Twelfth Knight's Bride

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  Seamus leaned into her ear as she felt Laird McDonald’s gaze still scrutinizing her, perusing her figure with his devilish eyes. His moniker was proving to be true. Devil indeed.

  “Pray tell,” Seamus whispered so softly she could barely make out his words, “why I must face down this bastard and his accusations of thievery.”

  She remained high-chinned and gave the MacDonald a searing perusal of her own, as he was doing to her, causing his eyes to narrow curiously. He was probably conjuring some nefarious plot, for he looked as if he contemplated something.

  “Sakes, brother, but I can barely stand to be so close to him. Breathing the same air as him will surely bring about a case of hives.”

  A nearby guardsman snorted at her jest, and she smiled sweetly at her adversary, knowing by the tightening of his brow that he had heard her. Then his gaze dipped to her lips, then back to her eyes again.

  “Sister…” Seamus rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Were ye outside the gates today?”

  “I was. ’Tis a lovely day for a country ride, one of the few pleasures we still have, since all other pleasures have been stolen from us,” she replied, making no effort to hide her flippant tongue as her gaze bore into James MacDonald’s.

  The MacDonald harrumphed, grumbling, “Yer sister has a disagreeable tongue. Nay a wonder why she’s no’ married yet.”

  The nerve! Anger flared in her chest at his insult, even if it had been delivered by a deep, husky voice, inducing more shivers across her skin than she should be proud of. What did he expect from the Grants? Kindness and benevolence?

  “Too bad ye’ll never ken a whit about my tongue,” she snapped in return.

  James’s brows shot up in surprise at her lewdness, and she smirked, crossing her arms with satisfaction and popping her hip.

  “That’s enough, Aileana,” Seamus admonished her. “God in heaven, why must ye be so brash?”

  She scoffed. “And why must we pretend to offer this man salutary kindness? He rushes to our gates, accusing us of…of what, this time?”

  “Of a lad thieving food from their camp,” her brother replied, his head turned toward her and away from Laird MacDonald as he raised a knowing eyebrow.

  “Oh, a lad thieving, eh?” Aileana scoffed, then addressed MacDonald still perched in his saddle, seething. “An eye for an eye, then.” A twinkle glinted in his too-handsome eyes, as if he wished to return her insults with delightfully accurate precision.

  “Nay, lass. Yer clan reaved us first, remember?” James argued.

  “Because who reaved us before?” She tapped her chin, feigning to ponder. “Oh, that’s right. Yer faither.”

  James groaned, raising his eyes heavenward with barely leashed composure.

  “But what does this have to do with us?” she asked. “Or more specifically, me?”

  “The lad rode here. Through these very gates, nay more than ten minutes ago,” MacDonald said. “And they say ye’re the only one to enter this afternoon. Coincidence?”

  “Ach, do I look like a lad?” she asked, though she regretted her question the moment she asked it. His smile lifted dangerously. Good God above, she’d opened herself to an insult of the worst sort.

  “Ask no’ a question ye wish no’ to be answered,” he quipped. She balled her fists. “Produce the culprit, and we’ll have nary a problem,” the MacDonald said, holding her glare as he resituated his grip on his reins with a creaking of leather, clearly annoyed that this questioning was taking so long.

  “Yer thief didnae come here,” she replied. “I’m the only one who’s been out riding. Our lads must labor overmuch to compensate for all that has been stolen from us and havenae time for countryside leisure, and if ye must ken, in sooth, I was out hunting.” That much was true. She’d been pursuing hares when she’d left Urquhart and had merely happened upon the MacDonald camp. “Unsuccessfully, I might add. Which means, once more, we’ll go hungry.”

  She folded her arms, unable to tame her tongue. She wanted to needle this bastard who had made life difficult, made her and her sister’s marriage prospects sink as deep as Loch Ness, for with their poverty came the lovely benefit of no dowry. Hers had been stolen, complete with the beautiful pearl earrings inlaid in gold that their mother had gifted both Peigi and herself. Aileana had kept hers in her jewelry chest, which MacDonald had stolen. No one would wish to marry a lady who brought no wealth to the table, except maybe a lowly baron.

  But her attempt to thwart his curiosity backfired. The anger in his brow softened as his eyes drew together to search her face, traveling over the ridges of her cheekbones and nose, her earlobes that sat empty of adornments—unlike Peigi’s, for Peigi still had the earrings their mother had given her. She’d been wearing them that fateful day. I suppose there is merit in decorating myself like a lady.

  His assessment traveled over her wild red-brown hair tumbling over her shoulder from her ribbon, over her figure again, making her squirm while fluttering ravaged her belly. What was he looking at? She’d never been the bonny sister that the men enjoyed glimpsing. Peigi was comely, with soft, tantalizing cleavage; flared hips that she’d heard men mutter were good for birthing; pink cheeks; pillowy lips; and rich brown eyes like their brother, while Aileana had been blessed with plain hazel eyes and a faint speckling of freckles across her nose. And yet not once had James MacDonald turned his head toward her older sister who always turned a man’s head.

  “On second thought…perhaps it was a lass who stole from me,” James finally concluded, a satisfied smirk darkening his face once again as he sat upright in the saddle. “Tell me, do ye wear trousers, my lady? I can see ye looking like a lad.”

  She gasped. As did Elizabeth and Peigi. Shocked at his rudeness, she saw the corner of his mouth tip up. He knew he’d gotten under her skin. So he hadn’t been intrigued by her femininity, as she’d dared to think he might be—and why on God’s green earth did she want the animal to be interested?

  “Mind yerself, James,” her brother growled, straightening his belts and filling his chest with a deep breath to broaden his already-broad torso. “There’s no need to be insulting. She’s lady-born and bred and will be treated so.”

  “My sister doesnae see her beauty like we do,” Peigi spoke up. “Yer arrow, sir, was aimed to hurt.”

  Bless her siblings for defending her. Still, the remark stung, reminding her that even with a dowry, she’d likely remain an untouched spinster, for what man wanted a woman with freckles?

  “I ken nay who yer thief was,” Aileana began, her throat scratchy with emotion. “But I commend the lad for delivering justice, no matter how menial as a pile of vegetables, to a thief like ye,” she replied, and though she tried to bolster her confidence again, she knew the sting of his remark tainted her words now.

  “I never said the thief stole vegetables.” Laird MacDonald’s smirk rose into a dastardly grin.

  Her mouth dropped open to launch a rebuttal, when her words froze in her throat. Seamus exhaled long and low and perched his hands on his hips, his gaze flitting sidelong at her with increasing frustration.

  “Aileana?” Seamus said, his voice gruff. “He speaks honestly—this time. He didnae say vegetables. Only food.”

  Dammit! She’d ensnared herself in her own lie!

  MacDonald, his handsome face, littered with scars, brightened with amusement as he leaned his forearm on the pommel like a spectator at a tourney. “Seamus Grant, have ye sunk so low as to send yer sister out reaving?”

  Seamus’s frown deepened as he turned back to James. “I would never ask such a thing of a sister!” he erupted, then took a deep breath and turned to Aileana once again. “Ye conceived of this plot yerself, did ye nay?”

  Aileana gaped at Seamus, gesturing to James like her brother was blind to the truth. “Because they have starved us out. They have left us with naught, and the king takes his sweet time
deciding to award yer complaint. We have nothing. Am I supposed to let my people go hungry because this greedy cretin wishes to amass all our lands, all our cattle, and own all of the Highlands for himself?”

  “This land was my birthright,” James growled. “It was stolen from the MacDonalds and parceled off to the king’s favorite men.”

  “That was two centuries ago,” Aileana snapped. “Why continue to battle for something ye never had?”

  “And why continue to aggress against me?” the devil rumbled. “For ye act like an innocent, but yer brother took up arms with our enemies and evicted me, declaring me an outlaw when I’m my faither’s direct and rightful heir.”

  “Oh, posh! He’d never do anything of the sort!” Of what lies did he accuse her brother?

  James’s mouth twisted as if he desired to deliver further rebuttal, but he chewed his words and clenched his teeth. “We all await the king’s decision on how to recompense ye. But it nay changes the fact that ye’ve stolen from me again.”

  “Vegetables for our people. Nay coffers and cattle!” Aileana said, sweeping her arm wide to encompass the stronghold.

  “Mayhap I ought complain to the king myself. That Seamus Grant’s sister is a thief and ought to be named an outlaw if she cannae be controlled.”

  Aileana’s jaw dropped, but it was Peigi who found the quickest words. “Then yer cruelty kens no bounds.”

  James’s eyes only flitted to Peigi for a moment before settling back on her, and the twinkle lighting them sent a nervous pulse kicking through her blood. He released the reins and scoured a palm over his face, looking away as if to hide his expression, as if suddenly hot. Curious.

  “One moment,” Seamus said to James, then gripped Aileana by her upper arm and marched her away, not stopping until they stood across the yard from the gate.

  She wrenched her arm free and pushed his hand away as she fought to secure her tartan again while the midwinter wind whipped mercilessly through the bailey.

  “Why, sister?” he finally demanded. “Why take such a risk as to steal from the MacDonalds? Of all the people, ye chose him? What were ye thinking? Or were ye even thinking at all?”

  “Aye,” she said, seething. “I was thinking that our people surely willnae make it through the winter unless the MacDonalds pay restitution soon. Our pantries are barren—”

  “I’m aware,” Seamus ground out through clenched teeth. “But right when the king is positioned to rule in my favor and grant us our justice is nay the time for ye to diminish our reputation. God above, lassie, I’m this close to achieving my desires the diplomatic way.” He held up his finger and thumb to indicate just how little time they had left to wait. “My messenger arrived yesterday to inform me that the king has decided and sends his writ to me within the next fortnight. But James, the bastard, kens ye’re guilty now, and if he makes a royal complaint of his own, the king is likely to dismiss us all as warring clans who retaliate back and forth, therefore giving us naught!”

  She flinched at his anger. Seamus was typically a gentle soul, and he’d never treated her to the deep, rumbling voice he used when intimidating his foes. He pinched the bridge of his nose again, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. Her eyes flitted to James afar, who was poised in his saddle and, this time, wore concern on his face. Concern for her? Her brother would never raise a hand to her, but James didn’t know that.

  Weariness sagged her brother’s shoulders, catching her off guard, causing sadness to lodge in her chest. The corners of his eyes were crinkled, his brow pleated with the burden of responsibility on his shoulders. No doubt he was also worried about his wife, Elizabeth, who was due to deliver their first child in the spring. A lean winter might cause the lady to miscarry. Such a loss would devastate her, and thus, devastate Seamus, too.

  “I’m sorry to shout,” he amended after a moment’s thought, then dragged her into a hug. She wrapped her arms around his waist, belted in thick leather, resting her cheek against his tartan mantle. “I try to balance many needs, Aileana. We have no Yuletide celebration. No feast. The castle wears no evergreen boughs, for there simply hasnae been the will to decorate. I ken yer heart was in the right place today, but what ye did was dangerous and impulsive. I now need to settle a compensation with Laird MacDonald, as much as it sickens me to barter with him. I must appear honest in every regard, for my royal recompense will be the equivalent of three hundred head of livestock, and I cannae risk having it rescinded.”

  “Barter with him?” Aileana knew what Seamus meant, yet it still left a rancid taste in her mouth. “How can ye lower yerself to do such a thing—”

  “Wheesht,” he said, silencing her. He stepped back and cupped her cheeks paternally, for he was years older than her. “What’s done is done. Now, we must sort it out. Come.”

  He escorted her back to the gates, though each step she took sent trepidation through her core. How would this be sorted?

  “Laird Grant,” MacDonald said as they approached. “I’ve decided. I leave ye to yer Yuletide celebrations and will go to the king to complain.” He glanced around at their drab walls, slowly chipping with disrepair. An obvious sign that the Grants hadn’t rebounded. “A victim of a brash woman.”

  Victim. The jest made Aileana want to vomit, for the MacDonalds were rich and powerful.

  “There’s no need for that. Ye were obviously hard-pressed for yer vegetables,” Seamus said, with sarcasm dripping from each word.

  “I am. The winter is thin to us all,” James said.

  “Then suppose we come within to discuss what I can do to recompense ye.”

  “I do nay believe it,” Aileana gasped under her breath. “He’s coercing ye, Seamus—”

  Her brother clenched her elbow to silence her.

  James nodded once. His eyes caught hers again and held the stare, as he’d been doing since his arrival, as if assessing her for something…more. Though his expression remained unreadable. “’Tis agreeable to me.”

  Seamus sighed, then called up to Sir Donegal. “Raise the portcullis, man.”

  “Raise it?” the head guard questioned, and a murmur swept through the servants who had gathered in the bailey.

  “Indeed,” Seamus replied. “Only for Laird MacDonald. If ye have other men lurking, James, tell them to stand down.”

  MacDonald shook his head. “They packed camp and returned to Tioram Castle. ’Tis only me.”

  “Raise the gates!” Donegal called. “By order of the laird!”

  The winches began churning again, and slowly, the gate was lifted as servants gaped at the welcoming of the enemy wolf among the flock.

  MacDonald trotted boldly into the yard as if he owned it, glaring down at her as he passed. Aileana straightened, felt her pulse quicken at the strength he exuded. He might try to intimidate with his imposing presence, but she would not be cowed, no matter how handsome his features or how hard his stare.

  The groom hastened to the laird, holding his horse at the bit. Still, MacDonald’s gaze remained fastened to hers. Blast it, but her fingers felt as if they trembled. Snow landed upon her skin, stinging with the initial bite of coldness before melting. Could it not chill her mounting nerves?

  His horse, hooves fringed in shaggy feathering, shook his mane and tossed his head, grunting.

  “He’s a spirited beast, lad,” James said to the young groom. “Ye got him?”

  “Aye, mi laird,” the boy replied, but Aileana noticed James steadying his horse anyway to ensure it would acquiesce. A tiny kindness, as was the mindless tousle to the child’s head after he swung his leg over the cantle and jumped down with a firm thud.

  She crinkled her brow. Softness? From this hardened warlord? And sakes, but his horse was a beauty—his coat so dark and rich, mane thick and windswept, muscles well pronounced. He must be nearly eighteen hands—

  “Ye like my stallion, lass?” James
wore a cocky grin, folding his arms. “I dare say ye’d have a hard time stealing him. His name’s Devil for a reason,” he taunted.

  She scoffed and folded her own arms, glancing askance. “A fitting name for the Devil MacDonald’s steed.”

  He stood to full height, towering over her, though now that he was on foot, she could see he wasn’t massive with muscle so much as he was bulky with tartan and fur. Rather, he was lean, like the Norsemen from whom he’d descended. And young. Mid twenties, perhaps.

  “Disarm yerself,” Seamus ordered, and with a firm face, James complied, unstrapping his back sheath and depositing his claymore in her brother’s hands.

  She sidestepped the men, allowing them to lead, as Seamus ushered him toward the keep. Guilt sliced through her like dirk blades for putting her brother and their clan in such a position. True… She had acted impulsively. And perhaps with a pinch of spite fueling her small act of retaliation.

  The doors swung open, and James shook the snow off his furs on the top step, then stepped over the threshold.

  So he does have some manners bred into that bull head of his. Aileana smirked, though the way in which he assessed their hall and sparse furnishings made her wonder if he was assessing the castle for more signs of weakness to exploit.

  “Join me at the board, James,” Seamus began. “Supper will be served soon, and we can discuss over our victuals how I might make amends for my sister’s ill-conceived plot.”

  “Mayhap ye can tell me why the lass is riding the countryside like a ruffian in the first place,” James groused. “Oughtn’t she be housebound with needlepoint or a lute to pass her time?”

  He spoke with exaggerated enunciation, as if he wanted to get a rise from her. Ach, she couldn’t help giving it to him.

  “My sister is—”