by Aileen Adams
“We all did,” Rodric snapped. “You were not alone.”
“Aye, but it’s my nearly frostbitten toes I’m concerned with,” Brice snapped in return. “Not yours. You can worry about your own.”
“What are the two of you on about?” Fergus called out from behind.
“The winter,” Brice replied, staring ahead.
“That again?” Quinn asked, almost whining. “Why must we go on and on about it? I don’t wish to freeze this year, not if there is somewhere we might bed down until the worst passes.”
“And ye know Padraig already offered us the hospitalities of the house,” Fergus reminded Rodric.
“And your wife will be there, and ye might spend the entire, long winter with her.” Brice knew this would sweeten the idea immeasurably. It was a bit unfair on his part to use Caitlin in his argument, but he needed all the help he could get.
Just why his friend was so determined not to take Padraig up on his offer was a mystery to all of them.
Rodric glowered for a while, the four of them riding in an uneasy silence which only the singing of the birds and the occasional rustling of animals along both sides of the road broke into. They’d all known each other long enough to know when silence was the best course of action.
All four of them were reasonable men, but even the most reasonable man had a breaking point. Push him too far, and one might regret having pushed at all.
If only they could understand what made the idea of making use of Padraig’s hospitality so unattractive to Rodric. It seemed simple enough to the rest of them. The house was there, with plenty of space for them to be comfortable, and the clan’s leader had opened its doors to them.
It was Rodric’s damnable pride. It had to be. He wanted no man’s charity—especially if the man was his younger brother. Even if it wasn’t charity at all, but merely good sense and self-preservation.
All Brice knew was that owning ten toes was preferable to owning nine or fewer. Not to mention his fingers, which had also nearly frozen. Pride was little comfort when one had to adapt to life without all his fingers.
They didn’t exchange another word until the village was in sight, and it was already mid-morning by then.
“Murphy should be expecting us at the inn,” Quinn reminded them. “I told him ye would accept the task, and he said he’d wait here for us.”
The four of them went inside, after tying the horses off at the post running along the front of the squat little building.
Just beyond the entrance was a large room filled with tables and chairs, where the inn’s patrons were fed twice per day. It was not nearly time for dinner, yet several of the tables were already in use by men wishing to discuss business or merely pass the time in conversation.
Murphy was one such man, and one swift glance confirmed that he still had yet to adopt the practice of ever washing himself or his clothing, though his main line of work had to do with horses and their typical filth. The occasional washing-up might have done him much good—as well as providing mercy to those with whom he spent his time.
What remained of his teeth showed when he smiled, waving the four of them over to where he waited.
“Ye took your time about gettin’ here,” he grumbled in his usual good-natured way. “I was beginnin’ to think I might have to find pleasurable ways to pass the time.”
There was no question of what he referred to, and Brice chuckled to himself when he considered how grateful every lass at the brothel would be that they’d arrived before Murphy could pay a visit. If flies circled the man’s head as they did the ass of a horse, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise.
“Can you tell us anything else about the lass we’re set to escort?” Rodric asked. “Or her father?”
“Douglas Stewart? Och, he’s a force of a man, to be certain,” Murphy observed. “Likes to believe himself quite the warrior, and perhaps he is. Though I’ve never heard the tale of him fighting in battle, mind ye. But he carries a war hammer much of the time, and enjoys bullying others with the threat of using it to bash in their skulls.”
“He sounds like a charming man,” Fergus surmised with a wry grin.
“Aye, so I would be certain not to dally when it comes to deliverin’ his daughter,” Murphy advised. “He’ll be expectin’ ye to deliver the lass in a timely manner and fully intact, if ye get my meanin’.”
Rodric cast a disparaging eye. “As though any of us could be accused of taking liberties with a lass.”
“I only thought I might warn ye,” Murphy replied, mirth in his voice and on his face. “Ye see, the lass… she’s a handful, and I believe that’s puttin’ it mildly. From what I’ve heard, old Douglas Stewart has had his hands full with her ever since it was announced she’d be weddin’ this earl. Already tried to run away once, though she didna get far. Threatened to starve herself, too. All manner of devilishness. My friend, the one who came to me with the request from the earl, warned me of her tendencies—which is why I’m warnin’ ye now. She’ll like as not use everything in her power to get out of marryin’.”
“Even if it means luring one of us,” Brice inferred.
“Aye. Just that. So, strengthen yourselves.” Murphy laughed, his sour breath assaulting them as he did. “Especially this one, here.” He motioned to Quinn with a fresh burst of foul laughter.
“Why is it that everyone assumes I’m quick to bed a woman?” Quinn asked as they mounted their horses outside the inn.
“Perhaps because you are.” Brice laughed as the four of them started on their way to Lockerbie.
Though even as he laughed, he made a mental note to keep an eye on his friend, and the young woman they were set on meeting.
5
“Alana! Where is she, damn it all!”
Alana shuddered at the sound of her father’s blustering voice. He did not sound pleased, not at all.
Mairi leaned over, patting her hand. “I will go with you, if you wish.”
“Nay, you mustn’t trouble yourself.” She rose, brushing dirt from her apron as she did, forcing a smile for the cook’s daughter. The two of them had been friends from youth, when Cook had come to work for the household.
Cook was one of the only female household servants who’d managed to maintain her position under their roof for so long. Likely because she was rather homely, with a face Douglas Stewart had often compared to lumpy porridge. He’d even gone as far as to wonder aloud how any man had managed to get her with child.
Mairi, sadly, had inherited her mother’s complexion. Though Alana wasn’t certain whether she felt sorry for the girl or relieved that she’d never have to avoid Douglas’s attention.
“I’ll finish the weeding later,” she promised her friend, washing her hands in a shallow bucket by the door leading from the garden into the kitchen. She insisted on behaving as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening, which meant spending mornings in the garden while the two of them giggled and gossiped about the goings-on in the house.
There had not been much giggling as of late, try as Mairi might, to raise Alana’s spirits. They both knew what hung over Alana’s head, though Mairi couldn’t possibly understand what it meant to never know when whatever hung there would fall.
It was as if she held her breath at all times, halfway to flinching back from the blow. Preparing herself.
Alana brushed back the hair which had worked its way free from the plait which she’d wound around the back of her head in order to keep it out of her way while working. She knew there would be dirt smudged on her cheeks and forehead, though she cared not.
Her father rarely, if ever, took pains to present himself well to her.
His chambers sat opposite the great hall, not far from the kitchen. She walked through with her eyes straight ahead, her head held high. Like as not the entire household staff felt sorry for her. Though she would prefer their pity to their relief at seeing her go, she’d far prefer them going about their business and paying no mind to her.
/> She also knew them well enough to know the impossibility of such an occurrence. She was the daughter of the clan leader, the only living child, and she was soon leaving them.
And she’d been more than clear on how she felt about this. Her only regret was not having planned her escape better, or at all. She might have had a chance if only she’d taken the time to think things through. A lesson learned far too late.
After the failed attempt at running away, her father had made doubly sure there were eyes on her at all times. Even down to a guard outside the door to her bedchamber.
He’d left the chamber door open to her, which she knew was an invitation to enter on arrival. She did so, stepping into the warm room—warmed by the kitchen fire, pleasant in the winter but less so in the waning days of late summer.
“Close it,” he ordered without looking up.
She did so, then went to the table which he’d set with a map and two cups of ale.
She wondered if one of those cups was for her—after all, she was the only other person in the room. The long, wide table took up much of the space, the high-backed wooden chairs taking up most of the rest. She crossed the empty floor in two short strides and stood opposite where her father sat.
His eyes were on the map, not on her. “I’ve had word from the village,” he said without looking upon his daughter. “Escorts have arrived to accompany you to your new husband. They rode in early this morning after having journeyed through the night—thought they might reach us sooner, I expect—and took rooms at the inn on learning there was still another two hours of riding ahead of them.”
She blinked, swaying slightly as the news hit her like a blow from her father’s war hammer. She almost wished it were the hammer itself which had landed the blow, as it might mean the end of her misery.
“What?” she stammered, hating her slow-wittedness but being completely at a loss nonetheless.
“Come now. You’re normally quicker than that.” He looked at her then, with eyes so unlike hers. She had her mother’s eyes and her mother’s complexion—fair, creamy, with just a dotting of freckles over her nose. Douglas Stewart’s eyes were gray, flinty, and shrewd.
“You’ve hired men to escort me?” she whispered, struggling to catch up.
Damn it all, she hadn’t wanted him to see her at a loss. He had the advantage, he’d always had the advantage, but she might at least keep her dignity intact.
Instead, she was left whispering breathlessly, like a dolt.
“I haven’t hired them. Your soon-to-be husband has,” he informed her with a sly grin. “He knows what he’s about, that one. Knows it would be better for ye to have protection on the road, but we both know what he’s really concerned with.”
“Pray tell,” she invited.
“Like as not, he’s gotten word of your slipperiness. I had hoped he would not, but there you are.” He spread his hands in a mock shrug, sneering all the while. He was enjoying himself, she realized, which only made her hate him all the more. She’d never imagined hating her own father—the confirmation that she did, that she did down to the very bottom of her soul, brought her no pleasure.
But there was no helping it, either.
“Word does travel,” she murmured, barely keeping her rage at a mere simmer. In her mind’s eye, she clawed at his face, tore out his nasty tongue, gouged out the eyes which had ogled so many an innocent young woman. He would never hurt another, not as long as he lived.
A satisfying fantasy, to be sure, but hardly one which could ever be brought to life.
“Aye, that it does.” He stood, lifting a cup in each hand and extending one of them to her. “Come. Let us drink together, this once. To your happiness and good fortune.”
She knew better than to refuse, though her heart was hardly in it. Not that he cared.
“Why are you forcing me to do this?” she asked. “As we’re sharing this first and final drink together, the least you can grant me is a little honesty.”
“I thought the least I could grant ye was a drink,” he chuckled.
When she glared at him, unblinking, he relented.
“All right, then. Why am I doing this to ye? Because this is the way it’s been since the beginning, lass. What do ye think your life was meant to become? Did ye think you’d have a home here? Under my roof? Until the end of your days?”
“What would be so wrong with that?” she challenged, though she had no desire for any such thing to come to pass.
He growled, already at the end of his short tether. “For starters, you’re the daughter of the head of Clan Stewart. You’re not fit to marry just another lad from the village, or even one of my most trusted men.”
And a good thing, that, since his trusted men were a bunch of filthy, rutting pigs.
“And ye must be married,” he continued, “as your marriage will ensure the continuation of our clan’s stability and wealth.”
“Is that why my grandfather sent me mother off to marry ye?” she dared ask.
They never discussed her, ever.
A brief flash of something other than boredom and irritation crossed his face, and it was clear she had struck a blow of her own. For once, she had injured him.
“You’ve no right to be asking such questions,” he warned, his jaw tightening with every word.
“And why not? She was my mother, and she came to you from England. The opposite of what I’m about to do. Was this the sort of arrangement made for the two of ye?”
“I said, you’ve no right.” He slammed down the cup from which he had yet to take a drink. “And I’ll thank ye to keep your wicked tongue to yourself.”
A wicked tongue she had inherited from him, though she knew better than to bring this up at that exact moment. It was enough to know she’d unsettled him so.
“I only wanted to know what my mother might have felt as she made her journey,” she murmured, suddenly demure and almost apologetic so as to assuage his temper.
He let out a barking laugh. “What she felt? What of it? That doesn’t matter a bit, which is something you’d do well to get through that pretty head of yours, my lass. Your mother was an intelligent woman, for she knew how to keep her mouth shut and endure.”
Keep her mouth shut and endure. That was all anyone expected from her.
He leaned forward, hands on the table, peering into her disillusioned eyes. “And even then, she managed to be lovely. Quiet, graceful, serene. All of which ye could never be.”
Each word slammed into her head. Into her heart. He was so brutal, so nasty, so completely unfeeling toward his own flesh and blood. For a moment so brief it might as well have been a dream, she had tricked herself into believing he might actually care. That he might feel paternal warmth for his only living child.
She’d even imagined briefly, when he’d offered her the cup, that they might share a moment of regret that life had taken such a turn.
That would never come to pass, for he felt no such regrets. Regret would require loving or even liking her.
The realization stirred her rage. “Yes, she was all those things. But she was never happy,” she whispered, her voice like the hissing of a snake.
Again, his expression betrayed him, and this time he confirmed her suspicions. He’d loved his wife.
And Alana doubted her mother had ever loved him. She had never been happy living under his roof, sharing his bed. Bearing his children, all of whom except one hadn’t managed to live past their first year.
How could she have ever been happy in such a marriage?
When Douglas reacted as though his daughter had slapped him, she knew she was right.
“Get out,” he ordered, pointing to the door. “And I hope to never lay eyes on you after this day.”
She held his gaze, lifting the cup to her lips, downing the sour-yet-warming liquid inside, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth and setting the cup on the table with a sharp clang.
“For once, we’re in agreement,” she said, turni
ng on her heel and leaving his chambers for the last time.
“They ought to be here after dinner,” he called out to her retreating back. “Be prepared.”
6
Brice had never been half so eager to arrive anywhere, he was certain. Even during the worst weather, he could normally bear up under it and even maintain his good nature.
That had not been the case in the many days since they’d ridden away from Sorcha’s farmhouse.
Quinn had come down with it first—coughing, sneezing, then complaining of aches in his shoulders, knees, back. Rodric had been next, then Fergus.
Brice had held out longer than the rest—but he, too, had fallen ill, and there was a stretch of two days during which time all four of them rode while barely able to remain upright in the saddle. Only upon a visit to a local healer who made her home outside one of the many villages through which they’d passed had any of them begun to feel some relief.
While the poultice she’d sold them stank to hell and back, especially as it required being applied to one’s chest and therefore always lingered near a man’s nose, it did its job.
Three days had passed since then, and the four of them were beginning to feel more like themselves. They could ride longer distances without needing to rest, were no longer feverish and were generally in better spirits.
Even so, their arrival in Lockerbie had demanded several hours’ sleep in the first inn they arrived at. Normally, they would’ve continued straight out to the Stewart stronghold and perhaps taken their rest there.
Fatigue had simply gotten the better of them.
“I’ll never get the stench of that poultice out of my tunic,” Fergus grumbled, slapping the offending piece of clothing against a rock again and again before plunging it back into the stream in which they bathed. It had been deemed necessary by all of them that they at least make an attempt to present themselves well.
