by Cathy MacRae
“We’ve been here nearly a month and I believe I’ve seen the sun twice,” she complained to Zora. Her aunt, swathed in a mohair-lined cloak of shimmering brocade, glanced up from her sewing. Her heavy layers of robes all but hid her petite frame, and the tip of her nose had a decidedly pink hue.
“’Tis our duty to follow where our men lead, niece. But I would not object if we returned to the Levant. I have yet to see anything to recommend this place.”
Arbela nudged a chair closer to the hearth and sank into its cushioned comfort, absently rubbing Toros’s ears as he left his spot by the hearth to beg attention. Garen yawned widely and settled back to sleep.
“I am not allowed to train with the men when rain falls.” Arbela fingered her silk tunic, not liking the petulance sliding through her voice. “How was I to know the men would object to clothing I have always worn?”
“’Tis not yer clothing. ’Tis the way the fabric clings to your body when wet. You have a figure men lust after. The women here are tall and thin, and do not have the fullness of breast and hip ye possess.”
“If I am so different, why should they care?” Arbela struggled to keep the peevish tone from her voice, but it frustrated her to watch her brother and the other knights train whilst she wasted hours needlessly indoors.
“I do not know. But the men eye ye—some with furtive glances, others more openly.” Zora set her mending aside. “Ye are of an age where men do not wish to best ye on the field of battle, but in the privacy of the bedroom.”
Arbela fluttered a hand in the air. “I care naught for that. I do not chafe beneath the strictures of my trousers, but beneath the unjust treatment of my father. I am as able as any man on the training field. I can outwit and out-shoot the best MacLean has to offer.”
Zora shrugged delicately. “Be that as it may, ye should put aside yer bow and sword and turn your brilliant mind to housekeeping matters.”
Arbela surged from her chair, outraged to find no sympathetic words from her aunt. Zora waved her back to her seat.
“This is my council, should ye care to heed it. ’Tis only a matter of time before your father chooses a husband for ye. Become comfortable with your new role before that time, for your new husband will not likely give ye time or opportunity to vent your spleen in his presence.”
Arbela frowned and chewed her lower lip, not happy with the advice she knew was well meant—and true. “I am not like other women,” she finally admitted. “I rejoice in children, but do not long for my own. I find court dress—in Antioch—beautiful and flattering. But I do not care to spend my days choosing which gown and jewels to wear. My pride is in a well-fletched arrow, and in a sword pass well executed.”
Zora smiled. “And I will bear witness to your lack of personal awareness when I have seen ye in disarray and besmudged far more frequently than clean and with your hair properly combed and oiled.”
Arbela surrendered to a smile at her aunt’s teasing. “I am not adjusting well into Scotland, am I?”
Lifting sculpted eyebrows, her aunt tilted her head. “Did ye mean to?”
* * *
Supper was a grand affair for all its informality. Eager to impress the new laird, some women dressed in their finest gowns, with veils, fresh and white, held in place by fillets of stiffened cloth showing a bit of embroidery and other fine needlework. Other women chose their traditional dress, woolen and warm—and completely unlike the ladies Donal had come to know over the past thirty years. But they were a familiar part of by-gone days and the sight warmed his heart.
However, clan affairs heated his blood in a different manner, making the dinner of stewed venison and dried fruits bland and unappetizing. He stared at the men seated to his left, lairds accepting his hospitality, lingering to beg his favors. Crossing oceans hadn’t changed that aspect of his title.
He leaned toward Alex. “Have ye seen yer sister?”
Alex glanced up, startled. “No. Not all day, actually.”
Donal sat back in his chair, surveying the gathered crowd. “A fine pick of men—some unwed—and she chooses tonight to tarry in her chambers. Bah!”
He drained his mug and rose, motioning for the others to follow. Four men left their seats and accompanied him to his solar. Closing the door effectively silenced the merrymaking in the great hall. Donal strode to his desk, waving the others to chairs.
“Does any among ye have aught to say that cannae be voiced before the others?”
And so it began. Two hours later, there remained only Laird MacKern, a man with broad shoulders and a way of carrying his head slightly lowered, chin a bit forward, as though capable of plowing directly through any obstacle foolish enough to stand in his way. Donal had heard him called Bull by more than one man this evening, and he could imagine how he’d earned the nickname. Stubborn though the man might be, Donal noticed intelligence in his eyes, capable of thoughtful consideration of the petitions presented thus far. He’d answered abruptly yet creatively when asked his opinion on Laird MacHugh’s dilemma, earning a chuckle and easing the tension in the room.
There was much to be done to alleviate difficulties in the region, hostilities building in the long months since Donal’s elder brother had passed away, but for the first time since they’d arrived at MacLean Castle, Donal could say he’d made significant headway. Now, only Caelen MacKern remained. One by one, the other lairds had taken their leave, their problems solved or at least recognized and shelved for later discussion. The hour grew late, but Donal did not wish to ask MacKern to come back another day. Something about the man intrigued him.
He motioned him closer and the laird scooted his chair forward until his knees nearly bumped the heavy oak of Donal’s desk. A scowl marred the lines of a strong face, beard stubble thick across his jaw, piercing blue eyes beneath a furrowed brow. His clothing was clean but well worn, and his leather belt appeared older than the man himself. Donal hazarded a guess. Twenty-five summers? A year or two more? He could recall little of the man’s father other than a stern visage and a reputation for fierce loyalty.
“How may I be of help to ye, Laird?” Donal asked.
A light rap on the door interrupted them. At Donal’s permission, the door opened, silhouetting Arbela in the light of the torchlit hall. Her dogs flanked her.
“I was asked to bring refreshment,” she said, hesitating, glancing from the MacKern to her da.
Donal noted his guest’s flared nostrils, his quickened breathing. All gone within an instant as if the MacKern’s interest in Arbela never existed. Donal motioned her into the room and she glided across the floor, all lion-like grace and balance, with none of the mincing steps of a pampered lass. Her long tunic of figured silk did not hide her voluminous trousers—likely something Caelen had never witnessed before. Her robe was slashed front and back, exposing the tunic beneath and edged in a wide band of gold embroidery that sparkled with tiny gold discs. A long veil covered her hair, but raven-dark wisps escaped to curl about her forehead, accenting her kohl-rimmed eyes.
Donal nodded appreciatively. A vision. And lucky the man who weds her. His gaze drifted to his guest, but the man remained rigid in his chair, though his eyes tracked Arbela as she crossed the room and deposited her tray on Donal’s desk. With a wave of her hand, she sent the two dogs to sit beside the door.
As host, Donal poured them each a dram of whisky then settled back in his chair, his glance ordering Arbela to remain. Caelen accepted the drink with a nod and a quick sip, pulling his attention back to the matter at hand.
“Six years ago, I married Laird MacGillonay’s only daughter. She died not long after our son was born, little more than a year later. Though ’twas not by my hand, MacGillonay seeks revenge for her death, plundering our small herds and firing outlying crofts.”
Donal gave a casual shrug. “Sheep and a croft or two?”
Caelen’s eyes darkened. “Crofts—with the families inside.”
Arbela gasped. Garen whined and shifted her forefeet, but d
id not rise.
Donal leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk, steepling his hands. “Ye are certain ’twas MacGillonay?”
“As my life depends on it.”
“A handful of crofters matter to ye?” Donal observed MacKern through slitted eyes, taking the measure of the man’s honor.
“They are my clan, my kin,” Caelen bit out. He gathered himself to stand. “I’d heard ye were an honorable man, for all ye’ve spent the last thirty years with the Saracens. It appears my information was wrong.”
Arbela’s weight shifted forward on her toes. Her hands clenched and Donal wondered how many blades she had hidden beneath her tunic.
“Sit,” Donal commanded Caelen, allowing a thread of steel in his voice, seeking to keep Arbela at bay despite the insult from their guest. They locked gazes over the expanse of the desk and a muscle twitched in Caelen’s jaw.
Giving the laird and his daughter both a moment to settle, Donal eyed him thoughtfully. “Ye are called Bull of the Highlands by some.”
MacKern did not reply. Silence stretched. “Is there a question, Laird?” he finally asked.
“Mayhap. I wondered if it referred to a persevering nature—or inability to see reason.”
“I am certain ye would get a different answer depending on who ye asked.”
Donal barely halted the smile the man’s answer provoked. “Ye wish protection from MacGillonay?”
“I seek an alliance, Laird,” Caelen replied. “The scourge that killed yer da and brother nigh devastated my clan, leaving me with too few men to protect what is mine. We require only to be left in peace so we may see to repairs and tending what livestock remain.”
Donal’s eyes narrowed. “What do ye have to offer in return?”
Caelen’s scowl reappeared. “My pledge that we will support ye as best we may should ye have need.”
“In exchange for the possibility of the support of what few men ye are able to spare, ye require full protection from MacGillonay?” He leaned forward. “How desperate is yer clan?”
Caelen’s face flushed. “We have no way to hold longer than a few days should MacGillonay besiege our keep.”
The admission was costly, and Donal noted the fine flush to Caelen’s cheeks. “Why do ye defend such a place?”
“’Tis my son’s inheritance. I will do anything for my son.”
“Men and their land,” Arbela scoffed. “No matter the importance or the value of their rocky footprint, men sell their souls for a bit of scorched earth.”
Caelen turned in his seat, his gaze sliding roughly up Arbela’s frame. “And what would a wee lass know of the value of land?”
“I mean no disrespect—’tis the same the world over. We defended one of the most valuable strips of land in the Levant for many years,” she replied, scorn for his easy dismissal forcing her voice into a lower range. “Our land’s value as well as our honor was measured by the safe passage of travelers and merchants from the Silk Road to the sea.”
Caelen grinned, a baring of teeth with little humor and less tolerance. “We?” he mocked.
Rage flooded Arbela and she forced it deep within where it would not control her. She lifted her chin, setting the gold fringe on her hijab jingling. Ignoring the delicate chimes, she addressed Laird MacKern’s question. “Indeed. We. I have lifted both bow and sword in defense of our land. I have sent as many men to their creator as any of my father’s knights.”
This time Caelen’s amusement overcame his scorn, twitching his lips in the faint echo of a smile. “Ye arenae big enough to lift a sword nor bend a bow. Dinnae take me for a fool.”
His glance fell to Donal in appeal. Laird MacLean shrugged. “My daughter does not lie.”
Arbela shifted her gaze to her da. “I’ll have no stain on my honor. Nor will I suffer being called a liar.” She raked Caelen with a haughty glare. “I’d heard Laird MacKern was an honorable man, for all he’s spent his entire life in this land called Scotland. It appears my information was wrong. There is but one way to settle this.”
Caelen came upright in his chair, his amusement gone. “What is it ye wish, lass?”
“To broaden your education,” she stated. “Man.”
Again Caelen appealed to Laird MacLean. Donal tilted his head, a mild look of disquiet on his face.
“I believe she has challenged ye to a duel.”
Chapter 7
Bram grumbled sleepily as Caelen slid from the bed. He splashed cold water on his face, wondering how, by St. Andrew’s crooked toes, he’d managed to get himself into such a predicament. As a guest at MacLean Castle and no pressing duties, he should give in to the impulse to sleep past the first hint of dawn. But he somehow found himself preparing for an archery competition. With a lass.
Shite! A lass who doesnae know when to speak and when to be silent. Enters conversations not about her. He paused in his musings, water dripping in his eyes. And doesnae know how to clothe herself properly.
The memory of Arbela intruded, her buxom form wrapped in a patterned cloth in colors he’d never seen before, metallic fringe—was it gold?—tinkling on her headdress. And in trousers!
The sheer grace of her as she moved still took his breath away.
He scowled. Idiot! Women are naught but a burden. Weak, willful and treacherous.
He rubbed his head vigorously with a square of linen and dropped the damp cloth carelessly over the edge of the bowl. He turned to gather his weapons and halted at the sight of his son struggling to wrap his leggings beneath his tunic.
“I’m going with ye, Da!” he said, a pinched look of intense concentration on his face as he picked at the laces. With a grunt of frustration, he leaned against the bed and shoved his legs toward Caelen. “I cannae do these.”
Caelen strode across the room. “Ye dinnae need to. Crawl back into bed, lad. ’Tis verra early and ye need yer rest.”
Bram kicked his feet. “No! I want to go with ye and Rory!”
Caelen propped his fists on his hips, a frown on his face. “And where is it ye think Rory and I are going?”
“To a contest to best a wee slip of a lass who doesnae know how to act around men,” Bram replied, obviously mimicking the conversation Caelen and Rory’d had the night before.
“Ye were supposed to be asleep,” Caelen reprimanded him.
Bram shrugged. “I was. Ye were noisy.” He tilted his head. “Can I go, Da? I want to see the archers.”
“’Twill be no archers. Only me and the lass. No contest and ’twill be over quickly. I’ll send a lass upstairs to see ye get a good breakfast and are ready to leave right after.”
“I’m going,” Bram declared, the stubborn set to his jaw an exact imitation of his sire’s.
“Best let the lad ride with us,” Rory chimed in as he entered the room. “We dinnae have all day to change his mind, and from the looks of him, ’twill take that long at least.”
Bram leapt to his feet. “Thanks, Uncle Rory!” He beamed as he gazed at his favorite uncle. But his face fell as he saw Caelen’s frown.
Caelen bit back a snarl at Rory’s meddling. “I am not taking a bairn to the field and….” Words failed him as he could not garner a single plausible argument for not allowing Bram to come with him. Other than he simply didn’t know what to do with the bairn.
“And let him watch ye shoot an arrow?” Rory finished the statement for him, his bland voice softly mocking.
“I’m not a bairn, Da,” Bram prodded, all seriousness. “I’ve five summers.”
“He’s yer lad, and ’tis yer decision,” Rory continued. “But ye brought him with ye to ensure MacGillonay dinnae take him whilst ye were away. ’Tis time the lad saw a bit more of men’s work and a little less of women.”
Caelen agreed with a short nod, not liking the idea of keeping up with a wee lad, and liking the idea of arguing with him even less. “Then lace up yer leggings, lad. I dinnae have time to wait on ye.”
Rory knelt and fastened the ties on Bram�
�s leggings. Caelen faltered, unsure if he should take charge of Bram’s clothing or not. But Rory finished before Caelen could object and Bram leapt about, shouting for his boots. He stomped his feet inside and was tugging at the door as Caelen slid his dirk into his belt.
He let Bram dash ahead, following at a more sedate pace but with a close eye on the lad’s whereabouts. Bram darted through the hall, lingering long enough to snatch a chunk of bread in one fist, a bit of cheese in the other.
“’S goo’!” he mumbled around a full mouth, nodding his head vigorously. Caelen made short work of his own meal, downing a mug of warm cider as Rory lifted Bram in the air, pretending to drop him only to catch him once again. The hall, slowly filling with people, rang with Bram’s gleeful shouts.
“Come, Bram. Let us saddle Addis and ride to the archery field.”
Bram fisted the hem of Caelen’s tunic as they entered the stable. Evidence of the new laird’s wealth reached even this place. Noble equine heads pushed over open half-doors, fine ears pricked forward at their approach. Arched necks and slender legs bespoke their exotic bloodlines, and Caelen paused a moment as he approached a stallion whose hide glistened like the purest gold.
“There’s a fine lad,” he crooned, stroking the slim yet well-muscled neck. The horse tossed his head, dancing lightly out of Caelen’s reach. Caelen peered inside the stall, noting the stallion’s narrow chest and short silky mane and tail.
“Ye could use a good bag of oats,” he said. “What wouldn’t I give to take ye out for a good ride and test yer mettle?”
“Is this Addis’s bridle, Da?” Bram skipped toward him, legs tangling in the trailing leather straps.
Caelen left the golden stallion to gather the bridle from Bram, the leather old but supple from daily care. “Aye. And I’ll ask him to take the bit, not ye, lad. Ye will keep yer fingers, please.”
Bram fell into step beside him. “Addis wouldnae bite me,” he scoffed. “I like him. But I still want a pony,” he added quickly, a stubborn tilt to his head.
