by Jamie Carie
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possible cause injury to such a, well, that is…” She blinked several times while realizing that Fiona had disentangled herself from the other bit of canvas and was attempting a wavering curtsey, raking her own blond mass back from her forehead. “MacLeon, we meant no harm. Pray forgive us.” Fiona sank so low her nose nearly touched the fallen mass of what was left of the right side of his tent. “’Twas an accident, truly—we were about to be trampled by the pipers!”
His gaze swung forward toward the descending backs of the band of the musicians as their music faded toward the main grounds of the festival.
He straightened, squeezed Juliet’s arms a little to ascertain she was righted and let go, leaning his head a bit to one side as if to judge if she could manage to stand on her own two feet.
She wasn’t sure that she could.
He was so much larger close up—tall and smelling of a man that had been competing, leather and earth and sweat. Here was a man who was used to ruling and winning with his own bodily strength. A man like none she’d met in London’s stuffy ballrooms. A man that made her think of fields worked together, of children wrought beneath covers and born into a tight and loving family, of a strength, a love, that stood the test of time. Of someone who could know her, the real her, and perhaps not mind so very much all her many faults…
Oh, goodness, she had to get control of these wayward thoughts. Those things didn’t exist. Women just longed for them.
“Well, lass?” He reached out and rubbed his thumb against her jaw with gentle insistence, demanding that she hold his gaze.
“We were becoming hemmed in by the musicians and jumped aside. My apologies, sir. We meant no harm.”
His eyes lit up with curiosity at her words, her voice—which was always low and husky and “filled with a special warmth,” as one man had whispered to her, no matter how she tried to make it high and feminine.
One side of his mouth lifted a notch and his eyes lit with mischievous humor. “But you have done harm. Och, how am I to rest for the hammer throw?” He leaned in and Juliet could see Fiona’s eyes to the side of his shoulder grow wide with awe as he said in a low grumble, “What if you cause me to lose, lass?”
“I, uh.” Juliet looked up into those startling blue eyes and took a deep breath. “You can’t lose,” she said in all seriousness. And then lower, with more conviction, “You won’t lose.”
His serious face transformed movement by movement into a broad grin and then a deep chuckle. “And so I shan’t.” He bowed to each of them with a nod of his head and then asked, “You’ll be my guests, then, the two of you?”
Juliet shot a gaze at Fiona, not sure what he meant.
Fiona’s grin filled her whole face as she curtseyed again. Oh dear, she looked to be suppressing that gleeful dance that she did when particularly happy about something. “Do you mean to sit with the MacLeon clan and cheer you on?” Fiona queried with quirked brows. “And we will wave your flag?” she added before he had time to answer.
“Your father willnae mind? He’s of the Erskine Clan, is he not?”
Fiona shrugged. “We are not participating in the games this year.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “Then you have been searching for a clan to champion?”
“Not really, not since we saw y—” Fiona paused when she noticed Juliet’s big eyes and shaking head. “Er, yes, we’ve been watching the opponents.”
The chieftain shrugged. “Verra well. If you will champion the MacLeon Clan then all will be forgiven.”
The young women exchanged glances.
His gaze then passed over Juliet with a considering eye. “I will find you MacLeon colors to wear. I find I should like to see them on you.”
He turned then, and walked away toward the contest fields.
Fiona gasped as soon as he was out of earshot. “Juliet, did you hear that? He wants to see his colors on you!” Fiona grasped both of her upper arms. “It’s practically a declaration. Why, he may be going to my father right now to ask for permission to court you.”
Juliet took her cousin’s hands from her arms. “Or it could be that he is like many men and only full of disarming charm and wit.” She turned her cousin toward the wreckage of the tent. “We should try to fix this.”
Fiona looked around the area and then pointed to two men with MacLeon-colored kilts standing nearby, talking and stealing glances that them. “Aye, but we may need some help.”
Juliet laughed.
She couldn’t help it. If anyone could get the tent fixed without lifting a finger it would certainly be her cheerful blond cousin.
Chapter Three
Iain knelt at the edge of the glen where the greens of the grasses and moss tinged the mountains before and behind him. He closed his eyes and heard the wind’s whistle against the rush of a nearby waterfall.
My Lord. My God. Give me wisdom. Put Your words in my mouth.
He tilted his head back and let the sounds fall around him and through him. He breathed in the beauty and felt it enliven him. He opened his eyes.
The colors of the green had changed, always changing depending on the light and the shadow, the mood of the ever-moving clouds above. The highlands. Home of his heart, where the greatest of the Scottish clans had gathered for three days now—feasting and competing and testing the elite among them. It was thus every year, but this year had been different for him. This year he was clan chief and held an English title and lands as well, his father having died a few short months ago.
He’d been well prepared for taking over the clan, but much had changed since his father’s time. After the death of Queen Anne, Scotland had finally agreed to unite with England and signed the Act of Union, uniting them into what they now called Great Britain. Many of the clans were unhappy about it, but their chieftains were also English nobles—having been gifted lands and titles for service to the kings over the centuries. This lead to ever-increasing conflicts of interest, particularly when chieftains were not taking care of their Scottish clans, using the backs of their people for wealthy gain to support their lives as English nobles and members of Parliament in London.
The MacLeon Clan was yet strong, he'd made sure of it. But it was a delicate political line that he walked, trying to keep his people happy while still having to attend Parliament in London and side with the Whigs or the Tories. He didn’t particularly ascribe to the passions of either party, choosing to remain as neutral as possible and depending on prayer and the inner voice of God inside him as the occasion demanded.
The weight of it rested heavy at times. Even now there was a man at the games who was hounding him to support a Jacobean rising on behalf of Queen Anne’s half-brother, James VIII. There were those who wanted the House of Stuart back on the throne and resisted the Hanoverian George I, who was now crowned king. Iain cared more about improving his clan, bringing in more sheep and finding developments in weaving—a recent interest—than the politics in London.
He rested his head upon one knee and closed his eyes.
“Lord, God, my Father in heaven. Give me this day what is mine, what You have destined as mine and nothing else. Nothing more and nothing less. Let Your will be done here this day for myself and my clan and…”
He paused as a breath of excitement stirred in his heart and the vision of the flame-haired Lady Juliet Lindsay, the daughter of Lord Ashland Lindsay, the Earl of Worland, flashed before him. The deep brightness of her hair shone against the darkness of his closed eyes.
“And as to her, Lord, the clan would not be well pleased with an English wife, especially one so indebted as her father—’tis a reputedly desperate state of affairs—but there is something about her…”
He felt the wind ruffle through his longish hair like a breath from heaven. He lifted his face toward it and exhaled a small laugh, the skin around his eyes feeling tight and crinkling from the hours under the bright sun, knowing God was listening to his heart’s longings and confusions, all his prayers. �
��And lead me not into temptation.” He chuckled, not wanting to continue the Lord’s Prayer with the next line, which would call her evil. “Your will, not mine. Your will be done.”
As loved by his clan as he was, he had his enemies. And the right bride was just one way to stay ahead of their snarling throats and razor-sharp teeth. An obscure and impoverished English noblewoman would do him little good for those purposes.
Iain stood and took up a large stone like the one he had thrown in the last competition. He lifted it before his eyes and stared at it. He felt the weight in his hand, measured it against the strength in his arm and shoulder and torso. He took a long, even breath, pulled back and heaved it up toward the mountain as hard as he could. The competitions were over and tonight they would have a final feast before they all left for home—and he for Edinburgh, where he hoped to arrange the purchase of fifty sheep to add to his herds.
The sudden sounding of a horn signaled that the feasting was about to begin. Iain rubbed a hand across his prickly chin and turned toward his tents to freshen up before dinner.
Juliet walked behind Fiona, who was walking behind Aunt Becca, into the cleared area deep within the glen to the sounds of the pipers, drummers and flutes playing. They were wearing their best gowns—Juliet’s a deep emerald silk with the MacLeon colors on her chest in the form of a brooch. She and Fiona had fashioned them from a sash that the MacLeon had given them, something that her aunt had frowned over, worry in her eyes, but her uncle had only shrugged his shoulders and said she’d make a right fine Scottish bride. His words had given Juliet a rush of happiness, her cheeks turning pink, but her aunt’s obvious worry had tempered her excitement. Perhaps the MacLeon had a reputation as a rake and her aunt was just looking out for her.
She couldn’t help but be happy that her hair had turned out so well. Fiona had braided the long length and then wrapped it around her head like a crown. They’d woven purple heather throughout the thick braid, making a pretty contrast with her red hair.
They made their way down into the flat valley of the glen, where there were torches lighting the area against the coming night. Several wooden tables had been pushed together to form a large U, and each clan had its place marked out. The head of the table went to the victors—Clans MacLeon and Cameron, who had won eight and five out of the twenty contests. The other clans were placed on either side of the U, mostly depending on size. Juliet was surprised to find out that their small clan was seated near the head table, right next to Clan MacLeon.
“He’s arranged it,” Fiona whispered to Juliet with a nod toward Iain. “I’ll bet my locket ’e has.”
Fiona was always betting her prized gold locket on something or another. Juliet glanced up and saw a tall man, aye, it was the MacLeon, approaching the table wearing his MacLeon kilt and formal dress—a black waistcoat with silver buttons, white shirt with cravat and, hanging in the front of the kilt, a fur sporran with horsehair tassels. He looked magnificent, breathtaking. Their gazes locked. He gave her a nod, admiration in his eyes as his gaze took in her hair and dress. She dipped into a small curtsey, hardly believing he was paying her such heed. Goodness, she was seated only four away from him. How was she to enjoy the feast with him watching her so close and her stomach so knotted up?
The music came to an end while everyone took their seats. Servants scurried to and fro, filling tankards and passing heaping wooden bowls and platters. There was roasted chicken and lamb, haddock and crab claws, cheeses, peas, turnips and carrots, barley bread with butter or raspberry jam and bread pudding and cakes. Fiona, beside her, ate with gusto, as did the rest of the family, but Juliet could hardly enjoy the fine food. She could feel it when his gaze rested on her, like a warm shaft of sunlight in the crisp evening air. She occasionally dared to return the glance, her heart speeding up each time their gazes locked.
“A toast to the victors!” someone to her left shouted, and stood. Everyone cheered and then quieted as he raised his glass. “To Iain of the MacLeon! The victor of the games!”
More cheers went up, with many of the men beating on the tables. Iain was pulled upright from his seat, with men clapping him on the back and shoulders. He seemed uncomfortable with the attention, and yet was laughing and jovial. He made a fist and raised it in victory, the shouts of the crowd egging him on.
Juliet laughed and clapped as well, a strange happiness filling her. Why did she want those strong arms around her so badly? Glancing around and seeing the admiring glances of several of the women made her realize she wasn’t the only one. He would pick a wife from one of these, a Scots woman who would be accepted, not an English stranger who represented what so many of them hated. Juliet looked down at her plate and quelled her excitement. Perhaps she could force down the rest of that piece of cake—it was rather good.
She felt a touch on her arm and then heard a deep voice say into her ear, “Will ye have me for the first dance, lass?”
She looked up to see Iain’s face, freshly shaven and grinning down at her. “Aye,” she heard herself reply. “If you’ve no fear for your feet. I fear I don’t know the Scottish versions of dance.”
“’Tis not so different.” He leaned closer and took her hand. “I shall show you how.”
He had no sooner said that—and Juliet rose beside him—than the tables were being cleared away and pushed back and the musicians gathered on one side with their fiddles, bagpipes, a harp and drums.
With much laughter and teasing, the couples aligned themselves in two rows and awaited the music to begin. It was a jaunty tune that brought a smile to everyone’s face. Iain lifted one brow and gave her a nod of encouragement as their set came together, grasped right hands and then passed each other to make up the line on the other side. Juliet had danced a reel before and it was similar, with some different footwork and more pointing of the toes. As she reached for Iain’s hand halfway through the dance, she felt she was progressing rather well. Especially considering how sweaty her palms were when he held her hand in his.
The music ended and she resisted the urge to collapse against his wide chest. Before she could say anything, he took her hand and led her to the far side of the dancers. She glanced around nervously, seeing that there were still people milling about and they weren’t really alone.
“I shan’t take you off into the woods and ravish you, milady,” he teased her, leaning back and looking into her eyes.
“Oh”—she felt her face warm—“of course not. I’m just—”
“Protecting your virtue. A noble cause.” His voice was velvety smooth and deep. Her face warmed further with the thought of how she had been caught kissing Lord Ardsley in the gardens of a house party in London. She must never put herself in such a position again. The need to tell him the truth, before he expressed any more interest in her, rose quick and strong in her mind. “I’ve not always guarded it so well.”
His brow turned puzzled and his eyes darkened. “No?”
She shook her head and turned away from the piercing stare. “I’ve a need to be honest with you. I was recently at a ball in London and was convinced to walk through the private gardens by a young man. He, uh…”
“What did he do?” Iain’s voice was tense and threaded with anger.
Juliet swung back around to face him. He looked ready to run the man through with a sword. “A kiss is all,” Juliet quickly inserted. “But I didn’t stop him. We were caught.”
“Did he offer for you?” His face remained fierce.
“Yes, he did. But my father rejected his suit. He, uh, wasn’t as well situated as my father hopes—hoped—to secure for my hand.” She looked down, shame filling her. Her father had thundered his disapproval—not of the kiss itself, but of the man she had allowed to kiss her. Had she chosen to get caught with a wealthy earl or duke, well, that would have been another matter altogether. And her mother had nearly disowned her. In truth, she’d had marks on her face for weeks from her mother’s slaps. She didn’t know how far her mother would have g
one had her brother not jumped in to stop her. Juliet shuddered with the memory.
Iain’s hands took hold of her upper arms and pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her. “They punished you, then? Sent you here?”
“Yes.” She breathed deep of the woolen tartan across his chest, but dared not move for fear he would take away his comfort.
Surprise filled her when he chuckled, a low rumble against the top of her head. She pulled back. “Is my plight so funny?”
He chuckled again, one side of his mouth up in that boyish look that made him seem younger. “Nay, lass. ’Tis the irony of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve sent you into far more danger here.” His eyes turned dark with teasing promise.
Juliet raised her brows in question. “Have you changed your mind about ravishing me, then?”
“Perhaps I have.”
His words sent a thrill through her body, starting at her chest and then pooling down. She suspected her knees might give way if he kept looking at her like that. What would it be like to kiss him? Nothing like the weak peckings from Lord Ardsley, she was sure. All the trouble it had caused and she hadn’t even liked it. But with Iain…
He seemed to be considering the same thing as his gaze traveled to her lips. “What sort of kiss did he give ye?” He moved closer, his gaze roving her face, his breath intermingling with hers.
“It was…rather disappointing, I’m afraid.” Juliet could hear the huskiness in her voice deepen.
“Was it now?”
She nodded, thrilled and terrified at the same time. What if she was caught again? There were people dancing not far away. They could probably be easily seen, but Iain didn’t seem to care. His arm went around her waist and brought her flush with his body. His head lowered, lips parting the least little bit.
They had just touched to hers when a sudden shout and then the sounds of horses galloping interrupted the moment. His gaze jerked to the other side of the dark glen while his body moved to stand in front of her to protect her. He lifted out a long, wicked-looking knife from his belt. Juliet shrank back as two horses came into view. They galloped to a stop in the middle of the glen, where the dancers had stopped and separated.
