by Jarecki, Amy
Helen walked beside her. “I’ll escort you.” Her tone was too chipper. Something was afoot for certain.
Together they left the others staring after them.
Gyllis had surmounted the first hurdle. She had no doubt she’d face Duncan later, but for now she and Helen would have an afternoon to themselves. And it seemed they both needed to talk. If there was one person on earth Gyllis could confide in it was she. When they were but young lasses they had made a pact that anything spoken in confidence could never be repeated.
“You move along very well with those,” Helen said as she led Gyllis up the stairwell.
“Sir Sean made them for me,” she whispered.
Helen stopped. “Are you jesting?”
Gyllis inclined her head toward the landing. “I’ll not utter another word until we are behind closed doors.”
“At least you’ve had some fun?” she asked, waggling her brows.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone call paralysis fun.”
Helen opened the door. “You ken what I mean.”
Gyllis hobbled into her chamber and sighed. She’d never really appreciated the grandeur of her rooms. Her four-poster bed had yellow drapes embroidered with wildflowers. She’d forgotten how pretty they looked. Heading toward the overstuffed couch in front of the hearth, she inhaled. The chamber smelled of rose oil. A ray of sunlight shone in through the narrow window with a breeze fluttering the yellow canopy above her bed.
She plopped onto the couch and rested her crutches on the floor. “Come. Tell me what is afoot.”
Helen plodded across the floor and sat with a huff. “’Tis not fair.”
“What?”
“Remember when I told you Duncan and Meg went to court whilst you were away?”
“Aye, I was surprised to see them in the courtyard.” Gyllis reclined against the padded backrest, wishing Duncan and Meg were still at court, and would remain there for the next fifty years.
Helen heaved an enormous sigh. “It appears Lady Meg decided it was up to her to play matchmaker.”
Gyllis leaned forward, eyebrows drawn together. “Have you ever mentioned to her your affinity for Eoin MacGregor?”
“Wheesht.” Helen glanced over her shoulder as if someone would burst into the chamber. “Of course not.”
Gyllis cringed. “Oh, dear.”
Helen grasped Gyllis’s hand and squeezed. “Duncan would never allow a MacGregor to marry one of us. He believes them beneath the Campbells.”
“They pay fealty to our clan. That makes them no better or worse.”
“Aye.” Helen again glanced around as if she expected spies in every corner. “Well ’tis too late for any of that now. If you had arrived a sennight hence, you would have missed me altogether.”
“Pardon?”
“In two days Mother will be escorting me to Ardnamurchan where I will marry Sir Aleck MacIain, Seventh Chieftain of Ardnamurchan.”
Gyllis could scarcely swallow. She’d only arrived home and now her dearest, most beloved sister was leaving—not only leaving, but wedding someone Gyllis knew nothing about. “You are to be married?”
“Two days hence.”
“Oh my heavens.” Gyllis couldn’t believe it. Helen could not possibly leave now. Not when she—they both—needed an ally. “H-have you met Sir Aleck?”
“I’ve never seen him. Meg tells me he’s agreeable and Duncan says our marriage will make a necessary alliance with the MacIain Clan.”
“He’s chosen your husband to make an alliance? I ken that’s the way of things but, Helen, ages ago we agreed we’d never settle for an arranged marriage—we shall marry for love.”
Helen coughed out a rueful laugh. “’Tis easy for you to say. If you hadn’t come down with paralysis, it would be you heading to Ardnamurchan.”
Gyllis clapped a hand over her mouth. Helen was right, she would have been the one to suffer marriage to a complete stranger had she not been away ill. “This cannot be so.”
“Would I jest about something so grave?”
“My God.” Gyllis cringed at her blasphemy and moreover, her failure to be there in support of her sister. “I feel responsible.”
Helen spread her palms and shook her head. “At first I blamed you…but then when I thought about it, I realized I’d rather marry a chieftain, and help the family strengthen relations with the northern clans than be in your predicament. Oh Gyllis, is it so wrong of me to think that way?”
“Of course not.” Her stomach twisted in knots. If only she’d come home sooner. Poor Helen would never have been able to stand up to Duncan with Gyllis away. Gyllis had always been the stalwart spokesperson between them. “Why did you not refuse?”
Wringing her hands, Helen hunched forward. “What should I have done? I am soon to be twenty with no other offers, no other prospects.”
“What of Eoin?”
Helen smirked. “I’ve admired him from the battlements, but now he’s off patrolling the borders or carrying out some other inordinately important task for Duncan and the king. I’ll most likely never see him again.”
“I cannot believe this.” Gyllis pounded her fist on the couch. “Why are you not fighting?”
“And go against Duncan, Mother, and what is best for the clan?” She clapped her palms to her cheeks. “It is my duty.”
The guilt encircling Gyllis’s neck couldn’t have closed her throat any tighter. She scooted closer and placed her arm around Helen’s shoulders. “You are right. It should have been me making this sacrifice.”
“Aye.” Helen threw up her hands. “And you had to go contract paralysis.”
Gyllis bit her bottom lip. Never in her life did she think she’d feel guilty for her ailment. Already twisted inside for her indiscretions with Sir Sean, the wretched lump in her throat returned. “I suppose I did.”
“If ’tis Sean MacDougall you want, he’d best propose soon, else you’ll be wed to some old chieftain aiming to make a Campbell alliance.”
Gyllis slid her arm from Helen’s shoulder. Given her sister’s sacrifice, she couldn’t allow her happiness to bubble over.
She must have looked shamefaced because Helen knit her brows. “I thought you’d sworn off Sir Sean after his deplorable actions at Beltane.”
Gyllis couldn’t meet her sister’s gaze. She stared at her hands. “I did, until I learned the reason for his disappearance. His father died that day. ’Twas the healer who embraced him after she and her husband told Sir Sean the news.”
“How awful.” Helen leaned closer. “And then he visited you at the priory?”
“Aye.” Gyllis would not admit to anything else.
“Oh no, you’re not pursing your lips. Sir Sean gave you the crutches? How often did he visit you?”
Gyllis clapped her hand over her mouth to hide her grin, but Helen pulled it away. “Very well…” She divulged all except the night she’d spent at Dunollie. She’d speak of that to no one.
Helen pressed her fingers to her lips and smiled. “If anyone deserves to be happy after all you’ve endured, ’tis you.” She held up a finger. “However, I meant what I said. Sean had best have a serious conversation with Duncan, and soon.”
Gyllis wouldn’t let on how much the butterflies flitted around her stomach. Two things worried her…How long would it be before Sean discovered she’d returned home? And what was written in that meddlesome missive from John?
Chapter Eighteen
Alan MacCoul lunged, thrusting his sword. Missing his mark, he threw his head back and cackled. If his sparring partner hadn’t been fast, he’d be dead. Though Alan needed well-trained men, poor fighters would be culled. He advanced on the sentry, hacking his two-handed blade left and right, giving no quarter. Wearing his partner down renewed his strength. Lust for blood pulsed through his veins, the stench of fear bled through his sparring partner’s pores.
“M’lord.” The booming voice behind him registered, but Alan didn’t stop.
; His opponent tripped and fell on his backside. Alan pounced, pointing his blade against the coward’s neck.
The man held up his hands then pointed. “Y-you’d best turn around m’lord.”
If this was a trick to draw attention away, he’d skewer the miserable sop.
“M’lord,” the gravelly voice behind came again.
“This had better be good.” Alan looked over his shoulder and grinned.
Brus dragged a prisoner into the clearing, leading him by a rope tied around his wrists. The man’s face was purple and swollen. Blood streamed from his nose, and from the red soaked into his shirt, his nose wasn’t the only thing that had been bleeding. Even though the prisoner looked like shite, Alan still recognized him.
Fraser.
Before he turned completely away, Alan grazed his blade up his sparring partner’s cheek, opening up a stream of blood. “Learn to fight before you spar with me again, else it will be your last match.” He smirked at Brus. “Where’d you find this pox-ridden whoreson?”
“Spying for MacDougall—looking for us. His two accomplices are already dead.” Brus tugged the bastard forward. “But I thought you might want a word with this one before I ran him through.”
Alan examined his prisoner with an evil chuckle. Snot ran from Fraser’s bloodied and broken nose. Brus hadn’t been kind. From the dirt and grass covering his body, he’d not only been beaten, he’d been dragged. One eye was swollen shut and a cut at his temple still streamed red. “You’ve shown him our hospitality, I see.”
Fraser spat, hitting Alan in the chest.
Clenching his fist tight around the hilt of his sword, Alan thumped him in the jaw. “You always were a sniveling maggot.”
Blood trickled from the corner of the miserable wretch’s mouth.
“Did Sean send you?”
Fraser spat blood on the ground this time. “I kent you were causing the mischief at Dunollie. Why must you always be a bastard?”
“I’m asking the questions. If you hadn’t noticed, your life is mine to take.” Alan recoiled and slammed his fist into Fraser’s gut.
With a grunt, the Dunollie guard doubled over, his spittle spraying the dirt.
“I’m the lord and master here. You are but a rodent caught in my snare.”
The rat had the nerve to glance about. “It looks as if you’re preparing for war,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Alan threw back his head and roared with laughter. “My force is rather large. Perhaps I’ll take the crown.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m a man looking to claim my rightful place. I’ve been ignored and shunned all my life and I’m weary of it. I’ve no choice but to take that which should have gone to me.”
Blood oozed from the corner of the prisoner’s mouth and his head hung forward. “What the devil are you raving about?”
Alan sauntered up to him and pulled his head up by the hair. “You’ll not be around to find out.” Gnashing his teeth, Alan sliced his blade across Fraser’s exposed jugular and watched the errant guard drop to his knees as his lifeblood drained into the ground.
MacCoul leered at Brus. “Deliver the body to Dunollie. I’m sure young Sean will be worried about his spy.”
“Straight away,” Brus sniffed. “I’ll leave at dawn.”
Alan glanced at the sky. It was afternoon, but he supposed it didn’t matter if his man-at-arms left on the morrow. After all, Fraser was dead. He’d just smell that much worse when he arrived at the castle.
Alan’s messenger rode into the clearing. “A missive, m’lord.”
He marched over and snatched the parchment from his hand. The Lord of Lorn’s seal, addressed to that sniveling maggot, MacDougall. “Where did you find this?”
“Intercepted it from Lorn’s runner.”
“What did you do with the body?”
The man threw his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s at the bottom of Loch Etive with a rock in his belly.”
Alan grinned. “Good man. Help yourself to an extra ration of whisky.”
“Thank you, m’lord.”
Brus stepped in. “What does it say?”
Alan ran his finger under the red wax seal and read, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “’Tis the invitation we’ve been waiting for.”
***
Sitting in his solar, Sean poured over the ledgers now kept by his new factor, a cleric. If he couldn’t trust a holy man to keep accurate accounts, there’d be no hope. Fortunately, thus far the man had proved to be precise.
To be honest, Sean was happy to have found a competent factor. Recently he’d had some difficulty concentrating. He hadn’t been pleased with the way he’d been forced to leave Gyllis at the priory gates. The monks had never kept the doors closed to him before. At his earliest opportunity he’d make a trip to Ardchattan and ensure John hadn’t made errant assumptions due to Gyllis’s absence. A rational man would understand there had been no choice.
Sean cradled his head in his hand. He’d lived up to his philandering reputation for certain. Any errant assumptions John may have made would have been spot on.
Though thoughts of the lovely lass consumed his mind, he should have waited until they were wed. God, had he no self-control whatsoever? He loved her—kept her on a pedestal. In his eyes, she was an angel, a goddess to be worshiped. Blast his MacDougall hot blood. The moniker “Lusty Laddie” had been well-earned and had plagued him for years.
He chuckled to think he’d been hooked by Duncan’s sister. Duncan was the very man who’d given him the label, but truth be told, nary a lass in Scotland matched Gyllis’s beauty.
When the ram’s horn sounded, Sean’s gut clenched. An internal warning made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
It wasn’t unusual to receive a visitor. But it was odd for him to be uneasy about it. He’d also earned the nickname of “Ghost” from his service in the Highland Enforcers. He’d developed a perceptive ability rare to most men, a sensation honed by years of knighthood.
Moving with the speed of a cat, he fastened the top button of his quilted doublet and pulled his heavy hauberk over his head. He would not be stepping into the courtyard without the protection of chainmail or his arms. After buckling his sword belt in place and testing the daggers in his sleeves, he headed out.
Angus met him at the keep’s doors. At the far side of the courtyard, the portcullis creaked as the gate rose with its blackened iron fangs pointing downward.
Sean squinted through the dank guardhouse. “Who is it?”
“Not sure,” Angus said.
A lone horse galloped through the gate. Eric, the stable hand raced in with his palms held high. “Easy boy.”
Sean’s heart lurched.
A body draped across the steed’s back. Blinking, Sean recognized the horse, the tack, and the backside of the rider. Revulsion was the only word to describe the icy tension clamping every muscle in his body. Bile bit the back of his throat with an acrid burn.
War had been declared, a line drawn.
“My God. ’Tis Fraser.” Angus unsheathed his dirk.
The lad brought the horse under control and led him to Sean. He pointed to the dead man. “His throat’s been cut.”
“MacCoul,” Sean growled through clenched teeth.
Angus pointed. “What’s this?” He snatched a note secured in Fraser’s belt and handed it to Sean. “Addressed to you, m’laird.”
“It’s been opened.” He slid his finger under the compromised wax. “Lorn’s seal.”
Angus leaned in and studied the crumpled velum. “The bloody bastard.”
Sean arched his eyebrow while his gut twisted. “I thought you had a soft spot for him.”
A shadow crossed the old man’s face. “Not on your life.”
A twinge of relief clicked at the back of Sean’s mind. He’d been keeping his henchman at arms-length. Not doubting his loyalty to the clan, but questioning his affinity for MacCoul. Something wasn’t right when it cam
e to that sniveling maggot and Fraser’s death marked the last severed thread. If MacCoul wanted a feud, he’d just purchased one. His friend would be avenged.
Sean eyed Eric. “Take Fraser’s body to the priest. He’ll ken what to do.” Then he flicked open the note and read. “God’s bones. Lorn’s wedding is only two weeks away—set for the feast of Michaelmas.”
“And our enemies know about it,” Angus said.
“Aye.” Sean folded the missive. “Word was MacCoul’s been in the Lowlands training an army.”
“Jesus Christ.” Angus pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “Alan isn’t daft enough to attack the Lord of Lorn. ’Tis you he’s insanely jealous of.”
Sean agreed, but that didn’t mean Alan wouldn’t stage something rash—especially a demonstration to make Sean look bad. He cast his gaze to the MacDougall guard, who were watching him from the battlements above. The men would be riled by Fraser’s death and looking for blood. The MacDougalls were good fighting men, but against an army? He needed to call in some overdue favors. “You must ride to Glen Strae with a missive for Eoin MacGregor. I’ll head to Glen Orchy straight away and solicit help from Lord Duncan.”
Angus gaped. “Campbell? But he’s aligned with Argyll—Stewart’s enemy—the reason Lorn is proceeding with this marriage is so Argyll cannot claim the title for himself.”
“Aye, and he’s my closest friend. Given the gravity of MacCoul’s message, Duncan will stand beside me. I have no doubt.” Sean marched toward the keep. “Come, I’ve a missive to pen.”
***
Lady Meg was anxious to try her new treatment for Gyllis and presently her chamber was half full of chambermaids and buckets of hot water. Gyllis stood with crutches under her arms and her shift knotted up over her thighs while the lasses wrapped warm cloths around her legs.
“Word came all the way from France that warm wraps assist in speeding the recovery of paralysis,” Meg said, standing as tall as she could, looking pleased with herself. Her bright-red, curly locks stuck out from under her veil in every direction as if she’d been boiling water in the kitchen for hours.
Gyllis sighed, wondering where on earth Meg gained information all the way from France. A wives’ tale, most likely. “I suppose I’ll try anything if it helps.” And return me to Sir Sean MacDougall’s arms sooner. She needed to find a way to send a message to Sean and advise him that she’d returned home. Not only was it improper for an unwed lassie to send a missive to a man, it bore too much of a risk. If Duncan received word of it, she’d doubtless be locked in her chamber for life.
