by Lily Baldwin
Her nostrils flared. “I have been this clan’s chieftain for the past three years.”
Michael nodded. “Aye, ye have, but in secret. Alexandria, ye’re still a woman.”
With a fierce yelp, she swung the heavy sword and brought it down on the mantle, its blade sinking into the wood. Breathless, she yanked the sword free and turned to face him. “I ken ye’re right.” She leaned the sword against the wall and expelled a long breath. “There’s no way around it. I’ll just have to find myself a husband.”
She crossed to a side table and poured two cups of wine. Handing one to Michael, she gestured toward the high-backed chairs facing the cold hearth and said, “My father is dead. ‘Tis up to us to sort the matter now.”
She sat down and sipped the wine. “So,” she said.
Next to her, Michael cleared his throat. “So,” he said in reply.
“A husband,” she muttered before taking another sip.
“Aye, a husband,” he repeated.
Frustrated, she set her cup down and scooted to the edge of her seat, turning to face Michael. “This shouldn’t be so difficult. ‘Tis only a husband. Ladies secure husbands every day.”
Michael shifted in his seat, mirroring her body language. “Right,” he said. “’Tis just a husband.”
She stood up then and started pacing in front of the hearth. “Exactly. We just need a man. Any man should do. Why not any one of the MacKenzie warriors.”
Michael shook his head. “Nay, my lady. The MacLeod offered ye his son, and ye publicly rejected him. If ye were to now marry a commoner, doubtless ye’d start a feud. We are the stronger clan, but ye don’t want to go looking for trouble.”
She stopped dead in front of Michael, her hands on her hips. “I’m not marrying Eudard MacLeod. He is a beast of a man.”
“I agree, my lady. But having just received his offer, albeit indirectly, ye now must marry someone of noble birth.” Michael raked his hand through his hair. “After Robin died, yer father should have betrothed ye to another man straightaway. Now what do we do? I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about finding ye a husband.”
Alex sat down again. “I can do it.”
“Ye,” Michael snorted. “What are ye going to do? Solicit lords and clan chieftains on yer own behalf.”
She slumped back in her chair. “I suppose ye’re right.” Then a moment later she jumped to her feet. “I’ve got it. Abbot Matthew!”
Michael frowned. “Ye can’t marry the abbot.”
Alex laughed out loud for the first time in days. “Michael, I think ye’re the one who needs rest. What I meant is that Abbot Matthew can find me a husband.” She crossed to the large table on the other side of the room. “I will write to him straightaway and tell him all that has occurred.”
She took up her quill and began to compose her letter, pausing only when she heard Michael sigh dramatically. She looked up, meeting his gaze.
He shook his head before downing his portion of wine. “Matchmaking monks—this is bound to go well.”
Chapter Six
“Whoa,” Rory said, bringing his horse to a halt in front of the Ankeld village blacksmith. He was greeted by the thick, shifting back muscles of Ramsay McDonough who stood, legs spread, pumping the bellows. Ramsay’s fire roared and burned brighter with every life-giving breath. Then with tongs, he retrieved a long, slim piece of tortured metal from the flames, red hot and ready to submit to the command of Ramsay’s hammer. He turned then, strands of blond hair clinging to his forehead, and brought metal to anvil, while at the same time reaching for his hammer. Down it came. The sharp clang rang out, piercing the air.
“Alba gu bràth, Ramsay,” Rory said when next the hammer head reached toward the sky.
Ramsay looked up, a scowl of surprise darkening his pale blue eyes the instant before a crooked smile bade Rory welcome. His hammer slammed down again. The hot metal yielded, shedding sparks like tears. Tongs pinched tightly, Ramsay removed the flattened piece and drove it into a bucket of water. Steam billowed off the surface as heat and flame surrendered to their master.
Setting his hammer down, Ramsay reached out his hand, which Rory firmly clasped in greeting. “Go ahead,” the blacksmith said, gesturing deeper inside his stall toward a narrow door. “He’s waiting on ye.”
Rory nodded. “As always, ye have my thanks.” Before he crossed to the door, he glanced at the road. Villagers crowded the busy streets, heading toward the green where the market had been assembled.
“Ye’re all right,” Ramsay said, reassuringly. “Go ahead.”
Rory ducked his head beneath the overhang and retreated into the shadows of the dim stall toward the door. Once inside, he walked past crates filled with tools, then behind a large stack of wood. Squatting low, he squeezed his fingers beneath one of the wooden floor planks. It came loose. Setting it aside, he did the same with the next, wider plank, creating enough space for his large frame to squeeze through. Darkness greeted him as he stepped down through the hole, his head still remaining above the floor. He had to duck to move the planks back in place, concealing himself beneath. Then, staying low, he turned to his right and took three long strides, which brought him to a short, arched passageway from the top of which hung a thick blue curtain. Pushing the fabric aside, he descended a small staircase into a narrow room, illuminated by two fat candles. At the far end sat a keg propped up on a stool with several tankards stacked on top. Above the keg hung a wooden sign, which read The Iron Shoe Tavern, and dominating the space was a narrow table with six wooden chairs.
At the far end of the table, the abbot sat, busy scribbling on a piece of parchment. He looked up and waved Rory over, then motioned to a tankard placed in front of the chair at his side. “I’ve poured yer cup.”
Rory slumped into the chair, his legs spread wide. He wiped at his eyes before stretching his neck from side to side.
“Ye made good time,” Abbot Matthew said.
A lazy smile curved Rory’s lips. “I rode like I was outrunning the devil himself, pardon any blasphemy.”
The abbot, his smile unwavering, cocked a brow at Rory. “Given yer outstanding work for a higher cause, I’m quite certain the good Lord will forgive ye. Although as ye know, I cannot hear confession. Ye’ll need a priest for that.”
Rory sat straight and reached for his cup, taking a long draught. His eyes followed the candle smoke coiling in thin ribbons through the floor boards into Ramsay’s stall above their heads, combining undetected with the ubiquitous cloud and soot of the blacksmith’s fire. The Iron Shoe Tavern was Ramsay’s contribution to the cause. Originally extra storage, he’d turned his cellar into a safe meeting place for the abbot’s agents. The clash of striking metal began again, absorbing Rory and Abbot Matthew’s conversation. Rory took another sip of ale and smiled. Ramsay even ensured they did not go thirsty.
The abbot had returned his attention to his paper, deftly composing words in his even, disciplined hand.
Rory stood to refill his cup. “Ye must have been mighty pleased by the last fortune of silver David delivered.”
The abbot nodded but did not look up. “Indeed. I intend to purchase chargers to rebuild the Scottish cavalry.”
Rory sat back, enjoying his relaxed surroundings while the sharp ringing of the hammer kept watch. “I have to tell ye, Abbot. I enjoyed that last mission in particular.”
This time the abbot looked up and seemed to consider Rory for a moment. “Judging by the less than holy twinkle in yer eye, I feel it’s safe to assume ye met Alex.”
Rory leaned forward, elbows on the table and raked his hands through his hair. “Met her? Abbot, I undressed her.”
The abbot winced. “Och, knowing ye both as I do, I am not surprised to hear that, not surprised at all.” Frowning, he sat back in his seat and scratched at his shorn head. “Ye know, ‘tis interesting that ye should bring Alex up, because she’s central to the reason I summoned ye here.”
Rory sat forward, an alarm soundin
g in his mind. Being an agent for Scotland was dangerous. On any given day, every one of the abbot’s agents risked capture, injury, and most certainly death. “What’s happened? Is she hurt? Was she arrested?”
The abbot shook his head, putting up a pacifying hand. “Nay, nothing like that, lad. She’s not in immediate danger; however, that being said, she is in trouble and has turned to me for aid.”
The tension eased somewhat from Rory’s shoulders. “What are the particulars?”
“Her father recently passed away, may God rest his soul.”
“God rest his soul,” Rory repeated, making the sign of the cross with the abbot. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Aye, he was a good man. Unfortunately, he didn’t settle the matter of her marriage before he passed away.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but can marriage be so important to one of yer agents, to a rebel—even if she is a woman?”
“It is if the agent’s father is laird of Clan MacKenzie.”
“Laird?” Rory blurted. He sat back and blew out a long breath. Images of the Alex MacKenzie he had met came rushing back to him, her slender form, her request for him to untie her laces, her cheeky smile, her strong thigh with a dagger strapped to it. “Are ye quite certain we are talking about the same woman?”
The abbot chuckled. “Alex flouts convention to be sure. Remember, the most ruthless of nobles can often be the most polite or well-behaved. Alex has never been well-behaved. She aspires to reach far higher ideals.”
“Did her father know of her involvement with the cause?”
The abbot shook his head. “No one knows that I’m aware of, although I would not be surprised if her cousin, Mary, guarded her secret.”
“Is there not someone else with the authority to select her husband, a brother or an uncle?”
“There is no one, and that, my lad, is the problem. Clan MacKenzie has no chieftain. Her father’s chair sits empty while those who would claim it wait for the opportune moment. Already she feels pressed by the MacLeod, a neighboring chieftain. The wealth of the clan, the desirability of their land—’tis too fine a prize for even the best intentioned to resist. There will be others who will want the wealth for themselves. Worse yet, Gordon MacLeod is in league with the English. Tensions in the region are bound to rise, placing Alex at their perilous center.”
“What’s to be done?”
“Before committing my life to the service of God, I was a MacKenzie. It is my duty to ensure the clan remains safe while a husband is chosen for her. To that end, I am sending three men north to MacKenzie territory. Each man is good and loyal to Scotland, not to mention highly skilled at specific elements of defense. They will ensure the MacKenzie warriors have the support and training needed to handle any possible attacks.”
“What about me? Why am I here?” Rory asked.
“Ye’re here for Scotland,” the abbot said, leaning closer. “Alex has a stockpile of weapons hidden away. I am sending ye north so that ye can help her bring those weapons to me.”
“Weapons, ye say? I was just speaking to David about that very subject.” Rory smiled as he considered the prospect of another mission with Alex MacKenzie. Wetting his lips, he leaned forward. “When do I leave?”
Chapter Seven
Rory lagged a little behind the three other men as they rode across the long, narrow bridge toward the outer battlements of Luthmore castle. He had chosen to remain on the periphery of their group for the duration of the journey north. It was not that Rory disliked the others. After all, Abbot Matthew’s estimation of character was never made lightly. If he had chosen Adam, Robert, and Timothy to provide the MacKenzie warriors with support in the absence of a laird, then Rory had to trust they were each worthy of the task. And over the last two days, he had judged them all to be decent sort of men and loyal to Scotland. Still, they were noblemen.
As the son of peasants, Rory had spent very little time in the company of gentry. In fact, the only time he had ever spoken to noblemen or women was when he and his brothers had been robbing them. Rory smiled, remembering those not too distant days. Their gang had been called the Saints—the name chosen by an authority higher even than the abbot—so named by the bishop himself. In fact, it was the bishop who had given them the swords and black masks that had sent terror into the hearts of those English nobles who were unlucky enough to meet the Saints on the rode north into Scotland. Not that their terror was reasonably grounded. The Saints had adhered to a simple code; they were thieves not murderers. More than that, they were not even truly thieves. Their stolen gains were never kept for themselves—every coin, jewel, or trinket fed the cause. It was Scotland’s money. The Saints were only taking back what was rightfully theirs.
Of course, the men in his company now were unlike the English nobles who had stared down the length of the Saints’ blades. They were Scotsmen, allies, and brothers-at-arms. Still, he did not feel entirely at ease with them. Timothy and Robert, both good men, seemed rather odd to him, and Adam, although overall of decent character, possessed an underlying arrogance, as if he was used to giving orders and having men obey.
At least they were almost to Luthmore Castle. Rory bit the inside of his cheek to silence the laughter bubbling in his throat at the sight of Timothy once more dropping his reins and making the sign of the cross. Rory was certainly not an ungodly man, but it was at least the tenth time Timothy had released his reins to pray just that morning. Rory had never questioned the abbot’s wisdom, and he was not about to start, but he could not imagine what Timothy would teach Alex’s Highland warriors.
As if conjured by Rory’s question, a large, fierce looking man with an enormous broad sword strapped to his back and clad in naught but a plaid rode out to meet them.
“Who are ye? And what business have ye at Luthmore?” the Highlander growled.
Rory kept his distance. It was the other men who had business with the whole MacKenzie clan, and one of them was in possession of a letter to prove it. Rory was there to see only one MacKenzie, the lady of the keep, and he too had a special letter in his satchel. But it was for Alex’s eyes only. A pleasurable warmth flooded his chest at the prospect of seeing her again. He sat back in his saddle and watched Adam nudge his horse forward and dismount in front of the guard.
“We’ve been sent by Abbot Matthew of Haddington Abbey to bring his condolences to the lady Alexandria and to Clan MacKenzie. We are to be of service to her in this her hour of need.” Adam withdrew a small square of parchment from his saddlebag. Rory was not surprised to see that it was Adam who carried the missive from the abbot. “I have a letter for the captain of the MacKenzie guard with the abbot’s seal to prove the truth of my claim. Are ye Gavin MacKenzie?”
The large Highlander relaxed his stance. “I am,” he said, stretching out his hand for the letter. After examining it, he held it up for everyone to see. Oddly, there were no written words, but then Rory realized the abbot must have guessed that Gavin MacKenzie would not be able to read. Instead, a likeness of the MacKenzie coat of arms filled the page, and at its center was the seal of the abbot.
Gavin smiled. “Ye’re all most welcome. I pray ye provide our lady with whatever comfort ye may. She is beloved by her people and none can observe her grief without feeling the acuteness of pain in our own hearts. Her father, too, was a great man…God rest his soul.”
Adam followed first behind the warrior. As the son of a lord or some other such title, it was his place. Behind Adam rode Robert—who Rory had liked well enough. He seemed to be an expert on horses, having spoken of little else on their two-day journey. After Timothy, Rory fell in line. As the son of a peasant, not to mention an outlaw, it was fitting that he rode last. As an expert swordsman, the abbot sent him under the guise of training the MacKenzie warriors as well, but since that wasn’t his true purpose, he wished to bring as little attention to himself as possible.
Passing through the massive MacKenzie gates, Gavin waved over a tall man, slim of build with
long, white hair. Adam, Robert, and Timothy crossed the courtyard to meet him while Rory stayed back to observe. The white-haired man conversed with the visiting noblemen for several minutes before he dipped his head in a polite bow and made his way to Rory.
The man possessed shrewd blue eyes and an intelligent air. “I bid ye welcome,” he began. “My name is Michael MacKenzie. I am steward of Luthmore Castle. May I know yer name, sir.”
Rory smiled. “I’m not a knight or a lord. I’m as common as the ground we stand upon. I hail from Berwick where I once labored on the docks like my da before me. Ye need not call me sir.”
Michael smiled in return. “Ye’re a friend of the abbot’s, which makes ye welcome here—title or no title.” Then he motioned to the other men. “I was just telling yer traveling companions that the lady is not in the keep just now, but I expect her return forthwith—” A commotion near the gate cut Michael short.
Rory looked back in time to see a flurry of chickens and children burst into the courtyard, followed by a bigger boy with a messy mop of bright red hair and a dusty, flaxen-haired woman screeching with her hands twisted into claws of attack. “I’m going to get ye,” she cried, her laughter undermining the threat.
Michael groaned, shaking his head. Rory could not help but laugh out loud. Alex was as vibrant as he remembered her, and now all the more pleasing in her disheveled state: hair tangled; her threadbare tunic covered in small dirty handprints, clearly from all the hugs she received from the wee ones; her feet bare and nearly black from dirt. Michael may not have approved of Alex’s appearance or demeanor, but Rory could not take his eyes off her. She was magnificent, her cheeks flushed from her exertions, her face lit with unabashed joy. She was genuine—and he was captivated.
“Lady Alexandria,” Michael said loudly.
“Uh-oh, Alex. We’re in trouble now,” the red-haired boy said, laughing.
