“Is it nay the custom here to knock before entering a mon’s chamber?” he growled at the wee lass who couldn’t be more than ten years old. Certainly too young to see a grown man naked.
Blushing profusely, the bairn dropped the bundle she’d been carrying. “Forgive me, sir,” she croaked, “Master Ethan didna tell me ye were here. Just to bring these clothes.”
Marshall’s opinion of Ethan MacCray went down another notch. He’d deliberately put this young lass in an embarrassing predicament out of spite. “I thank ye,” he said. “What’s yer name?”
“Katie,” she replied, eyes widening. “Are ye the mon who rescued my mistress?”
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable clad only in a small towel scarcely big enough to span his waist, Marshall wished she would simply leave. “Aye.”
Katie dithered by the door, her chin quivering. “I thank ye from the bottom of my heart, sir. I love Lady Teagan. She’s been like a mother to me since…”
Choked by emotion, the maid left abruptly.
Marshall picked up the clothing she’d dropped, again feeling the sting of Ethan’s resentment. The trews and shirt were much too small for a man his size. However, his thoughts centered on the maid’s words. Whatever tragedy had befallen the lass, Teagan had treated her kindly. The MacCray daughter was looking less and less like a spoiled brat.
Resigned to wearing his own clothes, he cringed when the damp shirt clung to his skin. Groaning when someone tapped at the door, he grabbed the towel again.
“’Tis Katie, sir. I brought different togs that might fit ye better.”
“Come in,” he shouted, chuckling when she avoided looking at him as she knelt to place more clothing on the planked floor.
“I told Lady Teagan I’d given ye Master Ethan’s things. She thought they’d be too small for ye, so she sent me to get trews and whatnot from our laird’s armoire, being that ye’re about the same size.”
She bobbed a quick curtsey and left before he could thank her, ridiculously pleased by the notion Teagan and her maid had been discussing his size. An amusing thought struck him. “I’ll warrant Laird Beathan MacCray will be thrilled when I turn up to our discussions in his belongings!”
As he shrugged out of the damp shirt, he wondered if choosing Beathan’s armoire was a sister’s subtle way of getting under her brother’s skin.
He was beginning to find Teagan MacCray more intriguing by the minute.
The crisp linen shirt—dyed with costly saffron he’d guess—fit well, but he couldn’t bring himself to don the MacCray tartan trews. His own were sufficiently dry, and he didn’t anticipate a long session with Beathan.
He draped his plaid across his body and secured it with the Robson Clan badge. The borrowed stockings made it a wee bit easier to jam his feet into his boots.
Reasonably satisfied with his reflection in the mirror, he left the chamber in search of Beathan’s study.
*
Katie smiled knowingly when Teagan insisted on dressing in her finest satin gown.
“What? I just want to look my best,” she exclaimed.
Katie snorted as she tightened the laces in the front. “I canna imagine why. Yer brothers willna notice what ye’re wearing.”
“Ye’re too cheeky for a maid,” Teagan scolded with a smile. “’Tisna my brothers I want to impress.”
“Aye, he’s a handsome laddie, yon Robson,” her maid gushed.
Perhaps Katie wasn’t as naive as Teagan believed. “I think he likes me,” she confessed, thrilled to share the confidence with another female. “He’s watched me riding along the cliffs with Bo.”
“Then I’d say he’s come to woo ye. Why else would a Robson risk sailing into Wick?”
The exhilarating prospect of being wooed had never occurred to Teagan. She’d assumed her brother would choose her mate and that would be that. Being pursued by Marshall Robson, flirting with him before finally surrendering to his charms was much more appealing.
“He is charming,” she conceded, cautious not to reveal too much of her feelings to a bairn she barely knew. “Now, I must go,” she declared, looping her fingers in Bo’s collar. “He’ll need our help to find Beathan’s study.”
“Aye,” Katie chuckled. “Go on then.”
*
Marshall hesitated in the hallway outside his chamber. Preoccupied with rolling Teagan’s name around in his head, he hadn’t paid attention to the various corridors. Highland hospitality demanded guests be shown every courtesy, but he didn’t expect Ethan or Lachlan would show up to escort him. He’d definitely made enemies of those two.
His spirits lifted when Teagan appeared, hurrying towards him from further down the corridor, the faithful dog at her side. He suspected the shimmering beige gown she wore was normally reserved for special occasions—a little too much décolletage for everyday wear. She blushed, slowing her pace when she saw him.
She doesna want to seem anxious to see me again.
Or was his male ego reading too much into her blush? In any case, he was here to secure a bride for his brother and thus improve the fortunes of his clan. He resolved to keep his attraction to her under tighter control.
“Marshall,” she said breathlessly, probably unaware of the effect her heaving breasts were having on his resolve. “I came to guide ye to Beathan’s study.”
He squared his shoulders, resisting the natural impulse to offer an arm. “Thank ye, Mistress MacCray. I’m much obliged.”
“Please, call me Teagan. Ye did save my life, after all.”
“I dinna think yer laird will be happy if I use yer given name.”
The dog sat on his haunches, looking from one to the other as if watching a tennis match.
Marshall regretted his cool demeanor when Teagan’s smile fled, but had to be strong. “Lead on.”
She averted her gaze, clearly confused. If it was within his power, he would have kissed away the welling tears and begged her forgiveness for what he was about to do.
Parley
Marshall’s cool demeanor was hurtful, but Teagan had spent her whole life dealing with seven volatile brothers. He was probably preoccupied with the upcoming discussion in Beathan’s study, though he could at least have offered his arm.
“This way,” she trilled, trying to think of a way to insinuate herself into the negotiations.
Normally a good conversationalist, she feared she might babble some incoherent nonsense if she opened her mouth. Marshall’s mere presence beside her as they walked addled her brain. For some reason, the treacherous Bo kept nudging his hand.
She noticed their guest was wearing his own trews. “Were Beathan’s clothes too small for ye?” she asked, instantly regretting the very personal question. An educated lady didn’t ask men she hardly knew about their clothing, or comment on their size.
“Nay. ’Tis yer brother’s shirt,” he replied, “and I thank ye for yer consideration, but ye must see why I canna wear the MacCray tartan on this occasion.”
How could she have been so dense? Naturally, it was important he display his own tartan when negotiating with a rival clan. “’Twas thoughtless of me,” she conceded, exasperated when heat rose in her face. She feared the blush was spreading across her breasts, an embarrassment impossible to hide in the low-cut satin dress.
Marshall Robson must think her a brainless twit, though his eyes darted everywhere except down the front of her gown.
Beathan would be furious if he jumped to the correct conclusion she was trying to impress an enemy.
“I’ll leave ye here,” she muttered when they reached the study. “Just tap…”
She nigh on swooned when Beathan yanked open the door and raked his gaze over her.
Bo slunk away.
The thunder darkening her brother’s countenance convinced her to abandon the notion of wheedling her way inside. “I’ll leave ye gentlemen to it,” she murmured as Marshall was ushered into the lion’s den and the door slammed behind him.
*<
br />
“I trust ye’re nay flirting with my sister, Robson,” Beathan hissed, eyeing the borrowed shirt.
Marshall could understand why the MacCray laird might think that, having seen Teagan’s blush and the tempting gown. Or, perhaps this young laird was more perceptive than he seemed and had sensed Marshall’s attraction. “Nay, she’s a bonny lass, but I’m nay inter…”
He took a deep breath. Lying wasn’t how he planned to open the discussion and Beathan couldn’t fail to notice the heat in his face. To his surprise, his host picked up two tumblers of whisky sitting on an enormous desk, and offered him one. It was a good omen. Talks that began with a whisky toast usually ended well.
Beathan raised his tumbler. “Slàinte,” he declared.
“Is tàinte,” Marshall replied before draining his tumbler. The golden liquid went down smoothly and had just the right amount of kick. “Wicked,” he offered as the required compliment for a clan’s own whisky blend.
“Aye,” Beathan replied, licking his lips. “Is that what ye’ve come to discuss? Health and wealth?”
The laird’s narrowed eyes were a reminder it would be foolish for Marshall to underestimate his adversary. “In a manner of speaking,” he replied. “As chieftain of Clan Robson, my brother Elgin thinks ’tis time for two clans who are neighbors to work for the common good.”
Legs braced, Beathan folded his arms. “From what I understand, yer brother has been laird for nigh on two years and he’s just now coming up with this plan?”
Obviously, the MacCrays knew a lot more about Clan Robson than Marshall had assumed. Feeling at a disadvantage in clothes that were still damp, he was relieved when Beathan ushered him to one of the high-back upholstered chairs in front of a cold hearth. “He and I have discussed it often enough in that time. Ye must be aware we are obliged to dock our birlinns at Cèis.”
“Ye want access to Wick.”
Straight to it, then. “Does it nay make sense? United, our clans could become a force to be reckoned with in trade with Europe and Scandinavia.”
Beathan chuckled. “We already are.”
Marshall relied on a hunch. “But I’ll warrant ye ne’er have enough birlinns, nor enough capable mariners.” His adversary didn’t need to know Clan Robson now had more than enough sailors after the recent disaster.
The MacCray raised an eyebrow, a sign Marshall’s instincts were correct. “And ye do?”
It was tempting to exaggerate, but the man across from him would know if he strayed from the truth. Again, he assumed Beathan knew naught of the loss of the third birlinn. “Right now, given our lack of a proper dock, we’ve just the two birlinns—bigger than the ones I saw at Wick, and capable of sailing to Scandinavia and back.”
“And ye’ve men who can navigate that journey?”
Marshall sensed he had more to offer the MacCrays than he’d first believed. Perhaps their laird’s boast about trading with Scandinavia was an empty one. “Blindfolded,” he declared.
For the first time, Beathan cracked a smile which turned into a deep, rolling laugh. “And what does Clan Robson want in return?”
Marshall hesitated. Somehow, the conversation had turned around completely. Perhaps the whisky had dulled Beathan’s wits. “Other than access to Wick, ye mean?”
“Aye.”
Here was the point of no return. He could simply agree Wick was the only concession Clan Robson wanted, but that wouldn’t solve the problem of Elgin and the requirement to provide heirs.
Beathan might sober up and realize the MacCrays had, in fact, received very little in return. “My brother isna married,” he said, surprised the words didn’t stick in his craw. “We propose an end to the feud and the formation of an alliance strengthened by the marriage of yer sister to my brother.”
Beathan steepled his fingers and stared at the empty hearth for long minutes before getting to his feet, a sure sign the interview was over. Hopes dashed, Marshall stood. “I’d assumed we could come to some agreement.”
“Perhaps we will. I’ll take the idea of opening up Wick to the elders, on the understanding ye commit yer birlinns and crews to a joint venture.”
Spirits rekindled, Marshall offered his hand.
Beathan accepted the gesture. “However, on the matter of my sister, ’tis out of the question. Teagan is promised to a mon from her own clan.”
*
After changing into a more modest muslin gown, Teagan arrived in the dining hall, disappointed not to see any sign of Marshall. She’d hoped Beathan would invite him for luncheon, but he and her brothers were already tucking into their food.
“Did ye nay invite our guest to eat?” she asked as she took her seat.
“Seems to me,” Ethan interjected, “our wee sister is much too interested in a cursed Robson nearly who capsized our birlinn.”
“Aye,” Lachlan agreed. “If it were up to me…”
“Weel, it isna,” Beathan growled, silencing the twins.
“I heard what happened,” Seth told her. “I’m sorry ye had such a terrible scare.”
“Thank ye,” she replied, confident he didn’t possess the guile to be sarcastic or mean-spirited.
“Aye,” Finlay agreed. “If aught happened to ye, I’d be the youngest. We canna have that.”
She pasted a grin on her face, tempted to make some hurtful remark about his feeble attempts to grow a beard. “Ha, ha.”
When the soup was served, she dipped her spoon, hoping Beathan would answer her question but, instead, he turned to Archie. “Call a meeting of the council in an hour. The Robsons have made a proposal we must vote on.”
“And what’s that?” Cooper asked. “I should be aware since I’m also on the council.”
“They want access to Wick.”
“Nay,” Lachlan exclaimed, rising to his feet.
“Sit down,” Beathan ordered. “Ye’re nay a member of the council so ye dinna have a vote.”
Lachlan threw his napkin to the table and stomped out of the hall, followed closely by Ethan.
“They’ve a lot of growing up to do, those two. What have the Robsons offered in return?” Archie asked.
“Bigger birlinns and a clan of seasoned mariners with experience sailing to Norway and beyond.”
Confusion and disappointment swirled in Teagan’s brain. She’d been sure Marshall had come to offer for her hand but the initiative to end the feud had been about docking in Wick, nothing more. “Why has he left if there’s a decision pending?”
Beathan shrugged. “I invited him to stay but, suddenly, it seemed he couldna wait to leave when I pointed out a marriage ’twixt ye and a Robson was out of the question since ye’ll wed a MacCray.”
Teagan shook with rage. Marshall had asked for her hand and been turned down—without any regard for her feelings. “Ye told him I canna marry him?” she growled.
Beathan chuckled. “Nay, lass, ye have it wrong. ’Twas on behalf of his brother, their laird, that he asked.”
The hurtful words would have been devastating enough had her insensitive brother told her in the privacy of his study. If she gave in to her first impulse, she’d be teased mercilessly for fleeing the hall but staying meant eating food that might not remain in her belly.
Charge
Marshall didn’t recall walking across the nerve-wracking bridge, but supposed he must have when he suddenly found himself sitting in damp grass atop the cliff where Teagan rode every morning. He looked out at the vista she enjoyed so much, unaware her hound had followed him until a rough tongue laved his face. “Good lad,” he rasped, rubbing the dog’s ears. “Come to sit with the fool, have ye?”
Bo slumped against him, just like he did with his mistress. “I should be happy Beathan turned down Elgin’s suit. There’s a good chance the MacCrays will grant us access to Wick without the marriage, so why am I angry?”
Tongue lolling, Bo looked up at him with soulful eyes but offered no reply.
“I just had to get out of the study when Be
athan told me yer mistress is promised…”
He faced the truth when the words stuck in his throat. “I want her for my own, but she’ll ne’er be mine now.”
After a while, he looked north. “Here I sit, without a horse and having no idea if ’tis even possible to walk to Castle Robson from this point, though I’ve lived on these cliffs for twenty-five years.”
Bo barked.
“Aye. The cove’s between here and there, so ’twill be a long walk.”
He got to his feet, and looked back at Castle MacCray. “Best ye go home, dog.”
Bo obeyed but then turned to look at Marshall, as if expecting him to follow. “Ye’re right. I’m jeopardizing my clan’s future by walking away.”
He straightened his plaid. “Besides, I canna leave with Beathan’s shirt.”
Bo abruptly took off at speed towards Castle MacCray.
“I didna think ’twas such a bad jest,” Marshall quipped, enjoying the humor—until he espied Teagan leading her horse across the stone bridge.
*
After struggling to finish her luncheon, Teagan longed to get away from her teasing brothers. She went to her chamber, enlisted Katie’s help to don an old riding habit of her mother’s and hurried to get Geal saddled. The ostler obliged quickly, seeming to sense her upset.
She whistled for Bo, giving up when he didn’t appear, and set off for the cliffs, hoping an hour spent watching the waves would calm her troubled heart.
Leading Geal across the bridge, she pondered her situation. Despite her previous objections to marrying someone from the clan, Beathan had evidently chosen her husband-to-be.
The hurtful frustration of having no say in the matter rankled, but the bitterness of Marshall Robson’s duplicity lay like a lead weight in her belly. “He definitely flirted with me,” she declared to the horse as she mounted. “But to what end? So he could inform his brother…”
Kilts Ahoy! Page 5
