Twelfth Knight's Bride

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  “Let’s break camp and eat, then,” he said, and strode over to Devil to load his effects.

  The peaceful morning spell was broken. Or perhaps, they finally had a spell cast on them.

  …

  The morning was clear and crisp, the storm having passed. Sunlight blazed off the snow, sparkling white crystals, the air around them blessedly still, making the cold bearable. At long last, as they came out of an upland, Tioram Castle loomed into view beneath them, a proud tower perched atop a wee peninsula lording over the confluence of the River Shiel and Loch Moidart. No doubt the stretch of land and rocky uplift became an isle when the tide was high. Distant, white-capped peaks upon the Isle of Skye loomed like sentries in the distance, guarding the great expanse of ocean beyond the Hebrides. Surrounded in snowy banks that glistened like fluttering fairy wings in the sunshine, the earth seemed deceivingly pure.

  “Goodness…”

  James glanced over his shoulder at Aileana’s sigh. She leaned around his torso to see. A wide-eyed expression had captured her visage, as if she were awed or overwhelmed by the beauty.

  “I’ve only heard tales of this place from my brother. It truly is magnificent.”

  James nodded once to her in acknowledgment of the compliment. He’d always been proud of his castle. Bastard born or not, he’d been afforded comforts as his father’s proclaimed heir, and these walls held the whispers of his childhood.

  “Urquhart used to be so magnificent, too, before the reave,” she continued.

  Was she censuring him? Knee-jerk irritation gripped him before he could temper his tongue.

  “Tioram, too, was a shell of itself after yer brother and the Frasers unseated me, chasing me out and burning our stores before I could finally afford to refurbish the damage,” he retorted.

  She sucked in a lungful at his admonishment. “And at whose expense did ye rebuild? Ours. Ye simply terrorized all the innocent people at Urquhart to steal what ye needed. I see ye use yer white flag of truce as a nice doormat for yer mucky boots.”

  “Ye imply that Urquhart’s problems are my fault instead of yer brother’s for involving himself in the Frasers’ schemes. ’Tis no’ I who sullied the white flag, lass.”

  Aileana pulled away. He glanced back at her withdrawal. Be damned! Their history seemed forever beneath the surface, ready to leak anger before one could think better of it. But the sunshine bright on her face in spite of its paleness, her nose and cheeks pink from the cold, snagged his irritation, as did her hazel eyes glittering with unspoken thoughts.

  She looked down. “I suppose these rivalries betwixt us willna die an easy death if we continue to parry as nàmhaids,” she muttered.

  He fished behind him for her hand and pulled it back around him as they curved down the path, revealing more of the hillside overlooking the water as they descended. “Aye.” They’d made a tentative truce, and he’d do well to foster the goodwill and bite his tongue next time she needled him.

  He nudged Devil into a trot as he felt her shivering against him, for the path to the gates had been well trodden. She cleared her throat, her hand at first frozen, then as she relaxed, her other arm came around him, too.

  “What’s that?” she asked. “Over yonder. Is that yer chapel?”

  James glanced across the hillside to the cemetery buried in snow among a dormant tangle of brambles, near the trees that lined the loch. The wee chapel stood above the graves, a small, single stone chamber with a carved cross atop the ridge over the door and decorated with Pictish knots from olden days. Pillows of white rested upon the roof and drifted against the door. He hadn’t gone inside that chapel or walked among the headstones since the day Marjorie had died. Even when his sire was finally laid to rest, he’d remained apart from Brighde, unable to come too close.

  “Aye. And cemetery. Five generations of MacDonalds are buried there. And on the end is an empty space for me before the next row will be started.”

  “Just one space?”

  James shrugged. “I never thought I’d marry. No sense in setting aside a plot for a wife when I assumed I’d die a bachelor.”

  “Why did ye assume you’d no’ marry?”

  He digested the question. He’d assumed he’d never gain a Grant woman’s hand, to be more specific, and since claiming his inheritance had been the only thing consuming him—a quest he was certain he would never conquer—he hadn’t seen any value in the institution of marriage. Aileana had serendipitously put herself in a bad position for her and a good position for him when she’d chosen to thieve from him.

  “It looks overgrown,” she muttered sadly, as if to herself.

  “I do nay visit it often, nor do I spare staff to come tend it,” he bit out.

  “Why no’?”

  “Why?” he countered.

  As if she could sense his unwillingness to say more, she let the subject die. A blessing that she did, for each time he looked at the cemetery, overlooking the joining of the sparkling western waters upon which Tioram sat, with a heavenly view for which to spend eternity, he remembered the cold, rainy day he and his father had lowered Marjorie into her grave, bound in white cloth with a thistle laid upon her breast, feeling such helplessness… That helplessness threatened to wrap its talons around his heart and squeeze once more, as it always did when he dwelled too long on Marjorie’s sad lot.

  Hunger plaguing Aileana’s stomach rumbled against his back, and as they neared the castle, he felt her stiffen, further distracting him from the sting pricking his eyes at the memory of Brighde sobbing, his stepmother’s contemptuous glares of hurt at his father for contracting their older daughter to a fated marriage that had left her wasted.

  Aileana’s grip tightened as if she held herself aloft, and her breathing seemed to grow uneven. “They’re going to hate me,” she murmured.

  And here he was, bringing an enemy bride into his fold to face the displeasure of his people, as no doubt Marjorie had been forced to do. He dragged back on the reins upon hearing the waver in her voice and glanced at her, eyes narrowing to examine her distress. She was sweating again, a sheen of illness having moistened her brow. Had her shivering finally turned feverous? No good?

  “They’ll be wary, aye,” he said. “Ye’re Laird Grant’s sister. And there’s bad blood there.”

  Best not to deny the truth. His people wouldn’t understand at first. But mayhap, if she showed them her kinder, understanding side as she’d shown him last night, they would eventually warm to her, for a marriage to an enemy was where her lot ceased being similar to Marjorie’s. Had Seamus Grant made this handfast permanent, Aileana’s future would have looked much different, with a man who would never strike her, humiliate her, or degrade her, no matter the champion’s effort she thrust into arguing, needling, and debating him.

  “I should have accepted yer offer to return me,” she whispered.

  Vulnerable. Just as he’d thought. Her hardened facade was merely a veneer upon a fragile soul.

  “Ye havenae a choice, now. Come,” he encouraged. “Ye’ll do fine.”

  Chapter Five

  Guardsmen patrolling Tioram Castle’s parapets winched up the portcullis, like the opening jaw of a hungry lion. James trotted Devil onto the promontory leading across the peninsula, passing rows of balingers and smaller currachs tipped on their sides with snow pillows atop their hulls. A wan smile tugged at Aileana’s mouth as she imagined James at the helm of a watercraft, dragging the sheets against the wind and dominating the cresting waves. So long of leg and blond like his Norse ancestors, he would probably look magnificent.

  Lively with folk, noise arose from within Tioram’s portcullis as servants went about their jobs, making Aileana’s fate real.

  “Jesu…” she whispered, sucking in air as if it were drink and she, thirsty.

  In truth, she was. Her mouth was chalky, her body racked with shivers, her
skin clammy.

  James’s broad hand squeezed her trembling ones. Goodness! The gesture was brief. But much like it had been during their handfast, it was reassuring now, and she rested her cheek between his shoulder blades to steady what she feared was becoming a feverous mind.

  “I train warriors who fight at my bidding,” he said. “But my people will harm ye none. Fret no’.”

  The knot in her gut eased an increment.

  “The laird has returned!” called a sentry atop the curtain wall, and a general clattering of people preparing for their laird’s arrival ensued.

  The knot tightened again. James raised a hand in greeting to them.

  “Good afternoon, my laird!” shouted another as they rode under the archway. “We wondered when ye’d arrive back! Sir Angus is preparing a search party. Did ye catch the thief?”

  “Who’s the lass?” asked another.

  “I did indeed catch the thief!” James replied, his voice booming. “And the woman is Lady Aileana Grant!”

  God in heaven, he was going to oust her to his people! After the moments of gentleness that had passed betwixt them?

  Curious faces turned to stare as they entered the bailey, now consumed within the belly of this stronghold, as maidservants gathered dutifully on the steps. Soldiers leaned warily over the walls to catch a glance of her. Her face burned with heat. Surely they were all making opinions of her. Surely they hated her, or judged her plainness for themselves.

  “Ye bring the enemy?” called down a ranking soldier who wore a sparkling brooch. Was he James’s first-in-command?

  “Lady Aileana isnae our enemy, Angus man,” he replied in defense of her.

  “The Grants are our friends now, is that it?” the man named Angus replied to a rumbling of chuckles. “The scar on me arm begs to differ!”

  He must rank high to talk back so freely. Aileana clenched James, her mind swaying now. She blinked to clear the headiness and lifted her chin, ever defiant. What was I thinking, agreeing to come here?

  “What be the lady’s business?” came a feminine voice in a much kinder tone.

  A woman with soft blonde hair swept back in beaded netting and a braid of hair looped over her head like a crown stood regally at the steps, a MacDonald tartan wrapped around her back and clutched in the crooks of her elbows. Her eyes were a pretty blue, and her looks favored James’s. Was this his sister, Brighde? And then Aileana’s gaze migrated to the dangling bobbles at the woman’s ears. Pearls embedded in gold in such a distinctive design, it would be hard to mimic. My mother’s earrings bequeathed to me…that had been stolen. Aileana had coveted those precious gifts. James had gifted them to this woman!

  “She comes with no business,” James replied, coming to a halt and addressing the gathering. “She’s my wife.”

  Gasps resonated. Wide eyes loomed around them, and someone, somewhere, dropped their burden with a clattering of metal. Sweat trickled down Aileana’s temples, nerves chewed mercilessly at her stomach. And the fever she feared had taken root threatened to get the better of her. She focused on the one thing that wasn’t starting to spin: the other lady’s earrings. To know this man who she was beginning to feel fondness for had stolen them was one thing, but to see the spoils of his raid flaunted before her now stung. Her distress, held at bay by a thread, overpowered her.

  “My earrings,” she murmured, and she blinked desperately to clear her foggy mind but tipped off the horse, grappling fruitlessly to hold onto James’s waist as her vision swirled, as she fell, fell…and lurched hard.

  …

  26th of December

  Pounding. Aileana winced. Her head was pounding. She was so tired. But as her head lolled on the pillow…

  A pillow!

  It was soft and lush. The linen covering it was finely woven and smooth against her cheek. It smelled of lavender, a faint waft meeting her nose each time she moved. Ah, heaven, such a scent. It had been so long since the Grants could afford so fine a fragrance as lavender. And she was warm.

  A heavy blanket was draped upon her, cocooning her to the firmly stuffed mattress. She basked in the sensation until curiosity got the better of her, and she dared to blink awake. Where was she, and what had happened? The chamber encompassing her was dim but, my, so fine. Bed curtains of deep-red velvet were drawn back to reveal a hearty fire crackling in the hearth, the smell of the peat both pungent and comforting. When was the last time they’d had such a fire at Urquhart? The Grants only burned one when they needed it. Otherwise, their drafty hearths remained cold.

  She pushed onto her elbow and brought her fingers to her forehead to feel the source of the pounding. Surely she’d bruised herself. How? Slowly, as the memories of her arrival to Tioram Castle filtered back through her groggy mind, she recalled the sensation: feverish, shivering, vision going black, body drifting…

  She bolted upright. Pain throbbed through her head. “Goodness, I fainted dead away, off his horse.”

  She waited for the sensation to ease and pushed back the covers to stand.

  “Ohh,” she groaned, and she dropped back to her rear, bracing her forehead again.

  As the swirling sensation settled, she glanced around her chamber at the tapestries hung over the window shutters, wooden furnishings polished to shining with embroidered pillows upon the chairs at the table. Anger at Urquhart being so deprived of these things swarmed her thoughts like angry wasps, and she moved to the hearth to kneel before the heat. The floorboards were coarse under her bare feet, save the soft rugs before the hearth.

  Bare feet.

  She looked down. She was bare footed and in a chemise! She hadn’t been wearing one before, only her tunic beneath her gown.

  Clenching the neck hole to her throat as her sleeves billowed to her elbows, she huddled at the fire and looked about for a robe. The trunk beside the dressing table seemed the likeliest place for a robe to be stored, though it sat draped in a silken cloth, with baskets of bobbles and a mint box atop it. Who had undressed her? Dear God, had James done so himself?

  The door opened. She whirled around to look over her shoulder, her chemise still clutched at her throat, and, speak of the devil, the Devil MacDonald. James pushed through the door. He froze, his hand in midthrust. His eyes widened an increment, traveled down her body, and lingered upon her for longer than was gentlemanly before traveling over her hands clutched beneath her chin.

  “My dress,” she croaked, snapping his attention back to her face.

  Propelled to action, he closed the door and cleared his throat.

  “Ye were burning up. Ye fainted. Yer attendants assisted ye, and thankfully, yer fever broke whilst ye slept, or else I fear it might have become something worse. Then Seamus would have had my head upon his pike.”

  The distress in her stomach unclenched at his admission. He strode within and plucked a garment from a chair to hold up like proof of wrongdoing at Court—his jaw freshly shaven, clamped tightly—and thinned his lips.

  “Why were ye traveling in a wet tunic? As a woman whose family claims ye to be a skilled healer, I’d think ye would have more wisdom. Were ye trying to catch yer death?”

  She grinned sweetly. “Aye, anything to see the MacDonald’s head upon my brother’s pike.”

  He huffed an unexpected chuckle at her jest and lifted his eyes heavenward.

  “It’s no’ as if I planned to be whisked away upon a handfast, James,” she added more seriously. “I wore what I had on.”

  He dropped the tunic and shook his head but seemed to let his rebuttal go. “I thought ye were still asleep. Are ye well?” he asked.

  She shrugged, a wash of forlornness blooming in her chest. She was alone. Without Peigi and without Seamus. Who sold his sister to the wolves.

  “My forehead hurts, but I shall endure. Did I hit it?”

  As if she’d given him purpose, he came to her, a
slow progression, his gaze seized upon hers. Each step increased his height, until he loomed above her. She craned her neck back to look up at him and tried to stand, but he squatted down, his hand resting on her shoulder and urging her back down to her knees. His palms spanned her cheeks, and his thumbs parted the hair draped across her forehead. Once more, he lay the backs of his fingers against her brow as if to check for fever. Her skin tingled. For such a merciless warrior, his touch was, once again, surprisingly delicate, as was his demeanor.

  “Aye, a wee bruise ye’ve got. I barely caught ye, but ye still landed hard.” His thumb caressed her cheeks, his gaze dropping to her lips with such intensity, it made butterflies flit through her belly again. His eyes dipped down her chemise as if an unconscious reflex, but they quickly bounced away. “I’ll, eh, fetch yer maids.”

  He dropped his hands and stood, rummaging within his sporran. The draft through the shutters, though dampened by the tapestry, still filled the chamber with a chill, for the heat of the fire only radiated so far, and she dropped her hands from her throat to rub her arms.

  “Aileana…”

  Whatever he’d wished to say, he trailed off, such firmness overtaking his brow she wasn’t sure if he was angry or not. Her guard spiked high, prepared to defend herself.

  But he bent for her hand, pulled it outward, and dropped a trinket into her palm. Reflexively, she clenched her fist, like a child trying to resist, and watched his back retreat to the door.

  “Yuletide ceremony will abound today, considering yesterday was the first day of Christmastide,” he said gruffly, his voice strained and his broad shoulders tense as he gripped the latch. “If ye feel well enough, I wish ye to join me for an excursion, and to sit at my side this eve, to celebrate with us. It might ease my people’s confusion over ye.”

  She opened her fist and looked down. Her breath caught.

  “My earrings…” She inhaled deeply as trembling consumed her.

  Still, he remained, his back to her and his hand on the door, as if unable to pull it back. Aileana dashed to him, embracing him so swiftly she could scarcely believe she’d done it. But to hold those precious relics again, when she’d been so certain they were lost forever, filled her with emotion. He tensed, his muscles twitching, and then he pivoted to face her, and his arms came around her, clenching her in return, holding her head to his chest and dipping his nose to her hair. It felt so blessedly good—his arms, strong; his smell of riding leathers; his soap; his unique male scent.