by Cathy MacRae
And she’d promised him nothing.
“Tavia! Tavia!” Riona’s voice rang through the solar. Receiving no reply, she whirled to leave the room, nearly running over the object of her search. “Tavia. I need to start planning my wedding.”
The old woman nodded. “Aye. ‘A rowin stane gaithers nae fog.’ ‘Tis best to keep busy. Ye’ll worry less.”
“I want to look pretty. And I want Gilda to have flowers in her hair, and a new dress.”
“She’ll outgrow it in a week, she will.”
“There’s beautiful fabric in the wardroom.”
“A new overskirt, one with laces at the sides.” Tavia’s lips pressed in a tight line. “We have nae time for more.”
“Done,” Riona replied happily. “I’ve just the thing.”
Tavia picked up her skirts and hurried after Riona, muttering under her breath with every step. “And none o’ that fancy cloth, either. Linen is good enough for the bairn. She’ll like as not get it dirty or torn before she has it on a full minute.”
Riona laughed. “It’s not every day her ma gets married. Let’s make it special for her.”
“What about ye, lass? How can we make it special for ye?”
Riona stopped, her hand on the wardroom door. “Don’t press me, Tavia, please.”
The seer touched her fingertips to Riona’s cheek. “Ah, lass. I’ve loved ye since ye were born. I was in service to yer ma and I’ve had the raisin’ of ye since she died, and ye but a wean yerself. She’d roll in her grave to see what’s become of ye. Put the past behind ye. As much as he deserves to be reminded of the way he treated ye as a wean, the laird’s a good man. He could make ye forget.”
“I told ye, he doesnae want me. I’ve been spoiled by another man.”
Tavia plucked at the fine wool draping from the tight upper sleeve of Riona’s dress. “We could sew ye a new gown. One that would make him forget what he knows.”
“I thought he was supposed to make me forget,” Riona replied testily.
“I think we could manage both, lass.”
“I’m hungry.”
Ranald stared at the wee lass. “Ye just ate breakfast.”
Gilda scuffed a foot in the rocks. “I’m hungry.”
“We’ll eat dinner in a bit.”
“But I want to eat now.”
Ranald rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t expected he’d have to feed the lass. Hell, with the breakfast she’d devoured earlier, she shouldn’t need food again for a week. How could one tiny lass eat so much?
“Aye, then. We’ll go back to the castle, and ye can see if Cook will find ye something to eat.”
Gilda threw him a stricken look. “I dinnae want to go back, yet.”
“Yer choice, lass. I’d hate for ye to starve.”
She twirled a lock of matted hair around a finger in indecision.
“We could leave right now if ye like,” he added.
As though she’d never broached the subject of food, Gilda slipped her finger free of the knot in her hair and pointed to the water pooling between some rocks. “I think there are shells over there. Come on, Ranald.”
He swallowed a chuckle as she grabbed his hand and attempted to drag him to the tidal pool. Reaching down, he snagged her around her waist and swung her into the air. She squealed with delight, grabbing at his arms for support. He spun around and around, lifting her in undulating arcs as they whirled about. Her hair flew behind her and damp earth from her bare feet rained down on them.
After three complete turns, he set her on her feet, slightly winded and a wee bit dizzy.
Gilda clung to his hands, jumping up and down. “Do it again!”
“I dinnae think I can.” Ranald grinned at the lass. “I think we’d best go back to the castle.”
“No.” Her tone petulant, Gilda seemed to assess him before she wheedled, “Please, let’s no’ leave yet.” Her voice softened. “I like being here with ye.”
Ranald laughed. “A few minutes more,” he agreed. He warned off her protest with a raised hand. “I have things that must be done today.” Trying not to let the disappointment on her face sway him, he leaned in and pulled her toward him until they were face-to-face. He tweaked her sunburned nose. “I like being here with ye, too.”
Together they walked to the tidal pool, Senga and Pol splashing through the waves. No bird escaped their notice, no sea crowl allowed to pass without challenge, though the pair backed off warily when a particularly big one waved its claws at them with menace.
“Oh.” Gilda frowned. “There’s sea waur in the water.”
Ranald knelt and dragged a hand through the water as the plant rocked gently in the tidal pool. “The storm must have washed it ashore. It won’t hurt ye.” He lifted his hand, the sea waur dripping water from its leaves.
“I dinnae like the way it feels.” Gilda pulled away.
“‘Tis nae but a plant that lives in the sea.”
“I dinnae like it. It wraps around my legs.”
Ranald had to agree. “Aye. I wouldnae like it wrapped around my legs, neither.” A fresh breeze caressed his face and he gazed at the sky. He rose to his feet, brushing his hands on his trews. “Get ready to go, Gilda. There’s another storm brewing.”
Gilda jerked around, her mouth a round ‘O’ of protest. But the sound died on her lips as she saw the dark clouds on the horizon. The water was gray, whitecaps surging far out to sea. The wind picked up, driving the storm before it as the remaining sunlight quickly faded.
“Come, lass. Let’s get yer cubbie and find Hearn.”
To his surprise, Gilda scrambled to her feet. She clutched her basket, peering inside before closing the lid. Thunder rumbled low in the distance. The child gasped, whirling to cling to Ranald’s legs. Belatedly remembering the way she’d burrowed herself in Riona’s arms the night before, he realized she was frightened of the incoming storm.
Ranald picked her up, holding her close. “Now, lass. There’s nothing to be afeared of.” He scooped up her basket with one hand, holding Gilda tight with the other. Not that he could have dropped her if he’d tried. She gripped his neck with astonishing tenacity.
Ranald whistled for the dogs. In the distance, a single bark sounded. Then another. Hands full, Ranald squinted against the sunlight as he searched the beach for Senga and Pol. He started to mutter a curse, but changed it to an airy whistle of sound, not wanting Gilda repeating words she shouldn’t.
A fury of barking sounded up the beach, and Ranald took a step in that direction. Around the curve in the cove, racing ahead of the storm, a square-sailed birlinn headed straight for them.
Chapter 10
Men’s shouts rang above the noise of the crashing waves. Gilda burrowed her face against Ranald’s chest, tightening her grip on his neck, and he patted her back as he appraised the situation. Approaching them from down the beach were the two guardsmen Finlay had sent with him. He could see movement on the cliff as soldiers scrambled to his aid.
The knife in his belt hung with reassuring weight at his waist. Hearn waited, unconcerned, in his patch of shade, Ranald’s sword strapped to the saddle. Closer, yet several yards away, lay his boots. He’d hidden a dirk in the right boot.
Up the beach, the square-sailed birlinn approached the rocky shore. It was a small boat, and he estimated a score of men within.
“Ye must stand, lass.” He dropped the basket and lowered Gilda to her feet. She tried to cling to him, stretching her arms up to be held. Setting her firmly behind him, he whistled for Senga and Pol. The dogs wheeled from their chase on the beach and came bounding across the shore. They stared expectantly at him, tails swaying with excitement.
Ranald leveled a finger at the dogs, then pointed at Gilda. “Guard.”
Cocking thei
r heads, the pair turned their attention to the lass who stared back at them with mild apprehension. Answering their master’s command, Senga and Pol stepped beside Gilda, flanking her, their bodies shielding her on either side.
As the birlinn rounded into the cove, the sail dropped, and with an impressive show of seamanship, it slipped close to the shore. By now, most of its soldiers had scrambled to the beach, surrounding Ranald and Gilda, yet maintaining a respectful distance from the dogs’ bared fangs.
Six more men leaped from the birlinn, splashing into the surf, ropes slung over their shoulders. They dragged the ship to the beach where it swayed with the movement of the waves. Ranald took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach as the ship rolled and pitched.
Standing at the helm, shading his eyes against the lingering rays of the sun, stood Laird MacEwen. “Ahoy, the beach!”
Ranald stepped forward, showing himself to be in charge. “Aye?”
“Permission to come ashore?”
Affirming the positioning of his men, Ranald nodded. “Aye.”
Morgan MacEwen placed a hand on the frame and leapt over the edge, splashing into knee-deep water and wading ashore. Two burly soldiers followed in his wake.
Small hands grasped Ranald’s legs from behind as Gilda pressed herself against him. Senga and Pol crowded close.
“Ye’ve an impressive guard.” Morgan grinned broadly toward the two deerhounds. They strained toward him, hackles raised along their backs, lips raised to give him a nice view of healthy, white teeth.
With a slight movement of his hand, Ranald lowered the dogs’ guard level. They sat on either side of Gilda, fully alert to any dangerous movements from the new arrivals.
He spoke with purpose. “What brings ye back to Scaurness?”
Morgan waved a hand. “A small matter. I dinnae mean to arrive without notice, but the storm blew up faster than I’d expected. I thought we’d shelter here for the night, and approach ye in the morning.”
Ranald narrowed his eyes. A seasoned sailor who couldn’t judge a brewing storm? He glanced at the birlinn. No overt display of weapons showed above the frame, but there was ample space to store an arsenal, should Morgan wish. Even if the MacEwen laird didn’t have raiding on his mind, Ranald expected he would find plenty of swords, knives, dirks and targes aboard simply as a prudent matter-of-course.
He inclined his head to give the appearance of accepting Morgan’s word. “Ye are welcome to shelter at Scaurness.”
“Nae. My men and I appreciate yer offer, but are well-used to surviving a wee bit of wet weather. With yer permission, we’ll set camp here and tend the boat—see it doesnae blow away during the storm.” Morgan’s toothy grin split his black beard like a shark testing is prey.
Ranald felt a chill ripple down his spine. “As ye wish. I’ll inform Lady Caitriona to expect visitors in the morning.”
Laird MacEwen’s smile vanished. “Nae need to bother the lady. We’ll nae require her care. I simply wished to broach a matter with ye that has been on my mind.”
Another odd response. Why should the man not appreciate the invitation to the castle for shelter or to break his fast in the morning? Was it the hospitality or Riona’s notice he wished to escape?
Before Ranald could respond, Morgan leaned forward, his gaze moving to Ranald’s side. He looked down, seeing Gilda peering around him at the laird an instant before she darted back behind him.
“Who is the wee lass ye have here?” Morgan’s gaze fell to Ranald, a gleam in his eyes. “Yer daughter?”
“Nae. Though she will be when I wed.”
Morgan straightened, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity. “Oh? And who is yer bride-to-be?”
“The betrothal has nae been announced.”
“Laird!”
Ranald flicked his eyes briefly to Finlay as he approached.
“The storm quickens. We should leave before the trail is too wet to climb.”
“Aye.” Ranald returned his attention to Morgan and found him staring thoughtfully at Gilda. His hackles instantly rose, but he kept his voice even. “The offer stands, Laird, though Finlay is right. The trail will be treacherous once the storm hits.”
“We’ll wait here the night.” Morgan turned to his men, motioning them to the shore. “I’ll seek ye out in the morning.”
With a nod, Ranald scooped up Gilda. Immediately surrounded by his soldiers and the two dogs, he strode quickly to Hearn, grabbing his boots along the way. Thunder rolled and the crashing sea breeze mixed with the leading edge of the storm, sprinkling them with cold drops of rain. He lifted Gilda to Hearn’s back and shoved his feet into his boots, then swung up behind her and reined his horse toward the trail. Hearn, anxious to be in his warm, dry stall, made short work of the winding trail, and they soon reached the gates of Scaurness Castle.
Riona awaited them inside and Ranald lowered the silent lass into her mother’s arms. Throwing the corner of her arisaid over Gilda’s head to block the damp wind, Riona hurried into the castle. Ranald slipped from Hearn’s back, handing the reins to a lad who darted across the bailey.
He clasped Finlay’s shoulder. “Set a double guard, especially on the cliff. Keep the torches lit. I want no surprises this day.”
Ranald stared at Riona’s empty seat at the table. The room, full of people anxious for their dinner, waited.
He peered at Tavia who appeared out of nowhere. “Milady will be down shortly. She begs ye begin without her.”
With a nod, he motioned for the servers to fill the cups with wine, a signal for the meal to begin. The rich aroma of beef stew reached his nose and he dragged the heavy bowl to him, dipping the broth, laden with beef and vegetables, into his bowl. He ate quickly.
A basket landed on the table, and he grabbed a chunk of the warm, fresh bread to sop the last of the stew. Snagging an apple from a nearby platter, he carved it into bite-sized pieces with his knife, eating them off the point.
Riona appeared and slid into her chair. Dropping his knife to his empty plate, Ranald picked up the heavy crockery and set it before her.
“I am sorry I kept everyone waiting,” she said.
“Is Gilda all right?”
Riona ladled stew into her bowl. “Aye. But she is tired. Once the storm died, she drifted right off to sleep.”
Ranald paused to listen to the drumming roar of the steady rain on the roof of the castle. No thunder rumbled and no lightning crashed the sky. The room was plunged into unnatural darkness, lit by candles and torches as though they ate supper, not the noon meal.
“I’m sorry she was so tired.”
Riona waved away his apology. “Nae. She enjoyed going to the beach with ye. Though she insisted ye left her cubbie on the beach. I suppose Gilda was frightened of the storm and ye forgot it.”
“Nae, the storm did not—”
“Laird, a moment?” Ranald’s steward hovered at his shoulder.
Ranald stifled a sigh. “I will meet with ye in the laird’s chamber.”
The man gave a brief nod and threaded his way among the tables toward the private room down the hallway.
Ranald faced Riona. “Would ye come to the chamber when ye have finished yer meal?”
She hesitated, her spoon halfway to her mouth, her gray eyes full of questions, but gave a slow nod of assent instead of the expected words of protest. “Aye. I’ll meet ye.”
Ranald entered the laird’s privy chamber, nodding to the two guards at the door. A man stood near the fireplace, warming his hands near the crackling flames. Ranald approached his desk, rapping his knuckles on the wooden surface as he rounded the corner. The sound caught the other man’s attention and he swung about, his kilt swaying gently just above his knees. Drops of rain sparkled in the closely-woven wool.
Ranald recognized Laird Latharn Macraig as he offered a slight smile. “Please, have a seat.” He waved the man to a chair.
Perching one hip on the edge of his desk, he waited for the laird to sit, then nodded to the flask on a nearby table. “Whisky to chase the chill?”
Macraig nodded and a serving girl poured a measure into a mug. He sipped the whisky, a look of appreciation on his face.
Ranald didn’t prevaricate. “What brings ye out in such weather?”
Laird Macraig smiled. “‘Tis a dreicht day, aye. But ‘twas no’ so bad when I left Ard Castle early this morn.” He shook drops of rain from his hair.
“Ye are, of course, welcome here at Scaurness. Are ye passing by or did ye have business here?” Ranald asked pointedly.
Laird Macraig shifted in his chair. “Could we speak in private?” He drained his mug.
Ranald rose to his feet, motioning for the guards, his steward and the serving girl to leave the room. Checking the door they closed behind them, Ranald returned to his guest.
Laird Macraig paused, but Ranald waited patiently, striding to the fireplace to warm his own hands. At last, the laird cleared his throat. “I know this is a difficult time for the people of Scaurness. But I have a claim I wish to put forth.”
Ranald held his regard steady on Macraig. “Indeed? What claim is that?”
“Before the old laird died, he and I were very close. We spoke of many things, not the least of what would happen if he died before Kinnon returned.” The man shifted in his chair again. “He and I reached an agreement only a few days before he died.”
Macraig’s piercing gaze locked on Ranald. “He gave his daughter, Lady Caitriona, to be my wife.”
Alone, Ranald stared into the dancing flames, their warmth heating his skin, but not the cold place within him. He had listened to Laird Macraig’s statement and dismissed his claim firmly, though the man had been clearly upset as he left the room. The king’s papers of betrothal overrode any verbal communication between the old laird and Macraig. His confidence in taking Riona to wife, however, had taken a direct hit.
