MacDonald lifted their shared grip, and Seamus draped both plaids around the knot of their fingers, wrapping them around and around, tying the ends.
“Upon Twelfth Night, Aileana Grant may choose if she will remain as yer wife or return home, unharmed, and if the latter, this handfast will be void,” he added for good measure. “Let it be so known!”
It took a moment for the hall of people to lift their goblets in a salute that sounded more like a toast of condolences than jubilance.
MacDonald lifted their clasp to show the hall proof of their unity, stretching Aileana’s arm over her head, and in truth, only raising his hand by degrees. Confusion and sickness swirled in competition in her gut, causing the meager food she’d consumed that day to threaten rebellion, but she swallowed hard at the urge.
And then James squeezed her fingers. It was slight, but reassuring. Her eyes flitted upward at the unexpected gesture, his own cast sidelong down at her as if to see if she would notice, and their gazes connected. Though his brow remained stern, his blue eyes twinkled and his expression…softened.
The handfast complete, her new husband—sakes, what a title to think—lowered their arms, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Numbness coated her skin, and she was certain she’d lost her ability to speak. Would he insist upon a kiss to seal their agreement? Her cheeks flamed with heat, burning, and she cupped her hand over one as if to contain the blushing. Would she dare to allow him his kiss? She doubted it would be as repulsive as she wanted it to be. She examined his lips—soft, in spite of his strong mouth and jaw. It wouldn’t be repulsive at all. His eyes dipped to hers, too, staring at her mouth so intently, it was as if he was also contemplating what a kiss would feel like.
Instead, James untangled their fingers and shoved the knotted tartan into his sporran.
“I’ll wait in the bailey whilst ye pack…wife,” he muttered, and turned to leave.
Aileana’s eyes widened. James had struggled to push the title over his lips. Was he, too, just as affected by the moment and the newness of the title? Seamus postured next to her, and Aileana gripped a chair like a lifeline. She had to leave this minute? Would James be gentle if he insisted on breaking their agreement or… Goodness! Took her to bed?
She doubled over, her mind foggy, and swayed on her feet.
“Sister,” Peigi fretted, helping lower her into a chair, then glaring at James’s retreating back and righting her posture, she beseeched him, “Ye would drag my sister away right now?”
James turned and looked over his shoulder, stopping, his brow crinkling with concern at Aileana slumped in a chair. She glanced up from her seat as the dizziness thankfully passed.
“There’s no time to spare, Lady Peigi,” he replied. “Already it grows dark, and I must return to Tioram soon, or my men will worry and send a search.”
Seamus furrowed his brow with barely contained rage at being so cornered. He stepped in front of her as if to protect her while the staff looked onward, and Aileana peered around him to watch her new husband. Peigi threw her head in Aileana’s lap as if she were being sent to the gallows.
“Sakes, dearest sister! Why did ye do it? Why?”
“Would ye rather it be ye?” Aileana ground out, her knuckles turning white around the chair arms as Peigi fell to sobbing again, gripping her so hard that her nails bit through Aileana’s clothing. But she wouldn’t fling herself against her sister. This was her yoke to wear, no matter how heavy, and she rose to stand on wobbly legs, determined to remain composed.
“Go and pack what ye will, woman,” James said gently.
“I shall be quick and pack light,” Aileana replied. “For I do nay intend to remain at yer castle for long.”
She left the hall alone, her shoulders back, her head high, and her heart sick with regret and…confusion. So far, James Moidartach MacDonald hadn’t been nearly the beast she’d thought. And the way he gazed at her, so intently, sent shivers of traitorous curiosity over her skin. It was as if he liked what he saw. She ought to be frightened. But his surprising gentleness had eased her distress. Would an alliance with the MacDonalds, even if she was the tribute to be exchanged, be so bad? Or would it maybe, blessedly, bring this warring clan to heel?
…
It was nearly dark by the time James stowed his claymore on his saddle and hoisted Aileana up pillion behind him. Her arms slid instinctively around him, sending a shiver across his skin at the intimacy of the contact, to be so held by her, even if it was purely to keep herself aloft. They set out through the gates, rocking together with Devil’s lumbering, making use of what midwinter light was left.
They traversed the countryside in silence, save the creaking of leather, shrouded in wintry white. The snowdrifts made their surroundings bright enough to decipher, in spite of the cloudy night settling upon them. But Aileana was shivering against him, and her grip about his waist, tight, felt as if her arms had frozen. A warm fire and a night beneath his heavy fur might do her well.
“Up there. We’ll stop to make camp,” he finally said, breaking the quietude.
Aileana said not a word as he steered his horse through the glen where a cluster of boulders had long ago tumbled down the surrounding hills. They would make a good shelter. Her stomach rumbled so loudly, she resituated herself. She was hungry, and come to think of it, he didn’t recall seeing her eat a bite at supper when her fate had been sealed. When had her last meal been before that?
He pushed Devil onward until they reached the boulders next to a frozen burn meandering down the glen. He dismounted and reached up to help Aileana down, but she swung her leg over and slid down Devil’s rump on her own, glanced at him silently, and then bypassed him without a word. He inhaled deeply, exhaled. He deserved her anger.
Instead, he removed his packs and unfurled a bedroll, hauling them within the boulders, and dropped to his knees to scoop out the snow to make an embankment around them when he felt Aileana come up beside him. She knelt next to him and began scooping out snow. He took in her slender arms shoveling the snow, the torque of her waist as she did exactly as Peigi had said—helped with the labor to get the job done. Okay. Perhaps he could make this the first step toward a truce betwixt them.
She glanced up at his staring, crinkling her brow questioningly.
He severed his gaze and returned to work. “Thank ye for helping.”
“It’s what I do best,” she retorted.
He ignored the displeasure in her voice and continued working.
“We’ll make an embankment around the entry,” he said. “Such will insulate us whilst we sleep.”
She nodded her understanding, and the two of them finished the task silently. Too silently. He wanted her spitfire tongue to lash him so he could lash back and feel the sparks flying between them again.
“Aileana,” he finally said, resting back on his haunches. “I propose a truce. At least, for now.”
“A white flag? From ye? I didnae ken ye owned one,” she said as her body jolted with each thrust of snow. “But I suppose ye’ve gotten all ye want, including my dignity. ’Tis easy to sue for peace when ye walk away the winner.”
The softness he’d begun to feel grew brittle, and his lips thinned. All right, so her spitfire tongue was lashing again, just as he’d wanted, which was daft of him because arguing with her would surely become damned exhausting. “And apparently ye forgot yer white flag at Urquhart,” he grumbled.
She smiled sweetly at him, a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “We have none. They were stolen, along with all our other goods…” She tapped her chin. “By ye, I believe.”
He took a slow, long breath and restarted, for she seemed to have this strange ability to bring out his brash side. “This union is a chance to reunite olden MacDonald lands. I seek to gain my inherit—” He cut himself short. Be damned and hold yer tongue, his conscience chastised him. If he spilled abou
t his inheritance, she really would leave him—just to spite him. “And I’ve won nothing.”
“Won nothing? Is yer memory so poorly that ye can nay remember—”
“Remain here,” he ordered, interrupting her stream of venom. “I go to collect kindling.”
He shoved to his feet and stalked off, needing space to think. He trudged to the edge of the glen where the tree line started upon the hillside, and rummaged through the snow to pile sticks in his arms. She hated him—and yet she thought him handsome. He’d seen her rake her eyes curiously over his form, his shoulders, and his braids, her hazel gaze wide. And how could he help but stare at her beauty? But physical attraction alone would not a marriage make. If she continued to harbor anger for him, their union would remain poisoned with bad opinions and resentment. Perhaps he ought to return her and agree to a voided union now—his reputation as a warlord be damned—to spare her a fortnight of misery, which was pointless anyway, for whether he returned her now or on Twelfth Night, dear old Stepmother had still cozened him out of his inheritance. Besides, would his people be accepting of a Grant woman?
“Just what my stepmither wanted: For me to fail. For the lairdship and all its benefits to pass to anyone but me.”
His mind made up to take her home, he turned back toward camp. But as he crunched near their shelter with his arms full, it was empty. He peered within the rocks.
“Lady Aileana?”
He dropped the sticks with a clatter and walked around the boulders. No one.
“Dammit,” he cursed, turning in all directions. Had she fled?
No, his horse was still there, and she no doubt had common sense enough not to run off in the middle of a freezing night. Unless she knew shortcuts to reach home that he didn’t.
“Aileana?” he boomed, though the surrounding snow dampened the echo.
Silence answered him. Nerves pulsed in his gut.
“Aileana!” he rumbled, though again, the echo was thwarted.
Sakes, was she lost? Injured? Stolen away? Of all the nights to leave a lass unattended, this one ought to have been the safest. What if something horrible had befallen her? Seamus Grant would make good on this threat to kill him; James had no doubt. Their clan rivalry would rage onward, this time with no hope of abating.
“Good Christ,” he cursed under his breath. “Aileana! Answer me!”
He squatted down to inspect her tracks, then hastened after them, losing them at the bank of the frozen burn, a skinny trickle gurgling down the middle.
“Aileana!”
In the distance, he saw a shape. Was it an animal? It moved like a dark presence against the snowy backdrop, and he drew his dirk, when the shape began to take form. A long, flowing mass of fabric became obvious, as did the wavering of long hair, the shape of a woman.
Exhaling hard, he paused, then wiped the sweat that had beaded his brow. He sheathed his blade and jogged to her.
“Where were ye?” he demanded, right as he looked down into her arms to see the load of kindling she also carried.
“Helping,” she muttered, then moved to step around him.
He blocked her path, taking her arms. She stiffened.
“I told ye to stay at the camp.”
“I was freezing, sitting there, when the exertion of moving about would warm my muscles. That, and two people can gather as much kindling twice as fast as one.”
“Ye disobeyed me.”
“I suggest ye become used to it, for I answer to no man save my brother, who is laird.”
And she hardly listened to him, James thought wryly.
“I had good reason for ye to stay put. Ye could’ve gotten lost, frozen to death, and yer brother would’ve had my head—”
“I ken these hills far better than ye do, for we’re nay even off Grant land yet.”
Emphasizing Grant. True, for all the claims to birthrights, he didn’t know this region the way her clan did.
“Ye do nay listen well,” he growled, leaning down into her face.
She met his nose with her own, thrust up to meet his menacing glare. Their lips practically touched. He could feel her breath warm upon him, could see tiny details in her face in spite of the nighttime, and his scowl unfurled as he leaned in closer to smell her scent and decide if he liked it. Fok, but he did. So close to knowing more about her tongue. As her husband, he had a right to know this tongue if he wished. In the dark, her eyes were more like gray crystals with the lack of sunshine to ignite their color. They sparkled with mischief and perhaps a small amount of satisfaction that she was a nettle in his saddle.
“And I suggest ye get used to that, too,” she replied. “I’ll nay be bullied or abused by any man, least of all a nàmhaid.”
Hurt lashed him, and the bruises he remembered on sweet Marjorie’s face haunted him once more. If Aileana meant to strike pain on him, she had. In spite of his pulse racing to know her more intimately, he stepped away, clearing the gruffness from his throat that thoughts of Marjorie always induced. Tears a man like him would never be allowed to shed. Marjorie had loved him as her full brother, in spite of her mother’s hatred of him. And he’d been unable to protect her.
Aileana’s eyes widened with surprise at his retreat when she’d clearly expected him to double down. Her lips parted, but he turned away before she could speak, his thoughts afluster, and left her to stand alone.
Be damned. Be damned to high heaven. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d intended to make her want to stay, but he’d never anticipated wanting her to stay. And he wasn’t sure he could handle the constant reminders of Marjorie she was certain to evoke.
He huffed into his hands to warm them, rubbing them together, hearing the soft swishing of her skirts behind him. Good, she followed. He squatted to arrange his pile of kindling—wee tinder on the bottom, larger sticks and twigs on top. Aileana came up behind him, causing tingling to skitter across his skin that she would be so close again. She stepped over the snowy embankment they’d formed around the shelter and set down her armload of wood, then maneuvered around him to collect her small pack and withdraw a thin sheet of wool from it to wrap around her shoulders.
James’s eyes followed her as she settled down opposite the fire ring from him—
Damn! The stick in hand slipped from his grip in his distraction and bit his skin. A sliver.
He unsheathed his sgian achlais from his underarm sheath and pushed it out with the flat of his blade, but his gaze landed back on Aileana across from him. Did she hope to keep her distance? She was shivering like a pennant on a blustery day. They’d do well to nestle together to generate more body heat, but after her biting words, the notion of sleeping together was sure to sit poorly with her. He withdrew his fire flints to spark against the metal plate and induce a fire.
“In my packs, I’ve bread, cheese, and jerked beef,” he said. “Help yerself.”
“Is the beef from one of our stolen cows?”
His jaw ticked at her sarcastic reply, and his lips thinned. If she thought to do nothing but needle him until Twelfth Night, he’d make sure her play was turned about fairly.
“Indeed, and it was delicious,” he grumbled, looking up at her to await her retort.
Her mouth opened, aghast at his rudeness, but no sound came out, and she closed it. She finally managed a reply. “Well then. I believe I’d rather starve.”
“Suit yerself.” He shrugged, then continued to strike his flint.
A spark took hold, a tiny flame catching on dried leaves that spread to the twigs. James leaned low to the ground and blew gently, encouraging the flame to catch. As the fire began to curl the twigs and spread, he pushed to his feet and retrieved his packs, unstrapping one and withdrawing his foodstuffs. Aileana, now lying down, shivered beneath her cloak and blanket, gazing at the flame as if deep in thought.
He walked around the fire to si
t beside her, noticed her glance up at him, noticed sweat beading her forehead. His brow furrowed. To be shivering and sweating could only mean the lass was falling ill. No good. Now more than ever, he needed to get her beneath his furs or else a fever might set in.
He tore off a bite of jerked meat between his teeth and dropped to his rear, leaning against a boulder. Her stomach growled so loudly now, he couldn’t withhold his chuckle. Yet wariness remained. He couldn’t allow her to become sick.
“Ye ken the expression, ‘biting off one’s nose to spite one’s face’?” he said.
She shot her hazel glare at him and sat up, too, sparkling warmly in the firelight and her hair glossy with dark-red hues as the light wavered against her. A bonny sight.
“Ye’re hungry. And nay just hungry, but it’s been some time since ye’ve eaten well.”
He held out his food, this time under her nose so she could smell the saltiness of the meat and cheeses, and he saw a tug-of-war commence in her mind. He gestured with it once more, and she finally acquiesced, taking a piece of meat from him and bringing it to her mouth to nibble.
A smile pulled up his mouth.
She glanced at him, a smirk forming on her face in reply. “I only eat because I’m famished, nay because I accept any sort of truce.”
He lifted his eyes heavenward, shaking his head. “My sister Brighde says there’s no one as stubborn as me, but I now believe her to be wrong. Ye exceed me.”
He dropped his last bite in his mouth and grabbed his fur, piled next to them, and dragged his saddle pack close. Shifting himself beside her, her eyes widened.
“What are ye doing?”
“Readying to sleep,” he replied. “Ye may no’ be tired, but I’m weary from spending my day chasing down a lad.”
“And ye think to sleep with me?”
He felt the need to smile again.
“Aye. Nay only right here, but beneath the covers with ye, too.”
She gaped at him as he stretched out flat and draped his tartan and fur over their legs. Plagued by another rare moment of speechlessness, her mouth remained open, and her lush hair fell like a tapestry around them.
Twelfth Knight's Bride Page 5
