Which meant these people had naught. Except for a couple chunks of carrots and spring onions that looked suspiciously like the ones stolen from his camp, the flavorless liquid was barely salted with a sparse sprinkling of venison. A glimmer of the desperation Aileana felt infiltrated his mind, as did memories of the raid that had seen him evicted, his cattle stolen, his goods depleted before he could fight his way back within and chase away the usurper that Seamus Grant had helped to instate.
Damnation, but if it wasn’t the MacLeods of Skye bombarding him from the water, it was this bloody clan attacking by land.
He ought to feel more pissed than he did. He certainly shouldn’t feel guilty for turning back on the Grants what they’d turned on him. Christ, he needed to let this sympathy go to hell where it belonged. A laird had no use for it regarding his enemies. Being firm, bold, direct, and unapologetic were the qualities that held up a man’s continued repute.
“How could ye, Seamus?” Aileana whined from within the bowels of the corridor, before her voice fell muffled again.
A whine? This woman wouldn’t whine unless she felt desperate. He strained to listen, since Lady Elizabeth was disinclined to speak and sat trembling like a leaf in his company. Seamus’s voice rose, too. Clearly, they were in disagreement.
“And sweet Peigi? What on earth has she done to deserve such a sentence?”
“If our brother asks it of me, then I must do it out of duty,” Lady Peigi replied, though James noted the forlornness in her voice. “We’ve erred, and yer skills would be missed here—”
“As has he! He eats the very food we cannae afford to spare, after he put us in this position of poverty,” Aileana argued.
“Yer brashness isnae helping, sister. And I dare say, if I agreed to marry ye to him, ye’d start an all-out war before the sennight’s end. Peigi is the better choice.”
Disappointment caused a tumble in James’s stomach. Grant was going to give him Peigi?
“Ye cannae mean this,” Aileana now said, though her whisper was so impassioned, her voice bounced off the stone. “Seamus, what ye propose is cruel, especially when it was my fault. James lies. A man like him would be just as cruel to a woman when she errs as he is to an adversary. Peigi would never survive.”
A swell of irritation bloomed in James’s chest. He’d taunted Aileana about women, but he’d spoken the truth. MacDonald women were kept well, and sweet Marjorie, who had not been so loved by her husband…had been avenged. He couldn’t abide a man who lorded over the fairer sex, for in truth, it was only weakness in the man’s heart that compelled him to do so.
“Sister, I ken no’ what else to do, and—sister? Aileana, come back—”
Aileana blazed out from the corridor to James’s side so quickly, he jolted with surprise and instinctively reached for his dagger.
“I’ll do it,” she breathed.
“I accept.” He nodded.
A strange wave of relief overtook him. Aileana’s bonny eyes were resigned, and rimmed with…redness. Hell, was the lass going to cry? This was a business deal. But the fear he saw on her face made more guilt nip at his conscience. Force the enemy woman to marry him so he could claim his inheritance? Except… Ah, he was daft. Why had he not thought about this before?
I can either marry an enemy Grant by this Twelfth Night or unite these lands to gain it. Would this marriage sufficiently satisfy both conditions for his inheritance in one swoop? He’d always thought the MacDonalds must conquer Grant land, but now that he thought about it, nothing in the documents said a whit about ruling Urquhart—only uniting it with MacDonald lands. This could work. And was far less violent than a raid.
It felt strangely right.
Seamus emerged behind Aileana and then Peigi, whose cheeks were damp with tears.
Seamus squared Aileana in front of him while the hall stared raptly at the dais. “Aileana, this is folly, and as yer laird, I forbid it. Renounce what ye’ve just offered—”
“Nay, ye cannae sentence Peigi to a life with this brute when it was my fault. Since ye’re bent on gaining yer recompense from the Crown, as ye should be, I’ll…” She took a deep breath and extricated herself from Seamus’s hold, summoning that stubbornness James realized he expected from her, and rolled back her shoulders. “I’ll take the punishment,” she said, much gentler this time.
Gasps and murmurs rattled the hall, breaking the silence like a split of lightning.
Punishment? James smarted. He hadn’t intended it to be a punishment…or had he? If anything, it was justice. This marriage was a bargain, but it wasn’t intended to be a life sentence of misery.
“Are ye certain?” Seamus asked, also more gently, taking her by both shoulders again, refusing to be cast off. “Sister, this isnae what I wished for ye.”
She shrugged. “Be honest. I burden ye, and with nothing for a dowry—”
“Nothing yet,” Seamus emphasized. “But when the king’s ruling comes back to me and I’m awarded, I’d have much for a dowry, and yer prospects would change. The Fraser laird’s nephew is seeking a woman and leads a powerful stronghold. He’d be pleased to consider ye.”
“Aye, and he’s already had two wives who’ve preceded him in death. Is he as old as faither? Or nearly as old?” she replied with dry sarcasm. Seamus sighed. “At least James is a far cry better look—”
She snapped shut her mouth, but James heard the direction of her remark, and a silly bout of excitement lurched in his chest at the knowledge that she found him handsome.
Seamus rubbed the bridge of his nose, heaving a hand to his hip. “Do ye ever think before ye speak?”
Aileana looked down at her hands, subdued by her brother’s censure. “Mither was right. I’m hopeless as a lady.”
The dejection in her voice made James uncomfortable. Hopeless? Nay, she was bonny, strong, skilled, and she loved her people enough to steal—and not just from anyone. From him.
Drifting in thought, James twisted the stem of his cup. In truth, Seamus was right. She’d only stolen some vegetables, nay his coin or valuables. He was doing this just as much to lord his command over the Grants as he was to gain his inheritance.
“How old are ye, lass?” James asked.
Aileana frowned at him. “I have nine and ten years.”
His thoughts deepened. Nineteen was certainly older than many a maiden upon their marriage.
“If Aileana continues to be stubborn about this, then I’ll agree to betroth her to ye,” Seamus began. “We can send for a priest, for we havenae a regular holy man, and this will give us time to post the banns—”
“Nay, we’ll handfast. She comes with me now,” James replied.
More gasping. More shocked utterances.
“Ye would deny a lady of rank, no matter how penniless, her kirk wedding?” Seamus demanded, this time, rage ringing unchecked in his remark.
“I dare say ye cannae afford the priest’s fee or the cost of hosting guests,” James replied.
He glanced from Peigi’s grief-stricken face to her hands clenching Aileana to her red-rimmed eyes. Aileana gripped her stomach, pulling away. Was she about to swoon? Fall ill?
He ought to back out of this now. But stubbornness or greed for his money—or perhaps…desire to learn more about this enigma of a woman—refused to topple his stance. A warrior would be weak to make demands and then wave them off as whimsy.
“It’s all right, brother,” Aileana croaked. “Let us please just…get this over with.”
“But ye must have a stake in this bargain, too,” Seamus replied, then turned on James again. “I must demand that if Aileana do this, that she be given a degree of latitude or else there’s no deal and I’ll await my chance to defend her against yer formal complaint.”
“What are yer terms?” James quirked his brow.
“If ye handfast her, I demand that she be g
iven until Twelfth Night to decide if she’d like to remain as the Lady of Tioram Castle, or if she’s too miserable as yer trophy of humiliation and wishes to return home, that the handfast be severed. Promise me this, as an official term for everyone in this hall to bear witness to, or else we have no accord.”
Grant sliced the air to emphasize his point.
James swallowed. The leaden weight that dropped in his gut caught him off guard. Be damned, but he needed this marriage to be permanent. He should have opted for a kirk wedding and scrounged up a priest. For if she left him on Twelfth Night—as she undoubtedly would—he would miss his chance at the money. What was the point, then? And yet, if Seamus called him on his threat to lodge his complaint with the Crown, Twelfth Night would come and go before his grievance was even heard, making a quest for compensation moot. He huffed and eyed Aileana. He’d felt the stirring of lust for her each time they’d parried with words, and he knew he’d have no issue feeling passion for such a woman. But would she reciprocate in time? Could he achieve the ultimate conquest and convince her to stay?
Damn, but this was the only chance he had now. His plan had ricocheted back on him. He took a deep breath. He’d always loved a challenge. He had a mountain of one now.
“All right. I agree to yer terms, Grant. I’ll return Lady Aileana, the handfast revoked, with yer full rights as her laird to marry her to another as it pleases Clan Grant, by Twelfth Night”—his eyes cut to hers—“if she so chooses.”
“What of yer recompense for my thievery if I leave?” she asked, that haughty lift of her chin a tough expression on an increasingly fragile face; that voice, so barbed with words and yet so smoothly spoken. A defense, he realized. Aye. She wasn’t really so tough, and this handfast frightened her.
He nodded once. “I’ll consider it repaid, lass.”
His statement hung in the ensuing silence, until Peigi’s sniffling became too much for her to contain. She threw her arms around Aileana, who stood stone still like a tree trunk. “But my dearest sister! He’ll strip yer innocence!”
James frowned. Did they think he’d force Aileana to his bed? He wasn’t like his horrid brother-in-law, who now resided in the fiery pits of hell, where he belonged. He’d never stripped a woman of anything she didn’t want to be stripped of. And besides, a handfast was as legitimate as a wedding registered in a kirk. There was no shame in lying with one another if they’d handfasted with an agreed set of terms.
Seamus placed a hand on Peigi’s back but glared at him. “Do ye aim to punish me by putting one of my sisters in yer bed only to give her back when yer amusement abates?”
Peigi gasped at the lewdness of Seamus’s statement.
“I’m a compassionate man,” James replied.
“Sure. Ye attacked our walls when I and my strongest contingent were away and now play nice with neighborly alliances. Compassionate. And the Loch Ness Monster comes ashore to dance jigs at the faire. I smell a deeper motive for demanding a woman in exchange for a potful of vegetables, and I do nay doubt ye’d find pleasure in returning my sister at Christmastide’s end with her reputation in tatters.”
James took a deep breath, anger mounting at being so likened to Marjorie’s husband, and snarled, “Ye suggested terms, nay me. I merely agreed to them. I’d prefer any marriage I enter to be for life.”
“Ye do nay strike me as the type to have care for a lady’s honor,” Seamus taunted.
“Then ye ken nothing about me,” James muttered, so low and soft, he saw a flicker of surprise cross Grant’s face, as if he believed him.
Hope seemed to light Aileana’s face, too, but shrewd disbelief captured Seamus’s brow now.
“I ken what ye really want, James MacDonald: my lands. And this nay doubt is part of a scheme.”
James didn’t deny it. No one else knew about his inheritance, trapped in the care of Fearn Abbey thanks to his stepmother’s conditions that he earn it, first—a task she’d thought would be impossible, which was why she’d stipulated it. He shrugged.
“I can come home on Twelfth Night, brother, for there’s no circumstance under which I’d choose to remain,” Aileana said softly, taking her brother’s arm. “Laird MacDonald is simply like a hunter toying with his quarry, but I’ll be no victim. Fear no’ for me. I’m strong. I can withstand this and will return home. This, I vow. Even if I have to claw my way back.”
Peigi sobbed even harder now, clinging to her and drawing a kerchief to her nose. “But he’ll bed ye, and then ye’ll have shed yer maidenhood for naught.”
A blush captured Aileana’s cheeks—to have something so intimate discussed so openly—and she cast her hazel gaze askance. James inhaled long and slow. This pity was growing strength in his gut. He’d stolen all from these people in the name of conquest. True, they’d stolen from him, too. And back and forth the rivalry had seemed to always swing. But these people were suffering and might not last the winter, and now that he was catching a glimmer of the Grants at the supper board instead of at the point of a sword, he thought, Does this fighting need to persist? At some point, someone would need to cut their losses. Could he be the one to finally lay down his sword and wave a white flag of truce? In his older years, James’s sire had seemed to tire of fighting, and he had set aside his armor and sword. He’d been anxious to see his daughter marry an enemy man, in hopes it would bring peace between their clans.
Mayhap peace would have better results than warfare. Mayhap the terms of his inheritance had been put in place at his stepmother’s insistence, but his father had never crafted them to be about conquering at all.
He pushed to standing.
“I’ll add a further term, then, to put Lady Peigi’s heart at ease.” Peigi looked up at him with splotchy cheeks and a sniffle, though Aileana, still standing stone still, stared stoically at his chest as if he were a reaper come for her. “No consummation unless she chooses to remain.”
“How can I trust yer word?” Seamus growled.
Sakes, but this might be the only time he acquiesced to touching Seamus Grant without it being to drive a blade into the man’s ribs. He thrust out his hand to shake wrists. Seamus frowned but finally accepted the offering.
Aileana swallowed so hard, he heard the gulp, and she pushed back her wild wisps of hair that seemed determined to irritate her eyes. James watched the trail of her slender finger across her cheek, over her ears, a sweet gesture from an otherwise confounding creature. He withdrew his sgian achlais from beneath his shoulder where it was sheathed. Seamus tensed and whipped loose his blade at his hip once more.
“Ye invite trouble?” Seamus said. “Ye might overpower us with sheer numbers, but I’ll remind ye that right now, ye’re the one alone.”
His gaze never wavering from Grant’s, James fished up the hem of his mantle tucked through his belts and sliced away a strip of red MacDonald tartan, then sheathed his blade once more.
“Give me yer hand, lass,” he said to Aileana.
Her eyes dipped to her feet. Was it possible for this feisty woman to feel sheepish? Or was she merely reluctant? Still, unceremonious or nay, it was best to get on with the custom and ensure she’d promise herself to him for the next fortnight, even if the coercion now left distaste in his mouth. A maiden and lady deserved a celebration, with finery and a delicately beaded gown, with feasting and bards and dancing. Nay this.
I can still release her of this trap. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to say those words.
Aileana finally looked him squarely in the eye before lifting the end of her tartan shawl and withdrawing her own dagger from her bodice, slicing off her own strip of plaid. She held out her hand with the cut of Grant fabric, her chin raised high. She’d made her point. She wasn’t owned by MacDonald colors, and she wasn’t owned by him.
He took the offered tartan and handed both cuts to Seamus, who ran his thumbs over the enemy plaid thoughtfully.
> “If I hear of abuses toward my wee sister,” Seamus finally said, his eyes dark with intent and a low rumble to the back of his throat, “I’ll nay give one shite about a royal recompense. I’ll kill ye. Ye can count on it.”
“She’s safe,” James replied, and swallowed hard at the grief he felt for sweet Marjorie, who had not been safe.
Solemnity overcame him. It might only be a handfast, but he’d never been married. And he hadn’t come here with a marriage proposal on his mind. But now that he pondered it, it felt…sacred. In this exact moment, a stranger was giving herself to him, even if it was just for a fortnight, trusting that he would take care and uphold his honor when he’d never been honorable to Clan Grant, nor them to him. There were neither altars nor blood of Christ to sip nor words of wisdom for a newly wedded couple. In this moment, as he picked up Aileana’s trembling fingers, he felt another wedge of compassion infiltrate his heart.
He set his brow. “I give ye my word.”
In spite of the lack of fanfare and celebration, the impact of the moment rocked him. How brave of Aileana to commit herself to the unknown. What an arse he was for demanding it. His people were going to be stunned.
Chapter Three
Aileana’s hand was burning. James’s fingers were thick, rough, and his palm was more like the paw of a giant, all encompassing. His calloused skin snagged hers, and the warmth of his touch surprised her, both easing her trepidation a degree and agitating the butterflies breezing around her belly into a gale.
Seamus held the cut of MacDonald fabric, his face gray, as if unsure whether to treat the scrap with respect or spit on it and toss it in the hearth. He cleared his throat. The muscles bulged beneath his ears as he pumped his jaw, causing a new surge of anger to wash over her. Even though her brother made peace to protect his recompense, the revelation that she was, in truth, no better than a cow for bartering gouged like a blade.
“Hold out yer clasped hands,” Seamus said, clearing gruffness from his throat while Peigi’s eyes overflowed with tears and she clenched Lady Elizabeth’s hands.
Twelfth Knight's Bride Page 4
