by Mary Wine
“Get back to work. The sooner a McBoyd is wed into the Atholl family, the better for all of us. The alliance will be much stronger after ye’ve been bedded and things cannae be undone. If fate is kind, ye will ripen with a babe quickly, making the alliance even stronger for the McBoyd.”
Gerty picked up an overgown of sturdy wool. “This should keep ye warm on the road.”
It would be better than nothing. She had little in the way of possessions or traveling clothes. Her single trunk was only half-full when the two maids finished their duty. Shannon made most of her own clothing during the winter, but there were not enough daylight hours during the shorter days to do more than keep up with what was wearing thin. Gerty carefully rolled up the new spring dress that was sitting on the table and placed it in the trunk along with her sewing tools.
The maids curtsied and left with only a quick glance at her. Pity lurked in their eyes, but it was much overshadowed by their desire to see the alliance sealed. That was the only thing that would see them sleeping peacefully and not watching the ridge for McLeren riders bent on vengeance.
Not that she had ever expected to wed for any other reason than her father’s will. That was a daughter’s duty, to wed at her father’s command. Since she was old enough to recall, she had been taught such. Her mother had done the same, and the two stepmothers she had known since were no different. They arrived after negotiations and took their place in her father’s bed without any manner of courtship.
Yet she had begun to hope that she would never wed. At twenty-two, she was getting rather past the age for a first wedding. Shannon didn’t lament her years. In truth, she enjoyed being past the age of uncertainty. After her last birthday had passed and no groom sought her hand, a peace had settled over her. A sense of freedom that seemed to fill her with poise and confidence. She liked who she was and did not need a husband to feel complete.
Of course children of her own would be nice, but there were many motherless babes needing care for her to fill that need. Being the laird’s daughter placed her in a unique position. Taking a lover was not something she might do, because of her station. Though late at night, when the curtain that shielded her bed was drawn to keep the warmth in, she wondered what a man’s hands would feel like. Was a kiss as hot as she’d heard it described? And what was passion? Her body had burned with need, making her restless, and there was no solace in prayer, no matter what she heard in church. Her dreams filled with heated visions of a lover she only knew about from gossip and books.
Maybe she would know the answer to that question on her wedding night. Or perhaps she’d find her thighs spread without a single stroke across her breasts to allow her to feel the pleasure of passion. Negotiated marriages were so often cold ones. Her newest young stepmother had wept through her first morning as a wife, while Shannon’s father smirked and rubbed her bottom when she passed him. But the maids in the kitchens enjoyed their liaisons. She’d heard them whispering about how good one lad was over others. Passion seemed to be an elusive thing, only found with a few partners for women. Men seemed blessed with the ability to be satisfied with any woman they took, which seemed rather unfair, and that fact didn’t leave much hope for her in a negotiated marriage.
Still, she would hope. Pitying herself had never been something she favored.
Gerty began to braid her hair. The strands were long and the color of honey. Not a true blonde but lacking the deep, dark color of brunette. Some said she was fair of face, but most ignored her because she was the laird’s daughter. No springtime tumbles in the new hay for her. Each May Day she had washed her face in the morning dew alone, while the other McBoyd girls giggled and ran off into the distance for springtime fun.
Well, liaisons, really.
It wasn’t making love. How could it be such when most of the couples only tasted one another before the day was over and the church’s power resumed? May Day never fell to the clergy and their preaching of damnation for the lustful. All frolicked in observance of the fertility custom before kneeling in repentance the following day.
“There.” Gerty finished and tied the end of her braid with a green ribbon. “Yer sweet as a spring plum. The way a bride should be. A McBoyd bride, that is.”
***
“Runner!”
Torin raised his attention from the blade of his sword. Without even looking, he drew a sharpening stone along its length in a practiced motion. The blade was already sharp, but he didn’t put the stone down. Instead he watched the young boy running down the ridge toward him.
“There’s a group leaving the castle, Laird.” The boy drew in a few deep breaths to still his rapid heartbeat. He grinned with triumph for having something to report. “Looks like McBoyd is sending his daughter off someplace to the south.”
“Dinna know the man had a daughter.” Malcolm McLeren fingered the edge of his own claymore, one corner of his mouth twitching up with satisfaction. “Now that’s something I like learning about that bastard. A nice, soft place to strike back at him.”
“There’ll be no raping.”
Torin’s words weren’t popular with the men waiting near him, but he held his chin firm in the face of the scowls being aimed at him. “We’ll no’ be mimicking the bastards, and that’s my word on the matter. We’re McLerens, nae savages. We’re here to punish their bloody ways. Any McLeren who wants a tumble is going to have to charm it out of the lass he’s chasing.”
Malcolm shrugged. “When ye put it that way, I suppose I see the direction of yer thinking.”
Malcolm’s words earned more than just a few nods of agreement from the men surrounding them. The McLeren retainer had earned the respect of his fellow clansmen, and his agreement was something no laird might buy. That agreement was an honor, and one Torin appreciated. Being called “Laird” didn’t mean a thing to him if it was nothing more than an empty title. Scotland had enough of those sorts of lairds. His father had been more to the McLerens, and he felt the need to follow in those footsteps.
Torin considered the runner. “Ye said she set out on the road?”
“Aye. With a trunk, no less. The men riding with her were no’ carrying any banners, but it was her. Shannon McBoyd. I saw her plainly.”
“And ye know her for McBoyd’s child?”
Young Gilian grinned. “Aye. I saw her at festival last spring. Got warned off her quick as could be too, on account she was the laird’s daughter. Legitimate, they said. Her clanswomen claimed her father was dangling her chastity in front of a couple of lords and she was to stay virgin or there would be hell to pay.”
Now that was interesting. Torin felt his rage subside and his brain began filtering the facts. He looked out over the men awaiting his command. Hundreds of them and more were making their way through the rocky hills above them, the McLeren colors proudly worn by all. Even in the early dawn light he could see the heather and green of those kilts. They outnumbered the McBoyd already, and these were only the fastest of the men. News was spreading faster than the fire at White Hill was cooling. The McBoyds might never have been friends, but they had never been stupid before. Firing one of his holdings had been foolish. Running his men through was pure insanity. There would be retaliation, no mistake about it. To ignore such an attack would be inviting a second one.
“This attack does nae make sense.”
“Aye, lad.” Malcolm tilted his head to the side and peered at him intently. “What are ye thinking, Laird?”
Torin considered the facts. Being laird was more than a title. It was a duty. His people looked to him to make good decisions. Even in the mist of anger.
“I suspect there is something brewing in Edinburgh. Something that has the McBoyd thinking he can destroy the McLerens. Something like that would take a wedding to seal.”
Hands froze in midstroke across claymores. Torin felt the weight of his clan’s eyes on him while his words settled. Malcolm wh
istled.
“Well now. I did nae think o’ that. But I do believe ye have a point. The McBoyd have nae been so bold before.”
“But it’s well-known that Laird McBoyd is a greedy swine.” Torin looked down the ridge. “And he’s being mighty smug too. No’ a single man set to watch his border. He’s counting on someone’s men to protect him or someone else to be attacking us and keeping us busy.”
Curses surrounded him, but Torin acted swiftly.
“Braden. You’ll take half these men and set to making sure there are no more raids. Send a couple of runners to Connor Lindsey and let him know what goes on here.”
Braden reached up and tugged on the corner of his knit cap. Torin swallowed his need to take blood for blood. Swarming over the McBoyd stronghold might quell the anger eating at him, but it wouldn’t necessarily end the threat to his clan. If there was another name involved, he needed to discover who was in allegiance with the McBoyd. James I had worn the crown of Scotland precariously. His queen had delivered twin boys, but one had already died. The lords of the isles, such as Lindy and Atholl, were powerful men who were not content giving deference to a higher-ranking man. But they could not take Scotland without several of its lairds clustering behind their banners. A man like McBoyd would lend his name to a cause only if he felt there was no way for him to be cheated.
And a wedding to his daughter would buy the man, all right. It was something worth investigating. Civil war would see more blood spilled and pit clan against clan. It was something he’d prefer to avoid. Too much of Scottish history was written in that same blood.
“I’m going to take a few men and follow the daughter. I’ve a mind to discover just what plot is brewing, lads. We cannae protect our families if our own countrymen are fighting each other,” Torin decided.
And he could not rest if McBoyd had reinforcements riding toward his land. Standing up, Torin slid his claymore into the scabbard strapped to his back. He’d follow the daughter and keep her from sealing her father’s dealings. No matter what it took to see that done.
He was laird, and his clan would have his strength above all other things.
Even above chivalry. If McBoyd was going to use his daughter in such a foul plot, then Torin would have to take her before she married the lord her father intended to bribe.
***
The journey was completely miserable. Unless she counted the fact that she was free of her father’s house. Shannon chose to dwell on that fact. Each mile took great effort for the horses. The winter snow was beginning to thaw, turning everything into mud. She walked most of the way to save the horses from having to struggle with her weight in the wagon. It still took three days to cover a distance that would take only one during the spring. The men riding with her turned surly with their frustration.
A handful of tents were already raised when they topped the ridge looking down on the Lowlands. Gair, her father’s man, cursed when he looked down at the small number of men awaiting them. He stomped down the last of the distance and entered one of the tents without waiting to be announced. The rest of her father’s men swept her along in his wake. She might have been a trunk for all the courtesy they allowed her.
“Where are the retainers promised my laird?” Gair didn’t temper his voice either. A man sitting at a small table paused with his quill in midstroke. Whoever he was, the items around him spoke of money. A great deal of it. The quill had a silver tip, and sitting on a polished writing desk was a glass jar holding ink. On his hand was a signet ring, telling her he was someone others obeyed.
“Yer laird is a bloody fool.” He stood, showing off the kilt of the Earl of Atholl. “I am Fergus, third secretary to my lord Atholl, the true king.”
Shannon watched her father’s captain bristle under the comment. Gair McBoyd turned red before spitting at the feet of the man who had insulted his laird.
“McBoyds are nae dogs to be kept on a leash.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “The Earl of Atholl will be the master of your laird, make no mistake about that, or every McBoyd will end up like the McLeren.”
Gair raised a fist. “We’ve struck a bargain with the man. We were promised retainers in exchange for his daughter.”
“Aye, and you were warned to keep quiet until the king was dead and his son along with him, so that there would be no question as to where the crown went next.”
A heavy silence filled the tent. Gair looked uncertain for the first time. Fergus turned his attention to her. He lifted one hand and gestured her forward. Shannon wasn’t really given the opportunity to comply. The two men guarding the entrance of the tent appeared beside her and took her forward almost in the same moment as their master ordered her to move.
“Remove the arisaid from your head so I may see you. The cap as well.”
One of the guards reached for her. Shannon slapped his fingers aside.
“I heard him well enough. Keep yer hands away from me.”
A soft chuckle filled the tent. Fergus smiled at her while she drew her arisaid off her head, where she’d wrapped it to keep warm. His eyes were oddly intense. He studied her for a long moment, watching her untie her cap and pull it off. It was a strange feeling to have her hair completely on display after keeping it covered since she was ten years old. But she refused to quiver, it was only hair, and men had theirs on display quite regularly.
“The girl appears acceptable.”
Gair snorted. “When will the retainers be here, man? That’s what I want to be knowing.”
Fergus frowned. He moved closer to Gair, his face darkening. “You Highlanders never understand the value of patience. The king is dead, but the queen escaped with her whelp. There are those who give her shelter and want to crown her son.”
Shannon gasped. She couldn’t contain the sound. There was a chill in Fergus’s voice that sent a shiver down her spine. He turned to look at her once more, but his attention did not linger. He faced Gair again, and his expression was as hard and cold as ice.
“Attacking a neighbor who outnumbers you was ill-advised when the wedding had not yet taken place. There will be no retainers until the bedding.”
“Ye sound like a bloody Englishman.”
Fergus responded with a small curving of his lips. The secretary turned and returned to his chair. He didn’t appear to mind that everyone waited while he settled himself in comfort.
“I was in the company of the king while he was being held in England. How else do you suppose I earned his trust?”
“A trust you betrayed, now didna ye, laddie?” Gair snickered in spite of Fergus’s narrowing eyes.
“I make the best alliances for the times. If a man wants to succeed, he must be willing to see where the future is and not cling to the past. James the First was the past. My lord will be a bright future for Scotland.”
“He’ll nae be wearing any crown without the McBoyds following his banner.”
Fergus remained silent, but Shannon could see in his eyes that his mind was anything but idle. There was a calculating look to the man, one that sent horror through her. He spoke so calmly of murder, the man’s soul must be rotten.
“Still, the agreement was a wedding before any action was to be taken against your neighboring clan. You shall have the agreed-upon retainers only when the first condition has been met.”
“But we fired one of their keeps and killed the retainers. We need the men now.” A hint of desperation entered Gair’s voice. “I want them now, man.”
Fergus remained unconcerned. “As I stated. Yer laird is a fool. There is more than one clan attached to this. The queen has supporters who want her son crowned king. My lord Atholl needs all of his retainers. The fight your laird picked with your neighbor is your own affair.”
“They’ll wipe us out, down to the last man.”
Fergus lifted one eyebrow again. “Then I suppose you h
ad best make haste for Edinburgh so that the wedding may take place. My lord will not move against your enemy until he has a solid pledge of loyalty from your laird. Something that cannot be undone if your laird panics when the time for action arrives.”
Gair sputtered, his lip curling with a snarl. Rage shook his body, but Fergus remained unmoved. The secretary raised his hand.
“That will be all.”
***
“You there. How long does it take to rub a horse down? And why are the pair of ye working on the same animal, for Christ’s sake?”
“Just doing me duty.”
Torin kept his face down. He felt naked without his claymore, but it was worth it. His hands moved in practiced circles over the horse. Secretary Fergus O’Bien liked his things along with him when he traveled. His horse was housed directly behind his tent, making it an easy task to listen in on his conversations. Malcolm looked at Torin over the back of the horse, a gleam in his eyes.
Bending down, Torin picked up the handle of a wheelbarrow that was piled up with the animal’s leavings. Malcolm shouldered a yoke with buckets on either side and fell into step behind him. It was an effort to keep his pace slow, but he needed to play the part of a servant doing only what he had to. He itched to rip the House of Atholl plaid off his back too.
It was the colors of traitors, men who conspired against a unified Scotland. They were worse than the English. James I had been a Scot, and there was no king Torin would rather swear his loyalty to. Anyone who had helped murder him deserved to die.
“Damn nasty bit o’ business we’ve discovered here.” Malcolm dropped the yoke the moment they were out of sight. The sun was gone, making it easier to escape into the night. For a Highlander, the night was nothing to fear. Let Fergus and his men huddle by their fires and think they provided protection. Nothing would shield them from the wrath of a McLeren laird.
