by Mary Wine
But her brother’s true worth was in his thinking. Keir had a keen mind when it came to investing. Their father had married three times in his effort to amass more wealth, but it was Keir’s careful handling of the family’s gold that saw the McQuade’s fortunes increasing now. Her brother had seen the value in buying the loom she worked. They had wool aplenty from the sheep that grazed on their land. Four more of the large looms sat in the long room built alongside the great hall. Other McQuade women sat working them now, each one of them having earned the right to use the modern machines by spending years working the smaller looms that produced rougher fabric.
Being the laird’s daughter did not mean she squandered the daylight hours away. Now that winter was creeping over the land, Bronwyn would work the loom almost every day. When she was not passing the shuttle back and forth between the threads, another woman would be. Not a single machine was allowed to be idle during daylight. In a single year, the looms had paid for themselves and Keir intended to see a profit by next spring.
That was her brother’s way of proving his worth to their sire. She was not so confident that her father would see the part she played in turning coin for the family. Her feet and hands moved as her mind turned ideas over and over. She should have learned in twenty-three years to stop lamenting her sire’s lack of affection for her. From her earliest memories he had told her often and bluntly that he had no use for a girl child. It was the harsh truth that many men agreed with him. Her mother was the one to pity. Her father’s third wife, she had suffered every day until her death for birthing an unwanted daughter.
But Bronwyn remembered her kindly. For the first seven years of her life there had been loving arms that held her. Soft kisses placed on her head and a mother that had delighted in sharing time with her daughter. Who knew? Perhaps it was the difference between men and women. The kitchens were forever full of new tales of lovers forsaking their lady loves once their bellies were full. Maybe men did not love. At least, it seemed they did not love women, anyway. Her father loved his land and money; that was a fact for certain. But Laird McQuade had never loved a woman as far as she knew.
Still, there was advantage to her struggle to please him. Her cloth was so fine no one could deny that her hands were skilled. Her entire life had been devoted to bettering herself, and the lack of interest from the men around her was more a blessing than burden. Her older siblings might label her ill-tempered but they could not call her slut. Some might say she was foolish to value her chastity when her sire planned to keep her unwed, but she still cradled the knowledge that she was pure close to her heart. Besides, her sire might change his mind and she had her own pride, too. Enough of it to make sure there was a soiled sheet to fly the morning after her vows, anyway. If that was a sin, so be it.
No one had a perfect life. Her heart rate increased as she considered her brother’s words. Aye, she would take the opportunity to escape the castle before her father returned to flay her with his sharp words. Bronwyn stood and quit the weaving room. Hurrying up the stone stairs that led to the second story, she ducked into the small chamber that was hers. It was simple and modest, but private. Grabbing a good wool surcoat, she pulled a pair of gloves from a chest and turned back around. She cast a look both ways in the hallway before descending to the lower floor. The servants answered to her father and wouldn’t protect her. The staff knew well who paid their wages.
The smell of supper filled the lower floor. Walking along the smooth stone, Bronwyn ducked into the kitchen. Set away from the main buildings of the castle, the kitchens were filled with the aromas of stewing meats and baking bread. Women worked on the long tables, kneading and shaping pastry. Some held long knives that they set to dicing vegetables brought up from the root cellars. Well into November, the vegetables, summer ones that had dried out in the root cellar over the months they had been stored, would need to simmer over the coals for hours to make them soft and palatable. The cook would stew them until it was time to sleep and then leave them in the huge iron kettles hanging in the fireplaces. These would form the base of tomorrow’s meals.
She was not mistress of this house and her father had made it plain that she never would be. Most of the maids did not give her a second glance. They were not unkind, simply uninterested in being associated with her. Bronwyn could not blame them. Any new wife her father might bring home would detest her on sight simply because she represented a potential loss of income should she marry.
“Bronwyn…”
The voice was low. Turning, she found young Terri holding out a bundle. A kitchen cloth was tied around several lumps. The maid pressed it toward Bronwyn as her eyes cut quick glances about to see who was watching.
“Thank ye.”
Tucking the bundle inside the loose surcoat, Bronwyn hurried away before Terri’s kindness was noticed. The girl was sweet and one of her few friends. Bronwyn went to great lengths to make sure their liking for each other wasn’t known by many. But Terri knew her and understood what wearing a surcoat in the middle of the day meant. The bundle clasped under her arm would have some sort of meal for her. Terri knew the kitchen and how to skim off scraps without being caught by anyone who would scold her.
Getting to the stables wasn’t hard. Her dress was the same as any other. Good wool, grown, carded, spun and even woven at Red Stone Castle. There was no finery for her. The only silk gowns were locked away in the chests of her father’s deceased wives. She did not have a mare of her own but the stable lads would not deny her a mount. No one was unkind to her. They simply did what they could within the rules the master of the estate set down.
Horses took feed and shelter. It took labor to tend to them properly. To have one simply for her own personal use was something that would turn her sire’s face purple with rage if she ever asked him.
But she had never been one for wasting time.
Pulling a saddle from a rail, Bronwyn set it on top of a mare herself. Old Gilly, the stable master, noticed her but did not offer help. A smile graced her lips as she tugged the straps into position, checking to make sure they were not too tight across the belly of the horse. When she glanced toward Gilly, she received a single nod of approval from his silver-haired head.
The praise warmed her heart.
Old Gilly had taught her to ride. As well as every other aspect that went along with horses and their keeping. The man didn’t seem to mind that she was a girl. Gilly was far more interested in whether or not she learned how to saddle a horse with a careful hand. Gaining approval from Gilly meant a great deal to her.
But that only fueled her quest to ride. She yearned for freedom, if only for one afternoon. The hills would offer her a feast of things to admire and savor. Fresh air filled with the scent of clover and cut hay. The clouds would offer her the renewing smell of water as they darkened with the promise of snow. She walked her mare out of the stall and swung up into the saddle with a happy smile on her lips. Once her father returned, she dare not take even a moment for herself lest she gain his notice.
But winter was closing its grasp on them now. Small white flurries danced in the air. They melted when they hit the ground but the swirling white flakes made for a magical scene as she rode out of Red Stone. Among the hills she was no longer the unwanted girl child. Here there was hope, the hope that life might hand her any number of things if she was simply willing to dare to dream.
Maybe the whispers of fairies weren’t untrue at all. Bronwyn leaned close to the neck of her mare, urging the animal faster. The horse eagerly increased her pace as if she, too, understood that out here they both surrendered to no one.
Even if it was an illusion, Bronwyn enjoyed it all the same.
Sterling Castle, McJames land
“Cullen McJames, stop tossing my baby.”
Anne glared at him as he softly patted the back of his new nephew. His brother’s bride narrowed her eyes at him.
“Och now, why do ye look at me like that?”
“Because you ha
ve earned my suspicions. That is a baby, not a toy.”
Cullen placed a kiss on top of Brendan McJames’s head. The baby curled his small hand in his hair and yanked a handful of it toward his mouth. Cullen turned his head as the baby began gnawing on a hank of his shoulder-length hair.
“That’s it, lad. Show yer uncle how strong ye are.” Brodick McJames, earl of Alcaon, offered his brother a sheepish grin. But Cullen couldn’t really work up any true temper. His brother was just too much in love and it made for an envious sight. That was the truth.
His English wife drew looks of longing from his brother that should have made him laugh but instead he found jealousy rising at the way the two longed for one another. Brodick lifted his son away, pride shimmering in his eyes. The baby squirmed, making smacking sounds with his lips. Anne sighed.
“He eats constantly.” Her words lost a great deal of power when Cullen watched the way she cradled her son. Happiness illuminated her features as she turned to climb the stairs to her chamber. Anne would not let a wet nurse tend to her son. She’d turned her back on the English tradition, choosing to suckle her child. That made Cullen even more envious.
It shouldn’t and still he couldn’t dismiss the idea of it from his mind. A year ago, he’d have laughed good and hard at the idea of marriage and family. Now he watched his sister-in-law like a hungry man, enjoying the scent of a good meal.
Brodick straddled the bench next to him. With Anne gone, his brother’s expression sobered. Cullen knew the look well. Inheriting the title of earl from their father had introduced both men to the weight of responsibility. The English queen was rumored to be on her death bed and Scotland was set to inherit the crown. The times were riddled with ambitious men all fighting to take as much English land as possible.
“I’ve news from the king.” Brodick reached for a mug. “He’s released McQuade and his sons from court.”
Cullen scowled. Their neighbor would soon be raiding McJames land once more.
“That greedy bastard will be nibbling on our winter stocks the moment he returns.”
“Aye, that’s what I was thinking.” Brodick held his tongue for a long moment.
Cullen stared at his brother. “What?”
Brodick merely raised an eyebrow.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Brodick shrugged. “Nothing.”
Cullen snorted. “Well, it sure looks like something.”
Brodick aimed a hard look at him. “Ye seem to be watching my family a lot. It looks like ye enjoy the sight of it, too.”
“Is there something wrong with that? Would ye rather I brought a mistress home with me?”
Brodick shook his head. “I was thinking that there was something right about it.”
“Get to yer point, brother, before I have to knock it out of ye.”
“I was thinking that it is time to petition the king for a possible marriage between ye and Bronwyn McQuade.”
Cullen stared at his brother. The teasing tone of their conversation died instantly. His brother might hold the title but the family was strong because they worked together to ensure that the McJames clan remained powerful.
Brodick ran a hand over his chin. “It’s a sure thing that McQuade will no deal with either of us on the matter.”
“Which leaves Jamie.”
Their monarch might decide to grant them the match. If for no other reason than to rid himself of the headache McQuade caused with his endless ranting. Cullen’s mother had been betrothed to the man but he’d lost her contract in a game of dice. McQuade still held a grudge against every McJames. His men raided and burned their farms every season. It was also a sure bet that some of his neighbors were thinking the same thing. Everyone knew McQuade had a single daughter and that she was of a good age for marriage. It wouldn’t be the first time a laird’s son took a wife based on the peace it might ensure over his lands.
“It would be a good match, I agree. I’ll think upon it.”
His brother nodded, not pressing the issue. Cullen rose and strode through the hall. His brother’s faith in him weighed more on his shoulders than any well-rehearsed words might have. Brodick held his tongue because he trusted that Cullen would do right by the McJames people. As the son of the last laird it was his duty to place the welfare of the clan above his own wishes.
Even if that meant marrying a shrew.
Cullen didn’t stop at the double doors that led to the inner yard. He kept walking, his legs covering the yard in a quick pace.
A loving family sounded good but not binding himself to a demon hellcat that would likely carve his eyes out if he fell asleep in her bed. Bronwyn McQuade was her father’s daughter, born and reared to hate every drop of McJames blood flowing through his veins. Marrying for the good of the clan was one thing, but taking Bronwyn to his bed promised a life of misery. Even his brother had better hopes for his marriage and his bride had been English.
“I’ll fetch yer Argyll.” One of the younger lads that tended the horses was already running for his horse before Cullen realized he’d gained the stables.
With a grunt he shook his head. He was in a fine state, that was for sure. So deep in thought that he didn’t know where his feet were taking him. The lad returned with Argyll, quite possibly the finest horse in Scotland. Reaching for his head, Cullen offered the beast a firm rub between the eyes. The animal snorted, stamping at the ground.
“Aye, I agree with ye.”
Argyll liked to run and at the moment Cullen wanted to feel the slap of the Scottish wind against his face as well. Tugging on the saddle, he made sure it was solid before swinging up into it. Argyll shifted, snorting with his excitement. Cullen held the reins in a tight grasp, keeping the stallion still.
“Milord.” The stable lad ran forward with a leather bag.
“Aye, lad, that’s what I’m waiting for.”
Cullen held Argyll steady as the lad tied the bag onto the rear of the saddle. It was the simplest of provisions. Oats, wine, and maybe some bread left from the midday meal. Leaving Sterling without it was a choice designed to see his belly rumbling by sundown. The boy finished his task and backed away from Argyll. Cullen flashed him a grin. He was a young lad but he had courage. McJames courage. Argyll was a powerful animal, one with the strength to kill the lad but he wasna afraid of the stallion.
Shrugging, Cullen felt the weight of his sword. It was strapped to his back, highland style. With a flick of the reins, he gave Argyll his freedom. The animal headed for the main gate, his hooves picking up speed as they neared the opening in the main wall that surrounded Sterling Castle.
Argyll charged forward, leaving the walls behind. The wind was brisk, hinting at winter. But the hills were still green and giving the stallion his head allowed Cullen to release his mental burden for a time. He pulled Argyll to a stop some time later. Looking down over the next valley, Cullen frowned.
He’d been here before. Summoned in the dark of night to defend the farmers below. There were three newly thatched roofs in sight, the reeds a brighter yellow than that of the others. It was a blunt reminder of the McQuade’s lust for revenge. The man was nae content with plunder, his retainers always set the flame to the farms they attacked. The feud was near thirty-five years old now.
It seemed too simple to think that one wedding might wipe all that bitterness aside.
Kneeing Argyll forward, Cullen left the valley behind without a care for the sinking sun. He pressed onward and up the next ridge. Pulling up on the reins, he listened carefully. Only the wind whistled but he had to be sure. McQuade retainers would delight in hauling him back to their laird as a prize. Dismounting, he climbed the last few measures of the hill on foot. Staying low, he gazed down onto his enemy’s land.
Wedding Bronwyn would only end the feud when her father was dead. Peering down into the valley below, he noted there was nothing but tall grass and heather swaying in the breeze. No one dared farm the land here because it was so often in the path of
raids. A river ran through it and twisted among the rocks. It was good land and a testament to just how much the bitterness between the two neighbors cost. McQuade was so busy waging war, he was passing up the opportunity to have his land worked.
No marriage would dissolve that sort of hatred.
Not that the man would ever willingly give his only daughter over to a McJames. A sheepish grin worked over his lips. It was a pure shame that the lass didn’t attend court. Wooing her might be fun. Asking the king for her dinna interest him but seducing her sounded like fun.
Of course, Jamie didn’t allow hellcats in his court. That likely accounted for the fact that Bronwyn McQuade had never stepped foot in the presence of her king.
His thoughts faded as a rider entered the valley below him. Argyll snorted, shifting as the large horse lifted his nose to smell the air. Patting the thick neck of the animal, Cullen grinned. Gripping the saddle, Cullen swung back on top of Argyll. Getting caught on his feet was certainly no a good idea.
“What do ye smell, my friend? A pretty mare?”
Argyll stamped at the ground, taking a few steps before Cullen pulled him to a halt. He couldn’t blame Argyll. No a bit. On top of that mare was a female that his own body approved of. Now, he’d always appreciated a pretty lass but this one was something more. He wasn’t sure just what drew his attention so keenly. It wasna her face. She wasn’t plain but neither was she a great beauty. He’d bedded a few lasses that were true beauties.
It was the way she rode the mare. Like she was as free as the flakes of snow floating in the air. His grip slacked and Argyll took advantage, moving down the slope toward the mare. The rider hadn’t seen them yet. She was too absorbed in her moment of escape. Aye that was it, what drew his attention. She looked like she had no a care in the world and knew what a blessing it was to have nothing weighing down her shoulders.
His own burdens felt lighter just watching her.
A thick braid of hair bounced against her shoulders but her face was framed by strands that had been tugged free by her brisk ride.
