by Cathy MacRae
Caelen reached Addis’s stall, relieved to have a distraction from the pony discussion. Settling Bram on the edge of the wooden trough, he quickly tacked up his horse. Placing his son in the saddle, stirrups flapping gently well below the reach of the lad’s feet, Caelen led Addis into the hall.
“Ye are almost big enough for yer own horse, Bram,” Rory chuckled as he met them, his own horse trailing behind.
Easing his white-knuckled clutch off Addis’s red mane, Bram gave Caelen a hopeful look which Caelen ignored.
“I will leave the lad with ye when I am on the field,” he reminded Rory. “It shouldnae take long and we can leave for home shortly after.”
They walked through the double doors into the sunlight and swung into their saddles. Bram leaned against Caelen, fitting solidly between his arms on either side. The sturdy horse, Caelen’s pride and joy, the product of generations of the Fjord horse descended from Norwegian stallions and mares blended carefully with the Highland pony, was fast and agile, even over the forbidding, rocky terrain.
With a slight flick of his hand on the reins, Caelen directed Addis through the main castle gate and to a nearby clearing within view of the castle wall. Two thick piles of straw backed white cloth squares fluttering briskly between wooden stakes. Small crowds of people dotted the field. The late-night challenge hadn’t gone unnoticed as he’d hoped.
He drew Addis to a halt and dismounted, handing the reins to Rory. “I’m going to pace the distance,” he said.
“Can I come?”
Bram’s voice held a faint note of panic, and Caelen patted the lad’s knee. “Nae. Ye will be fine here with Rory to look after ye. Addis willnae let ye fall.”
Bram’s nod was hesitant, his eyes wide, the wee lad nearly lost in the big saddle. Caelen strode away, through the milling people, to the painted targets. The center mark was smaller than the palm of his hand and the wind would play havoc with his accuracy. The breeze frolicked about, altering direction as often as it changed strength. Caelen carefully paced the distance from the targets to a post in the ground marking the spot he’d shoot from. Pivoting, he stared back over his path, pondering the variables of wind, sun and distance.
He peered at the sky. The sun topped the hills on the far side of the Loch Aline inlet, its rays sparking off the water like diamonds. He scowled.
Spoiled lass isnae taking this seriously. Stomping back to his horse, he snatched the reins from Rory.
“I dinnae have time for this,” he growled.
“Have ye the promise from MacLean?” Rory asked.
Caelen swallowed a curse under his breath. “Nae. But I dinnae like standing around, waiting on a—”
“Faerie princess!” Bram breathed, lifting his arm to point over Caelen’s shoulder.
Caelen followed his son’s direction and the vision before him shocked him to the soles of his well-worn boots.
The glint of sun off the loch paled in comparison to the gleam of well-groomed horseflesh beneath the petite rider’s flowing cloak of chatoyant silk, its colors changing and merging as the cloth billowed in the breeze. Her two dogs followed at her heels, and Caelen recognized her instantly—indeed there could be no other like Arbela in all of Scotland. He immediately quelled the surge of interest—and lust if he only allowed himself to admit it—she engendered.
“She IS a faerie princess, Da!” Bram insisted, though Caelen had not corrected his assumption.
“The lad may be right, Bull,” Rory chimed in, a husky burr riding his voice. “I have never seen cloth change color like that before, nor have I seen such confidence in a lass.”
“She is only a lass,” Caelen grumbled. But his attention did not waver from Arbela as she approached. The edgy stallion he’d greeted in the stable earlier submitted to her control, though he champed his bit and danced on eager hooves, as if the slightest inattention from his rider would see him airborne.
His coat glistened with a metallic sheen, but even Caelen’s deep appreciation for horseflesh did not override his reluctant appreciation of the lass atop the beast. She reined the horse easily to a halt a length or so away. The threads of her cloak shimmered pink, then brown, then gold and back again. Caelen shook his head.
Arbela stared down her long nose at him, dark brown eyes sparkling cold welcome.
“Good of ye to attend,” he growled, unable to find anything to like about rising from his bed to duel with a lass he’d just met. Ironically, that sparked too much of the early days of his marriage—which had only gone downhill from there.
“’Twas my challenge,” she replied. “Good of ye to accept.”
Donal MacLean approached, his superb horse with its thickly arched neck and high-stepping gait a marked contrast to his daughter’s high-headed, slender mount.
“I believe we can settle this quickly,” MacLean said, his manner guarded.
Does he worry I will harm his daughter? “Quickly and without bloodshed,” Caelen agreed.
“Och, ye are lucky ye dinnae choose swords,” Donal replied, nodding his head as if Caelen should count himself fortunate to not be facing Arbela over a blade.
“Can we get on with it?” Caelen asked, taking a step toward the mark. He set the end of his bowstaff on the ground. Stepping between the bow and string, he propped the lower end against his instep. With an effort, he flexed the longbow enough to notch the string at the upper end. He checked to be certain the string would not slip, then faced his opponent. His jaw dropped, but no words passed his tongue.
Arbela stepped lightly from her horse, handing her reins to her father. Slipping her cloak from her shoulders, she emerged garbed in a leather jerkin over a silk tunic and leather trews beneath. Her hair spilled down her back in a thick braid that surrendered curling wisps to the wind. She caught his gaze and her winged brows arched upward in reprimand.
“Have ye paced the field?” she asked, directing him to the challenge.
Caelen recovered his voice. “Aye. I will allow ye first shot.”
She tossed her head. “Hardly fair since I challenged ye.” She gave a regal nod. “Please take the first shot.”
“And allow ye to see what the wind does at my expense?” He mocked her, certain such a thought had never entered her lovely head.
She returned his taunt. “I know what the wind does. It creeps past yer defenses and spoils yer aim. Do not let it hinder ye.”
Anger stirred in his belly and he breathed it out in a long sigh. It would not do to allow emotion to spoil his shot. Touching two fingers to his forehead in salute, he accepted her offer. He turned his back to her and drew an arrow. Taking a moment to finger the feathers, the pads of his fingers sliding the length of the shaft, testing for signs of weakness, he set the arrow against the bow.
Pointing the bow upward, he nocked his arrow, bringing the tip to bear on the target in a sweeping downward motion as he drew back on the string. Sighting along the shaft, he released the string, sending the arrow streaking through the air. It landed with a resounding slap in the center of the painted circle.
Arbela rubbed the shallow groove in her archer’s thumb ring as the MacKern laird nocked his arrow. His stance straightened from his habitual slight crouch, the traditional, six-foot bow nearly as tall as the man. His grip was powerful yet light enough to allow for slight adjustments of movement, and corded muscles shifted beneath his tunic as he drew back on the bowstring.
It did not surprise her when the arrow hit dead center of the target. Caelen MacKern did not appear to be a man who took his training lightly. It was not his skills she challenged, but his narrow view of the world—and her ability to knock the condescending smirk from his lips.
“Are ye a faerie princess?”
The question pulled Arbela’s contemplation of her opponent to glance about for the speaker. Her gaze settled on a young boy atop a red dun horse, its flaming mane and tail a marked contrast to the lighter chestnut coat. The child regarded her with wide eyes.
“Ye look like a fae
rie princess. Ilene tells me stories about them. Are ye one?”
Arbela smiled. “I am mayhap a princess from a faraway land. Will that do?”
The boy nodded. “I’m Bram, Laird MacKern’s son.”
Arbela glanced over her shoulder and found the laird staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face. “My name is Arbela. I have come to teach your father some manners.”
She unhooked her small bow from her saddle and, with deft movements, strung her Turkish bow. Its C-shape pulled backward as the string grew taut, giving it an appearance quite unlike the longbow Caelen had used. The laird’s eyebrows lifted, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
Arbela strolled to the mark and Caelen yielded the spot.
“Very nice shooting,” she murmured. A small shake of her head negated her words. As she’d hoped, it provoked Caelen.
“Ye can do better than dead center?” he demanded. “Yer bow is naught but a toy—too small to be accurate, and ye’ve not enough strength to cover the distance.” He sent her a patronizing look. “Do ye wish to step a wee bit closer?”
She leaned in. “Tempt me to come closer and ye may find a knife in your belly,” she warned. “I do not need an easier target.”
Plucking four arrows from her belt, she gripped three in her right hand, placing the fourth against the bow. In two swift, fluid moves, she pushed the arrow forward, nocking the arrow as she then drew it back against the string. The arrow scarcely left her hand before she had the second nocked. She sent the last three arrows in rapid succession with no pause to determine her success or adjust her aim.
A ripple of applause swept the crowd. Used to her father’s moderately paced Gaelic, Arbela understood little of the rapid-fire words of excitement. But she did not need them explained. Caelen’s face was translation enough.
She cast a swift look at the target. Her four arrows ringed his single shaft in a tight circle, feathered ends bristling together.
“Will I hear your apology, M’laird?” she murmured, fighting the glee threatening to force a smile on her face. “Does this demonstrate my skills adequately?”
Caelen swallowed and shifted his gaze to hers. “Ye are swift and accurate with a bow. But when it truly counts, can ye look in a man’s eyes and deal him death?”
Glee changed to brittle challenge.
“Test me.”
Chapter 8
“My most sincere apology for doubting yer ability with a bow, m’lady.” Caelen bowed stiffly from the waist, but Arbela sensed the acknowledgement was sincere—even if the words appeared difficult to speak. Though she managed to lower her chin in an accepting gesture, her gaze was anything but.
“I have spent my life protecting Batroun and its people. I do not care to be besmirched simply because I am a woman. My height and gender have nothing to do with the abilities I train hard to achieve.”
“Point taken. But in our country, a lass knows her place. When it comes to hand-to-hand combat, ye must agree yer strength cannot compete against a man.” He eyed her speculatively. “And that is not a challenge.”
“I would not accept,” Arbela informed him. “As ye say, I cannot compete with ye on such a physical level. I have other skills—”
“—Such as managing a home and servants. The lass has a quick brain and makes short work of bookkeeping as well.”
Arbela turned a skeptical eye on her father as he approached, uneasy with his cheerful interruption of her words with the MacKern laird. Her suspicions increased as he continued, turning his affability on Caelen.
“Ye may turn yer lad over to Arbela whilst ye and I finish our conversation begun last eve. We dinnae come to terms with our alliance proposition.”
Relegating me to a woman’s duties, excluding me from something I was privy to yesterday, and using big words. Donal MacLean was a learned man, with a vocabulary that put scribes to shame. But his use of them often meant he hid an ulterior motive. Her eyes narrowed, but Donal’s smile never wavered.
Keeping a wary eye on her da, Arbela stepped lightly into her saddle, gathering her reins, a comforting hand on Voski’s shoulder as he pranced backward.
“I’ll find a lass on foot to care for Bram,” Caelen said, stepping between Arbela’s horse and his son. “Thank ye all the same.”
“Voski is spirited, but will obey my command. He will carry your son and sooner come to harm himself than allow young Bram to fall.” Arbela lifted her chin. “Ye may hand him to me.”
“I would as lief place my son under yer horse’s hooves as atop his back,” Caelen declared, crossing his arms over his chest. “That beast is not meant for children.”
“We shall walk to the stable together,” Donal said, silencing Arbela’s retort. She glanced at the boy’s pale face and realized Caelen protected Bram from his own fears as much as the child’s.
She slipped from Voski’s back. “He may walk with me,” she said, ending the confrontation.
With a stern look, Caelen turned reluctantly to his son and lifted him from his sturdy horse. He set the boy on his feet and spoke in his ear, though the words drifted easily for all to hear.
“Ye may go with Lady Arbela and see to yer meal. A morsel of bread will keep yer belly full and we will ride home soon.”
Bram ignored the adults in favor of Arbela’s two dogs who sat at Voski’s side. “Can I pet them?” he asked eagerly. At Arbela’s nod, the dogs raced to the lad’s side, tails wagging, tongues marking him as their newest friend amid Bram’s hysterical giggles. His hands fisted in their thick, wiry coats and he beamed happily.
Caelen sent a warning glance to Arbela as he released his shoulder. “Keep him safe.”
She held her hand to Bram and closed her fingers over the small hand. “He will be safe with me. I do not harm children, and neither do my dogs.”
His piercing gaze locked onto hers. “Believe me when I tell ye, there are people who would take my son, and all yer flippant words would come to naught. This is neither yer desert, nor yer people. Ye have much to learn about Scotland.”
* * *
Caelen stalked away without another word, knowing full well to deny the laird’s daughter the right to care for his son was tantamount to forcing another duel—though he couldn’t decide who would be the lesser threat, Arbela or her da.
Showing his easy-going manners, Addis tagged at his heels, and Caelen shuddered to think of his wee son atop the excitable horse Arbela called Voski. Bram’s pleadings aside, he needed to teach his son to ride soon. Instead of embracing the challenge of the horse, there were signs Bram was beginning to fear them.
Donal and his son, Alex, flanked Caelen on his right, Rory on his left. Slowing his pace allowed Donal to reach his side, and Caelen reminded himself he was a guest in the MacLean’s castle, not the other way around.
None of the men spoke on the short walk to the stables, and Caelen’s ears picked up the excited chatter of Bram’s voice several paces behind. It was enough to drop his anger with Arbela to a manageable level, and allow him to enter the laird’s solar with his attention on the alliance he meant to form.
Alex poked the fire on the hearth into greater life, adding a bit of warmth to the room. Donal sat behind his desk and motioned for Caelen to be seated. Alex took a chair and fixed his attention on Caelen, his look interested rather than hostile—though Caelen couldn’t have called it friendly, either.
“I have need of men to help patrol my boundaries,” Caelen began, not waiting for an invitation to start. “Only then can we see to shoring up our defenses, and spare backs to work the fishing nets and the fields.”
“Yer castle rests on the edge of Loch Linnhe?”
“Aye. About twenty or so miles from here.”
“Yer father by marriage lives at the western tip of Loch Eil,” Donal noted.
Caelen clenched his jaw. “I no longer claim him as kin.”
Donal raised his brows. “Nonetheless, he is yer son’s grandda.”
“An accident of blood.�
�� Caelen’s fingers gripped the arm of his chair. “What does his relationship have to do with our alliance?”
“I dinnae wish to become embroiled in the squabble over the living arrangements of a bairn,” Donal replied.
“I willnae allow that bastard to take my son!” Caelen exploded, half-rising from his chair. “Will we make an alliance or not?”
Donal gave a light shrug. “I think we need to consider strengthening our position.” He waved Caelen back into his chair.
“What do ye have in mind?” Caelen asked warily as he lowered to the chair.
“I have looked into yer request. And yer ability to follow through on yer end of the bargain. Och, I have no doubt ye mean to make good on any promise ye make. Others have said that of ye. But the fact remains, yer clan was hit hard by the scourge and ye have little resources to accomplish all ye wish in a timely manner. There will always be fish to catch, crops to plant and harvest. But all for naught if ye cannae defend what is yers, and building defenses doesnae put food in bellies.”
Shame slid through Caelen’s veins like a poison. Though he’d done what he could, the disease had spread through his clan like wildfire before a strong wind, and in the time it took to collect their dead, last summer’s harvest had been lost—ruined in the fields. The past winter had been hard.
“What is it ye wish from me?”
“I want ye to marry my daughter.”
Caelen bolted up in his chair. “Yer daughter?”
Alex slid forward in his seat, clearly as startled by his sire’s words as was Caelen.
Donal chuckled. “I certainly dinnae think ye should marry my son!” His smile did little to allay Caelen’s alarm.
“Yer daughter and I dinnae get along.” It was an understatement, but the truth and diplomatic.
“My daughter has a mind of her own, but she is caring, smart, and fiercely loyal. I know her faults, and they are few. Adjusting to life here hasnae been easy for her. She is more inclined to fly in the face of convention than worry overmuch what others think of her.”
