by Cathy MacRae
“If ye agree,” Caelen continued for her, “we will hold the ceremony within the next month. Ye will become part of my household, and I will be known as yer husband. We will be polite in public, and see little of each other in private. Should ye have concerns, ye will bring them to me.”
“If I agree, I will have reassurances from ye, as well.”
Caelen’s expression grew guarded, but he gave a short nod.
Arbela began her list. “I will hold ye to your statement of allowing me to live as I will.”
He nodded again and turned slightly, his profile stern. Arbela’s cheeks heated as she considered her next question, but she pursued it nonetheless.
“Do ye expect children from this…arrangement?”
He swung about, eyes hooded, face emotionless. “Nae.”
Though she currently had no great desire for motherhood, the finality of his denial left an ache in her heart. Dreams of someday holding her own child, while fleeting, had always appeared as a certainty in the distant future. To hear those dreams would never come to fruition left her unsettled. Could she trade this for a lifetime of assurance her life would be her own?
She leveled an even stare at the man who wished to marry her, yet live a separate life. A vision of the problems that could arise cautioned her.
“Ye will swear ye will never act in a way as to embarrass me before your people or your son. I will hear no rumors of other women striving to take my place, nor will ye consort with questionable women in my presence.”
“Ye cannae agree to a business alliance, yet think to forbid me comforts of my own choosing?”
Caution fouled with confusion. What she knew of men and women were gleaned from stories told in the women’s quarters. And aside from Philippe’s unexpected kiss, no actual knowledge at all. How much could she bargain for?
“I have lived in tents and palaces, and I know how gossip spreads. I will not be disgraced by ye or the manner in which others whisper. Inasmuch as ye will hold me to a celibate state, I will expect ye to honor no less.”
Caelen’s face darkened, and for a moment Arbela wondered if she pushed too far. But she was not his wife yet, and she would start this alliance with her expectations firmly in place. He pivoted on a booted heel, wrestling with his decision.
“We will speak of this to no one,” he growled.
“There should be no reason to,” Arbela agreed.
He faced her, brow lowered, eyes flashing. He shoved a hand at her and she gripped it firmly. “Agreed.”
Chapter 11
“Och, Arbela, barev, dustry.” Hello, daughter.
Caelen glanced up at Donal’s words, their cadence foreign to his ears. Laird MacLean beamed at his daughter as she entered the hall for the noon meal. She had obviously taken time to refresh herself and change into clean garments since Caelen had parted from her more than an hour earlier. As exotic as ever, her heavy pink brocade tunic shimmered with pearls sewn amid the silver embroidery. A long scarf of the same bright color wound about her neck, a perfect foil for her night-dark hair which was secured off her face with a fillet of woven silver, a large pink stone resting on her forehead.
“Barev, hayry,” she replied. Hello, father. Donal tilted his head to Caelen. Her brown eyes flashed, but she greeted him civilly enough. “Barev, Laird MacKern.”
Donal led them to the head table, seating Arbela immediately to his left, Caelen next to her. A few heads lifted as Arbela took her place next to her father—and Caelen assumed a position of power within the family.
Alex entered the hall, Bram skipping beside him, the black dog tagging at his heels. Bram looked up and, releasing Alex’s hand, bolted across the room to Caelen’s side.
“Da! I’ve found ye!”
His pleasure was infectious, and Caelen allowed a brief smile. “Have ye been a good lad for Alex?” he asked.
Bram beamed. “I have been verra good! Alex said if I was, he’d give me his berry pasty to eat!” He climbed into Caelen’s lap and wriggled about as he surveyed the table. “We’re having berry pasties, aye?”
Caelen gently but firmly shifted Bram to the empty seat to his left. Bram sat for an instant before he spied Arbela. Scrambling to his knees in the chair, he leaned over the arm rest.
“Hi, Bela!” he cried in a whisper loud enough to reach any ear at the laird’s table. Arbela leaned back and sent him a pleased smile.
“Hello, Bram-jan,” she replied with a wink.
Bram squirmed, leaning farther across the slim wooden rail. “Alex said I could have his pasty. Did Cook make any?”
“Dinnae bother Lady Arbela, lad. If Cook made pasties, ye may have one.” Caelen stared down the distraught rebellion in his son’s eyes as he dispelled the hope of extra servings of the coveted berry pies. “Seat yerself, lad.”
Bram slumped in his chair, then wriggled upright at Caelen’s reproving look.
Around them, people began the meal. The mouth-watering aroma of succulent meats filled the air, undercut with the bold yeasty scent of fresh bread. Colorful vegetables floated in various sauces, and foods Caelen couldn’t name graced platters on the laird’s table.
Bram sat up further, eying the unusual offering. “What’s that, Da?” he asked, pointing to brown balls that could have been meat, though they appeared to have been dusted with sand before cooking.
“Come sit with me, Bram-jan. I will tell ye about the food,” Arbela said. With a quick glance at Caelen, Bram slid from his seat and climbed onto Arbela’s chair, the pair of them fitting the grandly carved seat quite well. As discreetly as he could, Caelen turned an ear to Arbela’s tutelage.
She selected one of the balls from the platter and placed it on her trencher. “This is called falafel,” she told Bram. “They are made with fava beans and spices, and deep-fried until they are crispy.” She broke one in half and ate it, encouraging Bram to try the other half. The lad took a bite and chewed it slowly, curious expressions crossing his face.
“I think I like it,” he ventured. “’Tis different.”
Arbela laughed. “It is a favorite of mine. Ye may grow to like it more.” She spooned a bit of paste from a bowl in the center. Taking a small portion of what appeared to be flat bread, she dipped it in the paste and handed it to Bram.
“Try this one and I’ll tell you the name.”
Bram sniffed it, then took a cautious bite. “I think I like it, too,” he said. “The bread is good,” he added with certainty.
“This paste is baba ganoush.”
Bram giggled. “Baba noosh.”
“Ga-noosh,” Arbela corrected. “Another favorite of mine. My Aunt Zora has been teaching the cook a few recipes since we arrived.”
Bram eyed the remaining food on the table. “Do ye not eat Scots’ food?” he asked.
Arbela ruffled his hair. “Of course, we do. But I like other food as well. What do ye like best?”
“Pasties!” Bram crowed.
“Besides that.”
Bram thought, a frown crossing his face. “I like roasted meats, and porridge—with lots of butter and honey.”
“Vegetables?”
Bram wrinkled his nose. “Kirsty says I must eat them, but I dinnae like them.”
“I will have our cook roast eggplant for ye. We will eat it together. We must plant the vines this summer.”
Appearing skeptical, Bram gave a slow nod. “Does it taste like eggs?”
“Nae,” she laughed. “It has a flavor all its own.”
To Caelen’s surprise, as Arbela spoke, she’d added roasted carrots to Bram’s trencher—and the lad was eating them without a fuss. Uncertain if Arbela had beguiled the lad or if the carrots had a seasoning that enhanced their flavor, Caelen added a few to his own trencher. The aroma that drifted up set his mouth to watering, and he took a bite.
The flavors filled his mouth, nose, and throat. Light and vaguely sweet, nutty and perhaps slightly bitter, the unusual spices surprised him. He stole a look at Bram’s trencher.
It was empty.
“What does yer cook season the carrots with?” he asked, drawing Arbela’s attention with the tip of his knife, pointing to the rapidly emptying platter.
“Coriander, cumin, and fennel, mostly,” she replied. “And honey. Do ye like it?”
He nodded. “We dinnae have such spices at Dunfaileas.”
“I will bring them. Dunfaileas is your home?”
Our home, he was tempted to remind her, but decided against it. “Aye. ’Tis the name of our castle.”
“What does it mean?” Arbela’s voice, while soft, sounded eager, and Caelen remembered Alex mentioning she spoke several languages.
“A dun is a fort. Faileas means reflection. The castle sits on the edge of Loch Linnhe and ye can see its reflection in the water.”
Her head tilted slightly. “It sounds lovely,” she murmured.
Donal’s chair scraped the stone floor as he rose to his feet. Caelen and Arbela glanced up, the fleeting moment of accord gone. Laird MacLean lifted his goblet, candlelight catching the glow of silver. Conversations in the hall slid to a halt as people gave him their attention.
“I have enjoyed living again amongst ye for the past month and more, my clan. As the youngest son, I sought my fortune in fighting. Farlan and I took up the cross and traveled to Outremer with King Richard. After King Richard left the Holy Lands, Bohemond IV of Antioch accepted our service, bestowing upon me the title of Baron of Batroun. I lived at Mseilha Castle, on the road between Tripoli and Beirut at St. William’s Pass until I received word of my da’s and brothers’ passing.”
He glanced about the room. “I recognize many of ye, and grieve to realize there are faces no longer present who knew me as a lad. I have spent the past weeks re-acquainting myself with the affairs of the clan and will remain open to suggestions or hearing of difficulties ye may have. ’Tis my honor and privilege to serve the MacLean clan.”
Fists thundered on the wooden tables in an approving cadence and voices rumbled low. Donal paused then spoke again when the noise receded.
“One alliance I wish to announce this eve is the one between the MacLean and MacKern clans, and formalized by marriage between my daughter, Arbela, and Caelen, Laird MacKern.”
Caelen’s heart thudded as he glanced at the woman next to him. For all of his avowed claims to the contrary and his certainty he’d never remarry, he was about to take Arbela MacLean to wife. Unease slid through his veins, curling his toes. Flashes of memory, of shrill complaints, sobbing accusations—the woman he’d once loved refusing him, his touch, their son. Caelen shook his head. ’Twas a business arrangement this time. No expectations beyond two people filling positions that would benefit them both and require nothing from either other than distant, polite discourse when the need arose. He wanted nothing more from her, and she’d made it clear she expected nothing from him except to be left alone. That should be easy enough.
A jolt as alarming as the sudden din of a hammer tensed Arbela’s muscles. How had she come to agree to this marriage? Caelen MacKern was a Scot—a barbarian—a man with no use for her beyond her skills at managing his home and his son. Her glance slid to Bram and something inside her softened. A ready-made family. She was free to continue living her life as she pleased, with no condemnation for her preferred style of dress or her less-than-ladylike skills. No condemnation other than the bunched brow and narrowed eyes of the man soon to become her husband. Her lord and master.
The memory of a sweet kiss, stolen on a balcony in Tripoli, crossed her mind. Philippe had said he loved her, and though she had not been ready to explore his words, she would never know what his love could have meant to her. If things had been different, if she and Philippe had married, would Philippe have insisted she give up her warrior’s ways? Become a wife, a mother?
Her words to Philippe came back to mock her. Do ye not see? This could be a chance to create greater unity in the north. Instead of following his heart, Philippe had become a pawn, advancing an alliance against the Turks. And she, Arbela, would unite the MacLean and MacKern clans.
She knew Philippe would find a way to make his marriage to the Armenian princess work to bring about peace. She faced less of a trial than he, as she did not despise the MacKerns, but simply found little common ground with them. They were Scots. Her father’s people. Now her people. Like Philippe, it was not the future she’d imagined, but it was not the death sentence she’d envisioned months ago when her father had taken up the idea of her marriage once again.
Arbela rose to her feet and lifted her goblet. “May we be blessed with peace and a prosperous alliance.” She tilted her head to Caelen. “Orhnut’yunner.”
“Blessings,” her father replied, then took a sip of his wine.
“Orhnut’yunner.” Alex tossed the contents of his goblet back and a serving girl quickly refilled it. He stood and surveyed the crowd. “My sister is a woman of priceless value—and Caelen MacKern the most fortunate of men. May their union be a blessed one.” He gave Arbela a short bow. “Orhnut’yunner.”
“Beannachdan.” Donal lifted his goblet to Caelen who slowly stood.
“I am honored to join our clans. May there be blessings on both our houses. Beannachdan air ar taighean” He lifted his goblet to the people. “Slàinte mhath!”
“Slàinte mhor!” the crowd roared as drinking vessels clinked and the toast became the finality on the announcement and her future.
The heated room shortened her breath, and Arbela sank slowly to her seat, hiding her unsteady hands in a fold of her scarf. She bumped against Bram who stared at her with big, questioning eyes. Struggling for a smile, Arbela leaned her head close to his.
“I do not suppose your father has mentioned our plans?” She cast a quick look at Caelen in deep conversation with one of her father’s knights.
“Nae,” Bram replied, his lower lip slightly forward, indicative of his distress.
“Do not worry, Bram-jan,” she reassured him. “Your father and I have agreed to marry and that means I will live at Dunfaileas.”
Bram’s eyebrows bunched together, his features more angry than confused. “I dinnae like it,” he stated.
Taken aback, Arbela schooled her face into a smooth mask. “Why do ye object to this?”
A mulish expression clung to Bram’s face and he turned away. Picking up his wooden spoon, he shoved the remainder of his meal around on his trencher, sending small pieces over the edge and onto the table.
“Bram! Be mindful of what ye are doing.” Caelen’s rebuke sounded low but unmistakable through the din. Bram flung his spoon to the table and slumped back in the chair.
“What has gotten into ye, lad?” Caelen scooted his chair back. Arbela lifted a hand, stalling the reprimand certain to come.
“There is some reason he does not wish us to wed—though he has not said why,” she murmured. Caelen relaxed his weight onto his seat.
“Lady Arbela has agreed to become my wife,” he said, placing a hand on Bram’s shoulder. “Do ye have something ye wish to say?”
Bram continued to stare at his lap. The soft curve of his cheek glistened. Arbela’s heart clenched.
“Why does this distress ye so, Bram?” she asked. “I thought we were friends.”
He kicked the table leg. Caelen cleared his throat and Bram hunched lower in his seat.
“Would ye care to speak of this in the laird’s solar?” Arbela motioned to the room off the great hall. Bram shook his head, mute.
“I will have an answer, Bram,” Caelen insisted. Bram resumed swinging his legs, the toes of his boots tapping the table leg ever so gently. Arbela shook her head slightly as Caelen opened his mouth.
“When I come to Dunfaileas, I will bring Toros and Garen, as well as Voski,” she murmured in a low, soothing voice. “Ye and I will spend time together and give your nurse time to rest. I have been told my stories are exactly right for a boy who will soon pass his sixth summer.” Arbela sighed as Bram continued to refuse her overture. “Your fa
ther and I have an agreement. I believe ye and I should have one as well.”
Bram slanted her a look from the corner of his eyes.
“In exchange for the fun we will have, I will expect ye to mind yer table manners, try at least two bites of any new food I offer ye, and to speak when something momentous is on your mind.”
Bram slewed around in the chair, facing Caelen. “Da, if Bela marries ye, will she be my ma?”
“Aye,” Caelen replied, sending Arbela a look over the lad’s head. “It doesnae mean we have forgotten yer ma.”
Bram climbed to his knees and over the chair arm, into Caelen’s arms. He buried his head against his chest. “I dinnae like it.”
“But, ye like her, aye?”
Bram nodded, rubbing his face against his da’s tunic.
“Then why do ye not want her to come to Dunfaileas with us?”
Bram peered at Arbela over his shoulder, a wealth of sadness on his face. Arbela swallowed past a lump in her throat, her heart hurting.
“I dinnae want her to be my ma,” he hiccupped, “’cause my other ma died.”
Chapter 12
Bram had seen too much of death in his short life. Arbela’s heart went out to him, but she could not bring herself to promise she would not die. Life was too uncertain for promises that were not hers to keep.
“I plan to be around a long time, Bram-jan,” she whispered. “Ye will likely grow weary of lessons and manners long before I am ready to quit this earth. But ye are a brave boy and smart enough to know people are not meant to live forever. Let us be the best of friends whilst we have the chance.”
He lingered against Caelen’s chest, looking very young and fragile. With a shuddering sigh, he at last nodded and relaxed. “Can ye bring Ari as well?”
