on less than auspicious footing.
Ranald vowed his own wife would never question his faithfulness, though he hadn’t considered the king would decree he wed Laird Macrory’s daughter. From Riona’s less than enthusiastic welcome, and from what he remembered of her as a child, he still hoped to avert that potential disaster.
He rose from the tub and reached for a towel warming by the hearth. With so much to do, a long soak was out of the question. His first job, now that he felt human and somewhat less tired, was to see for himself how Laird Macrory fared.
Slipping into a clean shirt and wrapping his kilt about him, he buckled his short sword onto his belt and tucked away his dirk and knife. Thus fortified, he emerged from his room.
A lad waiting beyond the door pushed quickly to attention. “I am Brian, milord.” The lad’s anxious green eyes met his. “I am to take ye to Laird Macrory when ye are ready.”
Ranald gestured down the hallway with a sweep of one hand. “Lead on.”
Brian cast another look around. “Are the dogs yers?”
“Aye. But they’re in the barracks with my soldiers, now.”
“Why is that, milord?”
Ranald allowed a small grin for the impetuous lad. “They can be intimidating if tempers flare.”
With a wide-eyed look, Brian turned to the stairwell. “The laird’s quarters are up one level, with the rest of the family.”
They stopped outside a closed door and Brian knocked. After a moment the portal opened and the lad stepped aside, a triumphant smile on his freckled face.
Ranald inclined his head in thanks. “Await me here.”
The lad certainly seemed eager to please. He might have use of a ghille to aid him about the castle and give him insight on social blunders he did not want to make. He felt sure he would find Brian full of castle gossip and willing to share.
Ranald eased inside the dim room. Riona rose from her seat at Laird Macrory’s bedside, her hand lingering on his pillow, her stance protective. Behind her stood a large, barrel-chested man, his glare just shy of insulting.
“How fares yer father?” Ranald moved to the bed, his attention on the skeletal form beneath the covers. Laird Macrory’s eyes flickered open, blinking uncertainly as he peered at Ranald.
“Da, ‘tis Ranald.” She touched his face with careful fingers. “The king sent him.”
Laird Macrory lifted a tremulous hand and Ranald took it, dismayed at the weightless feel of the hot, fragile skin. “I am here at yer request, Laird. I will protect yer people.”
The old laird closed his eyes. His fingers slackened and Ranald gently lowered his hand to the bed. He studied the dying man, trying to reconcile this reality with the once-powerful laird who’d seemed larger than life in the eyes of two rambunctious brothers a lifetime ago.
He surprised a flash of anger on Riona’s face when he straightened. Sighing, Ranald gestured to a corner of the room. She tore herself from her da’s side, casting a pleading look to the man behind her.
Ranald waited until she joined him. “How long has he been like this?”
Riona stared at her hands, clenched tightly at her waist, her fingers twitching with pent-up emotion. Patiently, Ranald gave her time to come to grips with her thoughts.
Finally, she spoke. “A few weeks. He has been ailing for several months, and we sent word to Kinnon to come home. When the message arrived from his commander, informing us he was missing, Da seemed to give up.” Her jaw clenched with emotion. “He collapsed at the head of the s
tairs about three weeks ago. Fergus stood nearby but not close enough to keep him from falling.”
Riona ducked her head, glancing behind her where the big man stood watch over her da. “Fergus blames himself for what happened. ‘Twas no one’s fault.”
“Riona, we must discuss what will happen when he dies.”
She shook her head violently and he could tell she fought for control. He cupped her shoulder in his hand, offering sympathy.
She wrenched free, sudden fury twisting her face. “Dinnae touch me!” she rasped. “Dinnae ever touch me.”
Ranald looked at her in surprise. “I meant nothing by it, lass. Ye face a lot. I am here to help.”
“We dinnae need yer help.”
“Yer da thought ye did,” Ranald pointed out quietly.
“He was wrong,” she flung back at him. “Kinnon will return. And if not, I can lead the clan.”
Ranald raised an eyebrow. “Ye? The king wouldnae allow that.”
“Why not? I’ve been at Da’s side for the three years since Kinnon left. I know the people. I know the land. I can do this.”
“Ye might be the laird’s daughter, and capable, but this is a castle the king doesnae want in the wrong hands. Even should King Robert allow it, will the people follow ye? Will Manus?”
Riona’s piqued frown told the truth.
“Yer captain doesnae favor a lass for a ruler, does he?”
“It isnae his choice. Manus can be replaced.”
“Dinnae be so hasty to discard a good man.”
“The king sent ye.”
“No’ to replace Manus.”
“Then who?”
He paused, then uttered words he knew she didn’t want to hear. “The laird.”
Riona stared in shock at Ranald’s departing back. How dare he presume to take over as laird of Scaurness? Kin or not, he couldn’t simply step over the lines of leadership and . . .
She fought to check her emotions and think logically. With Kinnon gone, possibly never to return, there were no direct lines. Manus and others had made it abundantly clear they would not take orders from a lass, even the laird’s daughter.
It wasn’t fair. She’d stayed at her father’s side, learning clan law, watching him dispense justice, discussing the lives of their people daily. Against Manus’s disapproval, she’d learned to wield a sword and sharpened her skills with the bow. She knew Manus secretly coveted the laird’s position, though it wasn’t likely to fall to him. Though he had the support of a few of the Macrory soldiers, the majority wanted Kinnon to return to his heritage. She caught her breath as her heart clenched painfully.
So do I.
How difficult would it be to replace those who would not show her loyalty? Would the people suffer because she assumed power of leadership? She frowned. It was the last thing she wanted. But to put Ranald in charge of the clan? Ridiculous! He wasn’t a Macrory. The clan wouldn’t accept him. He gets seasick just looking at waves, for pity’s sake! What good was a Macrory laird who couldn’t sail a boat?
“Milady.”
Riona jerked at Fergus’s voice. Her gaze flew to her father, the harsh rasp of his breathing louder as he struggled to drag air into his lungs. She ran to his side, sinking onto the stool by his bed. Clasping his limp hand in hers, she gripped it fiercely, as though she could keep him from slipping away if only she held him tight enough. Fergus slid his arm behind the laird’s shoulders, raising him forward, helping him breathe.
Sunlight from the open window pooled on the bed. Outside, the men’s occasional shouts rose to the laird’s room, punctuated with the strikes of steel and wood as they trained in the field beyond. Tangy salt air and the sweet smell of summer grasses drifted on a breeze. Shadows filled in behind the sunlight, marching across the laird’s coverlet. Feeling neither the warmth of the sun nor the chill of shadow, Riona watched, her heart sinking, as her da fought for each breath.
Don’t leave me, Da, she begged silently. I need ye so much. We all need ye.
His breaths grew strident, the sound eating away Riona’s composure. She buried her face in the nest of their clasped hands, breathing the scent of the soap she’d used to bathe him that morning.
A sudden intake of breath, then silence. It took a moment for the meaning to register, and she lifted her startled gaze to her father’s face. His features, blurred through her tears, had softened, relaxed in death, bringing release.
Something in her snapped, and Riona dropped her head to the mattress, the cool sheets beneath her cheek soaking up the hot tears of her grief.
Ranald strode impatiently down the hall, his booted heels clicking on the thick wooden floor. Surely Riona wasn’t that naïve. This wasn’t about playing ball in the bailey or hide-and-seek beneath the cliffs. Weeks had passed since receiving word Kinnon was missing, most likely dead. With no obvious choice among the men of Scaurness to claim title, Laird Macrory had sought the king’s help.
Prideful wench. He snorted uncharitably. Surely she knew the lairdship of Scaurness would never be allowed to fall to a woman’s rule. Scaurness, literally guarding the mouth of the River Clyde and its harbor near the Bishopric of Glasgow, was too important to leave unsecured, without a king’s man to rule. Pirates roving the coastline would attack the fortress at the first sign of weakness. The Lord of the Isles would be only too happy to add this outpost to his holdings. King Robert wasted no time arranging to have the land protected. While Manus appeared a competent captain, his reluctance to accept Riona’s authority would be reflected in his soldiers as well.
Ranald’s thoughts were interrupted as Brian skittered in his wake, hustling to keep up with his long strides.
“How fares the laird?” Brian skipped around in front of Ranald, his eager face reflecting his fondness for gossip.
“Sleeping.” Ranald’s reply was terse, unwilling to fuel gossip from that quarter.
Brian sighed, but apparently thought better of questioning further, and changed tack. “Where are we going?”
“To see Manus.”
Brian made a face. Ranald quirked an eyebrow, curious. “Is there a problem, lad?”
“Ach, no, milord. I shouldnae like to think so.”
Ranald came to a stop. Looking around the great hall, he stepped into an antechamber, dragging the freckle-faced boy with him. Depositing him safely inside the room, Ranald closed the door behind them, bracing one hand on the portal to discourage the imp’s escape.
“Tell me.”
Brian fidgeted, twisting a shod toe on the stone floor. “Weel, Manus doesnae like me.”
Ranald sighed. “Is that all?”
“Weel, Manus thinks he should be laird.”
“A perfectly good argument.”
Brian gave him a lopsided grin. “He willnae like ye, neither.”
“Why would ye think that?”
“Everyone knows ye are here to replace the laird, should he die.”
Everyone except Riona. “So that is the word about the castle, is it?”
Brian nodded vigorously. “Everyone knows the laird sent word to the king, and ye are here on the king’s business.” He shrugged. “‘Tis easy to see the king favors ye to replace the laird.”
Ranald frowned, wondering if all were as quick-witted as the lad. “And if I were here only to see to the smooth transition from one laird to the next? Who would the people favor? Would it be Manus?”
Brian’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I dinnae think so.”
“Why not?”
“His ma was a MacEwen.”
Finlay tilted his head, peering at Ranald. “So the MacEwen has his eye on the lairdship?”
Ranald leaned his shoulders against the outer wall of the barracks, arms crossed over his chest. Curious about Brian’s interest in their
conversation, he eyed the lad, busily petting Pol, while Senga looked on with benevolent good humor. The lad appeared completely absorbed with the two dogs, either of which would easily dwarf him if they but rose on their hind legs. Pol swiped Brian’s freckled face with his tongue, drawing a shriek of laughing protest from the lad.
Ranald shook his head. “The Macraigs claim land closer than the MacEwens, but there is suspicion they are in league with pirates who ply the coast.”
Finlay snorted. “Aye. The king wouldnae thank ye to let the Macrory lands fall to piracy.”
“There isnae proof. And Laird Macraig is a friend of long standing here at Scaurness.”
“Aye, weel, the king dinnae appoint him, did he?”
“Dinnae jest, Finlay. I find the lairdship of Scaurness in more contention than I was led to believe. We must tread carefully.”
Ranald pushed away from the wall. His brother had chosen well when he’d sent Finlay with him to Scaurness as his captain. The man was loyal and brave, and big enough that few gainsaid him. “There is still the matter of how the attackers got into the castle last night. Someone opened the postern gate, and we must find out who it was.”
“Aye. ‘Twould be best to settle as much as possible while the auld laird yet lives.” Finlay rose to his feet, snapping his fingers as he whistled low through his teeth. Instantly the deerhounds swiveled their heads in his direction, liquid brown eyes round with question.
“They listen to ye,” Ranald observed approvingly. “Ye’ve made good progress with them.”
“Aye. I have an affinity for the poor, wee beasties.” Finlay grinned as Pol and Senga loped over to him and sat at his side. They gazed at him expectantly, tongues lolled to the side in comical, lopsided canine grins. With an abashed glance at Ranald, Finlay reached in his sporran and pulled forth a piece of dried meat. Breaking it in half, he gave one to each dog. “Their bottomless stomachs make them easy to train.”
