The Laird's Right

by Mageela Troche

  “Good.” Portia pushed open the door and knelt on the floor.

  “My lady, you have no funds to wager,” Callum said while Patrick dipped his head in support.

  “True, what if I wager my bread? The bread placed on the high table against your funds.”

  Patrick nodded. “Sounds fine,” Callum said.

  Portia placed her bet that her number would come out. She lost. Patrick won. Another roll and she won. Time seemed to pass as her winning rose and fell. She cheered or hung her head, depending on the roll of the dice.

  “My lady, you canna win and I have your bread for two days,” Patrick boasted.

  “I may win it all back. Do not doubt me.”

  Taking another roll, she watched as one dice landed on six while the other teetered on the edge. She gaped, her inhale locked in her chest and her hands clutched in anticipation. Her hands fisted. It landed.

  She let out a blasphemy that would have stung an alewife’s ears. She lost.

  “Lady Portia de Mowbray.”

  She knew the voice laced with shock. So did Patrick and Callum. Both jumped to their feet and stood lance straight. Portia, meanwhile, snatched up her dice and slowly rose. She hid her hands among the pleats. She cleared her throat and fixed her face in to the most saintly visage she could.

  “Laird Cameron, you have come to visit? So kind.”

  He glanced down to where her hands hid. “I’m glad to see you well enough to step outside the chamber and partake of activities.”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “Good, in the morn we ride for MacLean lands. I wager you are well enough for the journey.”

  “You would win for I am.”

  He spun around and disappeared down the corridor. Portia swore she saw his shoulders shake.

  When he started down the steps, she stayed on the chamber’s threshold and spotted Hurley cornering his wife. He kissed her for a long moment. Portia smiled. When Hurley released her, he spotted her standing there and winked. Leah, meanwhile, walked in the opposite direction, humming.

  Maybe Alec would corner her.

  Chapter Six

  Riding up the rocky tract, the MacLean castle rose over the vista. A thick towering wall surrounded the round towers. Castle guards stood at the battlements, appearing as if their heads were stuck on spikes. Once they rode into the bailey, the sounds of castle life filled the space. Castle folk moved about, their conversations sounding joyful. Animals bleated and cried.

  Soldiers gathered around as two men sat upon the shoulders of two others, each trying to push the other off. Men cheered and laid bets. Portia wagered the one on the left would win, for no other reason than the man he sat upon had a better stance, offering more support.

  “I will not take that bet,” Alec said.

  Standing at the keep’s door was a dark haired man who, if Portia was right, wore a smirk. Halting, Portia was the last to dismount and was surrounded by Alec’s men.

  “Laird,” the man said sarcastically.

  “Lachlan.”

  “Who is the lovely lass?” Lachlan tilted his neck for a better look and smiled at her.

  “Mine.” Alec stepped in front of the flirting man.

  He laughed and winked at Portia. This was the man who the ladies chased. He appeared mysterious yet with enough charm and playfulness that ladies couldn’t help but be drawn in. Aye, he was handsome and Portia might have flirted. Yet, he was no Alec.

  From the keep, out flew a redheaded woman. Her hair spread out behind her and caught the light, revealing various hues of red from the lightest to the darkest fiery reds. Her beautiful face was alight with joy. She threw herself into Alec’s arms. Her feet dangled in the air and she was so happy that she fluttered them about.

  The handsome man bent down and without lowering his volume, he said, “My lady, you shouldn’t hug another man.”

  “Nonsense, Lachlan, he’s my brother.” She patted Alec on the chest.

  A relaxed air circled Alec. The tension seemed to slip from him. The most shocking was the gentle countenance gracing his face. He cared for his sister. Nay, he loved her.

  “And a Cameron.”

  “I was a Cameron too.”

  “MacLean fixed that.”

  She waved away his words then turned her green gaze on Portia. Cairine had said Ailsa was small but she hadn’t realized how petite she was. There was a stubbornness about her that gave her backbone. It might have been the fiery hair but one thing was sure, Ailsa was a happy, well-loved woman with a warm heart that Portia had seen in Alec. They shared similar features. Portia hoped she liked her. Her stomach dropped at the shocking idea.

  “Ailsa, step away from him.” A resigned voice came from behind Portia. She did as the man said. “I suppose you want to come inside.”

  “Unless I must fight you for entry.” Alec crossed his arms over his chest, daring the man to land a blow.

  “That would make me very happy but my wife wouldn’t be pleased,” he retorted.

  “Aye, I wouldn’t be and you don’t like me unhappy.”

  The dark man spun on his feet and led the way inside.

  Two tables lined the great hall since the noonday meal had ceased only moments ago. Wildflowers graced the tables, adding color to the mess of cups, flagons and trestles. At the end of one table, a castle dog stood on its hind legs and chomped down the leftovers, while another licked at the floor.

  The dais was cleared but for a pitcher of wildflowers. Portia, though, had eyes for the horns overhead that dominated the space.

  “I see you admiring the horns.” Portia had the feeling that Ailsa was being kind with her word.

  “Aye,” Portia said when she wished to ask why they graced a place of honor.

  “Tradition,” she answered with a twinge of dislike.

  Alec guided her to a seat beside him. Only Alec looked away from her. Portia sat on her hands to stop from squirming.

  “This is the Sassenach you kidnapped?” Ailsa propped her elbow on the table. She smiled at Portia.

  “How did you—”

  “Nothing occurs in the highlands without every clan knowing about it. You are very beautiful.”

  “Ailsa.”

  She patted Duncan’s hand and took a breath, ready to blurt out her next words.

  “Where’s Caelen?” Alec cut her off.

  She pursed her lips.

  “He’s been called back to his clan,” Duncan answered, a scowl on his face.

  “His father is near his death. We’ve been praying for him.”

  The men didn’t appear to be praying for him.

  “And his wife should be arriving soon.”

  “His wife,” Alec sputtered.

  “Aye, he has been married since boyhood.” Lachlan shook his head as if the state of marriage was a punishment, yet his dark eyes twinkled.

  “The women should leave us to our talk.”

  Ailsa paid no regard to her husband, even as he bore his gaze into her.

  “Nay,” Portia yelled. “Forgive me, but I will not allow men to decide on my future.”

  “I shall not leave,” Ailsa pronounced with a curt dip of her head.

  Alec rested his elbows on the table and began his explanation, not halting until he explained the attack on Portia. He watched Portia even as he struggled to keep emotion from his voice. Portia rested her hand on her wound then pulled it away and sat on it again. Lachlan slanted his head to the side as if he could see her wound.

  Duncan pinched the bridge of his nose. “It seems the MacKintosh isn’t the only one who wants to kill her.”

  “Not well liked?” Lachlan grinned, stirring up low laughter in Portia, only for it to die when the truth of her predicament hit her.

  “It seems not, though, my sister must not know about this. She would never harm me.” As a collective, each stared at her as if she were delusional, even Alec. Portia stopped, knowing the truth about Matilda and knowing the others wouldn’t understand the faith she held in
her sister.

  “Cameron, this is your test as the laird. They think you weak and are waiting for you to drown yourself.”

  “My brother isn’t.” Ailsa slapped the table.

  “Thank you, Ailsa. With Portia on Cameron lands, I know the danger has increased. I have a choice to make.”

  “You have one choice,” Ailsa said. “Kill Portia.”

  Portia waited for a laugh, chuckle, giggle, even a smirk that never came. Ailsa shrugged her shoulder in forgiveness.

  “Nay!” Portia swung her head from face to face. No one laughed. Laird MacLean nodded while his commander sent Portia a sorrowful look. Alec rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip, contemplating her murder.

  “The lairdess is correct. You can drown her.”

  “You could just let me live.”

  “Lachlan, that is a horrible death. Nay, it must be done swiftly.” Ailsa, along with everyone else, ignored her.

  “A strike of the claymore,” Lachlan said as he leaned forward.

  “I say no one kills me.” She sprung to her feet and knocked back the chair.

  Alec sat there, his head in his hand.

  Duncan shook his head. “She may linger. A dirk to the back of the neck.”

  “Possible.” Ailsa drummed her fingers against the table. “Poison?”

  “May be painful,” Lachlan added. He shivered at the disgust of it.

  “And dishonorable.” Ailsa stroked her chin, conjuring other ways to kill her.

  “I refuse to take poison.” She raised her voice to cut through the silliness.

  “Then she’d starve,” Duncan said.

  “Oh, lass, that’s a torturous and long death.” Lachlan twisted his mouth in a frown. “Push her from the battlements.” He lifted his hands as if he had the greatest idea and all the problems were solved.

  “Nay to that as well,” Ailsa said.

  Portia nudged Alec. “Speak. Tell them this is ridiculous.” The man sat there listening as they listed and discounted the various ways to kill her.

  “Beheading—that is swift and painless.”

  Portia clutched her neck. “How do you know? Your head is still attached. You don’t look that bloodthirsty,” Portia said to Ailsa.

  Duncan beamed with pride. “She’s a MacLean.”

  “That may work and she had a healed cut across her neck, just the perfect place to cut.” Lachlan pointed to her neck.

  Ailsa stretched for a better look then nodded. “You are correct.”

  “If you kill me, MacKintosh will attack.”

  “He will anyway.”

  “Do not forget the English. My father is an earl, a powerful man with an army of his own.”

  None seemed impressed by that threat.

  Alec hung his head. “I know what I must do.”

  “Good, Alec.” Ailsa clapped her hands together.

  “My love, leave the men to speak.” Duncan softened the brisk order with a squeeze of her hand.

  She rose. Portia stayed. Maybe this tiny woman planned to kill her. Ailsa sent her looks to come along with her.

  “Go. All will be well.”

  Go. All will be well. Alec wasn’t the one who was having his death plotted with the same ease as planning a menu. Portia hesitated on the arched threshold. She glanced about the sparse room. She stiffened, prepared for any attack. This woman seemed so friendly and kind yet she spoke of killing her. Now, she expected Portia to enter an enclosed space alone with her.

  Ailsa sent her a glance to hurry and enter. Portia veered to the opposite direction, only to halt before she stepped on the baby sleeping on the floor.

  “Why is the baby on the floor?” A handsome baby even in sleep. Berry lips parted. His thick black lashes rested against his creamy skin, the kind of perfect skin only babies possess. His cheeks were full and his body husky. His plump hands were large like his feet. He wasn’t a small child and no doubt would be a giant of a man like his father. A miniature, blunt sword rested alongside him.

  “To hearty him up.”

  “Hearty him up for what?” She gawked at Ailsa.

  “Connor is heir to the Clan MacLean. He must be strong.” She blinked.

  Ailsa believed it and saw nothing wrong with that. Probably have him training once he could walk.

  “My husband slept in his bed every night.”

  “English, correct?” At Portia’s nod, she said, “It takes twenty Englishmen to match a MacLean.”

  Hearing his mother’s voice, Connor opened his eyes. He rolled over to his back and stared up at Portia. He had his mother’s eyes, Alec’s eyes.

  Ailsa scooped up her son with a grunt. The boy filled her arms and hung on her hip.

  Connor stared at Portia. Most children hid in the crook of their parents’ neck when strangers were about, but this boy was bold. Portia wiggled a finger at him. He reached out to grab her finger. Portia came closer. Connor gripped her hand and put her finger in his mouth. Baby drool dripped down her to her knuckles. Connor, bored by that, let her finger go with a popping sound.

  “Someone is hungry.” Ailsa rubbed her nose in his hair. “Milk doesn’t come from her finger,” she said in a baby voice. She settled on a stool and put her babe to her breast. “Tell me of your husband.”

  The greedy sounds of suckling rang out during the short instant before Portia said, “He died.”

  “How?” Ailsa’s tone softened, either for her son or for Portia’s loss. Portia decided it had to be for Connor. She couldn’t have concern for her.

  “Treachery and deceit.”

  Ailsa stared at her for too long a time. Portia avoided her regard and soon began to squirm under the unrelenting regard. Just as she was ready to jump to her feet to flee her inspection, Ailsa spoke. “You loved him.”

  “Aye, I did…I do.” The words had always come easy for her to profess as they did this day.

  “Can you find some tenderness for Alec? It will make your marriage easier.”

  “Marriage?” Portia was sure she squeaked.

  “He plans to wed you. It’s the only way.” Ailsa must have seen the surprise on her face because she chuckled.

  Portia hooked her thumb, motioning to the great hall. “The talk about killing me…”

  “He had to accept the only option available to him. Tis marriage or death.”

  “I cannot wed Alec.” She shook her head so forcefully she became a little dizzy.

  “You shall. Be joyful about the occasion. He is a good man. Perhaps you can help him see that.”

  * * * *

  Alec couldn’t stop turning his thoughts back to Portia. Had she realized what was about to happen? Hell, Alec knew he was pledging his troth to her when he vowed to never claim a bride. A vow his father’s death freed him from but there were dangers to be faced from both outside and inside forces. Love was the one emotion he was incapable of giving a woman. And Portia loved her husband and would expect to have a marriage with the same.

  The hollow thud of the castle doors and the dogs barks announced Hurley and Ronan’s arrival.

  “What have you learned from Auld Andrew?”

  “One thing, a messenger rode out two days ago,” Ronan answered.

  “To where?” Alec braced his hands on the table.

  “No one knows, just south.”

  “Send riders out to find him,” Alec ordered in a firm voice while a chill frosted the center of his chest.

  “I’ll ride back now and send them on their way.” Hurley left to see about the order.

  “What’s your next move?”

  Alec ran his hand through his hair. “MacKintosh wants Portia dead. He never planned to marry her to Uilleam,” he said, referring to the Chattan’s chieftain. “He used me and I fell into his trap.”

  “A marriage won’t broker peace,” Duncan pointed out.

  “Peace is not an option. I will get the land.” Alec snatched up his cup and drank the wine.

  “MacKintosh shall come to the aid of the Chattan,
but you are in a better position to attack before he arrives.”

  “The Chattan are weakened already. Ullieam can’t call the numbers you have nor protect themselves.” Lachlan pushed the flagon away from Alec.

  “Clan Cameron cannot fail otherwise we will fall. But this visit isn’t about them. I require your aid with the English. The baron will come for her.”

  “English”—Lachlan rubbed his hands together—“That sounds great.”

  Ailsa raced in to the hall, cutting off Duncan’s reply. “Portia’s gone.”

  “Again.” Ronan shook his head.

  Lachlan snickered. Alec’s shoulders slumped. He pushed up from the chair followed by the others and hurried outside.

  “She won’t get far.”

  Alec led the way into the barn and saddled his mount. “She walked right out of the front,” the stable master said. “Something was on her mind, all right.”

  Minutes were wasted as they gathered their mounts. The crowd parted as they rode out of the castle. “She went that a way—we tried to stop her. Hope she doesn’t fall in the loch like the lairdess—don’t mention that again, the lairdess doesn’t like hearing that story.”

  Alec trotted away, not needing to hear more of the MacLean clansfolk.

  “She runs away often, huh?”

  Alec ignored the humor in Lachlan’s voice.

  “Kidnapped, stabbed, fever—I understand why death is better than marriage to you.”

  He spotted her standing on the shore. She gave no response to their hasty arrival. Her spine was bowed. With her back toward him, he couldn’t see if she wept but she wiped her hands across her face.

  There was no other option for both of them. He was the only one who could right this predicament and make sure her life wasn't cut short because of men’s greed.

  Alec dismounted and closed the distance on foot, leaving the men behind. He didn’t require a gathering for this.

  Alec stood beside her. He didn’t see the mountains reflecting on the loch’s smooth surface. He was aware of the dangers that laid ahead for them and the chance that all ended in death.

  “I wasn’t trying to escape,” she said as the quiet thickened and stirred up a need to explain. “I have no wish to marry again.”