by Lizzy Ford
Niall and his woman were still mostly dressed in the throes of passion, her skirts around her hips and his trews at his ankles.
Cade started to leave, smiling, when the angle of the lantern light in the feed room highlighted the woman’s face.
Siobhan.
His amusement faded. Her disinterest made sense, but his cousin’s silence on the matter did not. Why would Niall not tell him? How could his cousin rut with the woman he believed Cade was going to wed?
Cade ran a hand through his hair, disturbed by the quiet betrayal from the direction of a man he did not think capable of such an act.
His battle lust surged even higher, demanding action of some sort. Cade had never raised a hand to his cousin and did not plan to now.
He left the lovers and the stables, his mood black. Too agitated to fetch his sword, he snatched two of the wooden swords kept for practice at the lists and began beating one of the wooden dummies. Within seconds, he was lost to the fire in his blood.
Cade slammed the swords into his enemy, grinding his teeth as he fought a battle against himself. Here, he could allow his control to slip, and he did so, unleashing the fury, the confusion, the unseillie magic. As a laird, he was expected to always have answers and solutions, but often times, he had neither. He massacred the feelings such knowledge created, along with the ongoing frustration of not knowing the best way to provide a future for his clan, to protect the last of the seillie from discovery, to have a home of their own.
He fought the demons from his time in the Holy Lands, the despair he had experienced trapped in a dungeon for months, the faces of those he had killed to free his kin and others. Men, women and children fell beneath his sword and his rage, and only Niall had been able to pull him away from the edge of darkness and prevent him from turning completely into one of the dark unseillie they had been warned about growing up.
Part of him acknowledged he had already crossed that line, and his struggle now was not allowing himself to linger in the darkness but instead to continue fighting for what was good and just in a way that was also good and just.
Even if that way was harder. With dark, unseillie magic, he could take a keep large enough for his people and slaughter everyone who lived there in their sleep.
But this was not the legacy he wanted to leave, not the man he wanted to become. Sometimes, when he was exhausted and bereft of options, he started to listen to the whispers of darkness encouraging him to take instead of earn, to kill instead of respect. These whispers were louder now than usual, and he blamed the situation in his hold for it.
His clan’s need for land and soon, food.
Niall’s secret.
Isabel’s claims.
These were issues he was unable to fight with a sword or understand with his warrior mind. He had no example to follow of a good laird. His own father had become a wastrel and drunk after the death of his mother, and his uncles were dead before he was old enough to know them.
“Cade.” Father Henry’s old voice pulled him from the darkness.
Breathless, Cade lowered the swords and faced the priest, who remained beneath the eaves of the hold. “What is it?” he asked gruffly.
“Niall said ye wished to send word to court?” the priest
“We need t’ken the truth of our guest,” Cade replied. “Of the fate of the MacCosse claim to their lands.”
“Verra well. I will prepare a scroll now. Who shall we send?”
Cade debated. His first thought was Brian, who had the manners for court that he did not. The image of Niall and Siobhan was forefront in his mind, however, and he quickly decided to send his ugly cousin to court instead.
Father Henry bobbed his head at the order and hurried away into the hold.
Cade returned to his swords.
Chapter Twelve
Isabel paused in the doorway of the Great Hall, drawn by the sounds of gaiety and laughter. The merry seillie of clan MacLachlainn had formed a circle in the center of the Hall and were dancing. The music of a lute and harp filled the air and was accompanied by clapping. The MacDonald’s, wet and tired, were being drawn in slowly, some clapping and some rising to join the dancers.
Even Lord Richard and his knights were smiling as they watched from their table, seeming at ease in a hold they had not wished to enter earlier.
The longer she stood, the more relaxed she, too, became. Food was forgotten, and the wine cups empty. His guests did not seem to notice. Harp music, beautiful and soothing, wound through her senses and filled her with a sense of peace she had not experienced in a very long time. She began to think it was seillie magic causing everyone to smile when they had little reason to.
“Lady Isabel.”
She turned and blinked away the spell, recalling where she had been headed before lured to the Hall by its music. Her handmaiden, the freckled girl with copper hair, stood grinning behind her. Her hair was in no less than six braids, the same amount she had placed in Isabel’s hair earlier in the day.
She held out her hands for the load of wool blankets Isabel held.
“Oh, thank you,” Isabel said and handed them off. “It is good of your cousins to make merry with the MacDonald’s. They have endured much today, and there is little room for them here.”
“We love t’dance and sing!” Fianna said and skipped down the hallway. “’Tis in our nature!”
Isabel gave a tired smile. She was at least grateful for the music in the Hall occupying those who had nowhere to sleep yet. She trailed Fianna into a large parlor near the entrance of the keep and began helping her build small pallets beside one another. Estimating how many would fit, she determined they would need more rooms, perhaps those bedchambers on the second floor of the keep. She both dreaded and rejoiced at the idea of putting Richard and his knights into two chambers instead of five.
“Lady Isabel,” Brian called from the doorway.
“Yes?”
“We have meat fer four days and grain for ten,” he reported.
“Four days and ten?” she repeated, eyebrows lifting. “How did you plan to survive the winter?”
Fianna giggled. Brian cleared his throat. “This willna be our home come winter.”
Was she supposed to speak about her discussion with Cade?
“We had planned on Cade wedding th’ MacDonald lass so we had a home.”
She studied him. “You have nowhere to live.”
“Not if Laird Duncan keeps the MacDonald’s land!” Fianna said in a sing-song voice, oblivious to the danger of having no shelter in winter. “Cade will find us a home. He always does!”
“Of course,” Brian agreed with a quick smile at the girl. He motioned for Isabel to join him in the hallway. “We havena the supplies for those who are injured.”
“Marie does not need supplies,” she said.
“My Lady,” he said severely, “we canna use her magic. No one can ken what we are. Cade alone decides who we tell.”
“If your laird will not permit it, then we will find material for bandages,” she said and began walking down the hallway. “Old clothing? Kitchen rags? Drapery?”
Brian considered. “Yea, Lady Isabel, we can strip the windows.”
“Then do it and tell Laird Cade to keep the rain outside.”
Brian laughed.
She left him in the hallway and retreated to the chambers on the second floor she had converted into infirmaries for the ill and wounded. The scent of pungent herbs reached her the moment she set foot in the hallway, along with the occasional cough or moan of those in need of assistance.
The chambers were in disarray. For a man as disciplined as Cade, he appeared to be an anomaly in his home. Or … they were not accustomed to treating those who needed help when they had their own healer.
Lady Isabel frowned upon entering the chamber where the wounded lay. Not one of them had been bandaged though there were three youths Fianna’s age present. She bit back sharp words for them, understanding they had no need to know wh
at most normal household servants and members did.
“Come here,” she called to them and knelt beside an unconscious man near the door. “I will teach you to bind a wound.”
The three looked at one another before gathering around her.
“You must stop the bleeding,” she told them. “Do you understand?”
They nodded.
“Have you any knowledge of this at all?”
One giggled and the other two shook their heads.
Isabel began explaining and showing them how to bandage a man, when to use poultice, how to determine if a limb was broken. She imparted all she knew on the topic of dressing wounds and then stood back to correct the three youths as they began tending the injured.
Fianna returned from pallet making, only to be placed in charge of straightening the room and driving out the rats that nibbled on the food.
Satisfied they would not let someone bleed to death, Isabel ordered for Fianna to follow her and left the three to attend to the injured. She went to the adjacent chamber, where those who were elderly or ill were left alone.
Frustrated by the complete lack of sensitivity Cade’s clan showed for the ill and injured, Isabel began tending to those closest to her. “Fetch Liam,” she said to Fianna.
The girl went to the chamber beside them and returned with her cousin. Isabel began explaining once more how to tend those who needed it and worked fast to help those who were waiting for someone to feed them, bring water, or make them healing teas.
Hours later, she was finally satisfied with the results of her tutelage and the now six youths working in the chambers to assist the MacDonald men and women survive the night.
No sooner had she stopped for a brief rest than word came from the kitchens of a fire that destroyed half their grain crop. Isabel raced downstairs, only to discover one of the seillie in control of the flames.
She watched in astonishment as the woman drew the fire into her and squashed it. Their magic, subtle and gentle, was nonetheless powerful when it needed to be.
“Why did you not stop it sooner?” she asked, approaching the small group of people gathered in the seed and grain storage room.
“We waited for Eachna to use her fire magic,” one of them answered.
Shorter in temper than usual after the long few days, Isabel did not say what she wished to, that someone could have removed at least half of the lost grain from the storage chamber instead of waiting for the fire seillie to appear.
“Let us clean this mess up,” she said instead and began working to separate the burnt and useless grain and wood bins from that which was useable. By the time she was finished, her dress was covered in soot, blood from the wounded and wine Fianna had spilt on her accidentally upstairs.
Another crisis, this one in housing warriors in the barn with the horses, drove her into the rain and was soon followed by the matter of a scuffle between one of the English knights and a MacDonald.
The issues continued, one replacing another, occupying her without rest throughout the night.
Dawn peered through the windows as she made her way to the main hallway once more. Music poured out of the Great Hall still, and she found herself again drawn to the soothing sounds.
The MacDonald’s and the English knights were sleeping where they had been sitting. The seillie, however, were dancing and chanting. The sound of rain pattering the stones of the bailey, coupled with the music, unwound the tightness of her body and caused her shoulders to drop. Isabel was soon lulled into calmness by the bewitching music and leaning against the doorway, exhausted and at peace.
“We love dawn, too,” Fianna said, interrupting her tired peace. “This is our mornin’ song. We welcome the sun from its slumber.”
Isabel roused her mind, aware she had too much to do before she was able to rest. “How can a clan who loves to sing and dance answer to a warrior?” she asked, unable to stop the question plaguing her all night as she worked alongside the undisciplined, free-spirited seillie.
“Cade is only half-seillie,” Fianna replied. “His ma was our queen, his da the man she loved.”
It explained little to Isabel and all to Fianna, who was swaying in place in rhythm with their morning song.
“Go, if it please you,” Isabel said with a shake of her head.
Fianna darted into the Great Hall to dance.
Isabel turned away, mentally reviewing the list of tasks ahead of her. She had smelled morning bread when she left the kitchens, and the people sleeping in the Hall alleviated her concern about not finding beds for all of the visitors yet. A trip to the kitchens was in order to assess the bread and wine before she determined if the seillie in charge of water would be using his magic to bring in more before the hold awakened or if she needed to create a team to carry in buckets.
“Isabel.”
She froze at Richard’s summons. Since arriving, she had avoided being alone with him. The rest of the keep slept, and she had no choice but to confront him now. Swearing never to let him see her afraid, she released a breath and faced him.
“Lord Richard,” she said with a curtsey.
His hair was mussed from sleeping on the table, his cold blue eyes settling on her features.
“I hope we will leave soon,” he said, pausing within arm’s reach.
“Very well, my lord,” she replied.
“These heathens have dressed you as one of them.” He frowned at the braids in her hair and her clothing. “It is not befitting a noble woman of your stature.”
Isabel kept her eyes on the ground, not about to speak unless bidden.
“You will continue to behave and dress in a manner befitting your rank,” he added. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I have sent word to your uncle of your journey and assured him I will return you to him.”
Isabel clenched her jaw to prevent her tired, angry response from leaving her mouth and earning her Richard’s hand.
“I have also assured him you are not as mad as you seem,” Richard continued, oblivious to her tensing. “It will not do for the court to believe you mad before we are wed. Upon our return, we will be wed at Saxony and will travel to court, but only briefly, for you will be heavy with my heir soon. I hope for a son, first, and if you cannot produce a boy, then …”
Something within her snapped as he continued dictating her life in his arrogant tone.
“And if I choose to remain here?” she interrupted.
Richard fell silent briefly before drawing near. “I do not understand you, Lady Isabel.”
“I am not your wife. We are not even betrothed,” she pointed out. “I believe I may like the Highlands better than Saxony.”
He laughed. “Perchance I was wrong to assert you have not gone mad!”
“I am not mad!” she said, heat creeping up her neck. Isabel met his gaze, too angry to back down when she knew she should. “If I return to Saxony, I will not wed you. My uncle will listen to my request over yours.”
Richard’s mirth vanished, replaced by a flush of anger. He snatched her arm hard enough for her to wince. “You mistake this for a choice, Isabel. Saxony has been mine since your mad father fell from the roof of his own hold!”
“No,” she replied.
He stared at her.
“I will not marry you. Ever,” she said fiercely.
“You are not mad. You are addled!” he said and raised his hand. “Do you need a reminder of why you will do as I saw today as you will every day hence after we are wed?”
Squeezing her eyes closed, she braced herself for the blow. It never came.
“Not in m’hold, my lord.” There was no mistaking the edge in Laird Cade’s voice despite the polite words.
“She is mine to do with as I please,” Richard snapped.
Isabel opened her eyes and met Cade’s gaze, at once ashamed he witnessed her cowardice and Richard’s cruelty. He held her gaze steadily, ignoring the angry lord. He had Richard’s wrist and
was preventing the blow Richard intended to land on her face.
“When ye are wed, maybe,” Cade allowed. “But yer no’ wed and this is my keep.”
Richard glared at her before he let her go and wrenched away from Cade. “Do not lay a hand on me again, unless you want a war, Laird MacLachlainn!” he snarled and stormed off, back into the Great Hall.
Isabel turned away, embarrassed and wanting a quick escape from both men.
“Lady Cade.”
She sighed. “Yes, Laird Cade?”
“Are ye well?”
“’Tis not your concern, my lord.”
“’Tis my concern, so long as yer my guest.” His voice had softened.
Warm awareness trickled through her, and she turned to face the brooding laird of the hold who stood behind her. He studied her, his wide frame taking up much of the space between walls in the hallway and his steady gaze rendering her almost breathless. He appeared fresh and well.
How did she fear Richard but not the man so much stronger than him?
The awkward tension stretched between them, and she resisted the urge to fidget.
“No one will hurt ye while yer here,” he said.
“I do not wish your mercy,” she said with some distress.
He said nothing.
“Please,” she added more calmly. “Do not interfere. Lord Richard is powerful and will not hesitate to follow through on his threat. I will not bring his wrath upon your clan.”
“Ye think I fear him?” Cade’s crooked smile was faint. He approached her, stopping too close, filling her senses with his warmth and scent.
“No,” she replied. “But you ought to be wary.”
“I ken what he is, lady, though I appreciate yer concern.”
She glared at him. “It is not concern for you, Laird Cade, but your kin.”
“Verra well, lass.” The way the words rolled off his tongue in his deep voice left her too warm once more, awake where she had been fatigued before.
They gazed at one another in the thick silence, and she found it almost impossible to hate him. If anything, she was seeing the side of him that left her feeling confused as to how the rumors at court were possibly true. Laird Cade was an honorable man, not one who would slay her brother in his sleep.
