Twelfth Knight's Bride

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  James glanced at his cousin’s guarded expression while Devil plodded beneath him. The morning was fresh, and the sunlight winked upon the snow, so much so that it nearly burned the eyes. His soldiers and the wives accompanying their men on this hunt for the Yule log made merry, startling a flock of ptarmigans from their roost into flight with a beating of black-tipped wings as they passed around a flask of drink and broke out spontaneously into song.

  “I saw a sweet, a seemly sight; A blissful burd, a blossom bright…”

  “Why would Clan Grant give ye a noble sister?” Angus continued. “They hate us. Surely Laird Grant would prefer war over such.”

  In spite of his shocking marriage announcement the day before, his people remained cheerful for the advent of festive activities, for his bakers were making stacks of bean cakes as they spoke to usher in the season tonight with the traditional game of seeking the bean in the bread, and soon the ladies would begin binding ashen twigs with evergreen twines to place as blessings in the Christmastide fire each night until Twelfth Night, when his twenty-fourth year would run out.

  “I was surprised, too, that Grant acquiesced to my demand,” James replied.

  He squinted back at Lady Aileana, riding at the end of the procession and thankfully well again. His chest clenched. Christ’s bones, he could barely stop looking at her. A bonny sight if he’d ever seen one. His maids had transformed her. She’d gone from nearly feral, with her hair unmanaged, to a cultivated lady, with the simple employment of a couple maids and a wardrobe. The starkness of the snow and brilliance of her sapphire gown set her auburn locks—held back in a net—on fire in the morning sunlight, and her skin, so porcelain, was like cream with sunbursts of pink upon her cheeks from the chill. Her lips were a kissable shade of rouge, and upon her ears hung a pair of amber bobbles. Not her pearls. Interesting.

  Angus chuckled. “Still. Grant woman or nay, she’s a bonny prize to be won in a bartering. Is she mute? She’s too quiet for a woman.”

  Nay. Quite a tongue she has when she wants to lash someone with it. James chuckled to himself.

  “Though I dare say our womenfolk are repaying her the cold shoulder the Grants so deserve,” Angus continued.

  They are what? James cast a look over his shoulder once more. She rode alone, ignored by the other women, who clustered together on their horses.

  “I suppose a quiet wife is better than an unruly one,” Angus added. “Mayhap having subdued a Grant in such a way as ye have will keep them from meddling in skirmishes in which they have no business involving themselves.”

  James swallowed the sour dislike that Angus’s remark put on his tongue. Aileana wasn’t soft-spoken. He’d come to expect her forthright tongue lashings and, strangely, felt deprived of them since their arrival in Tioram the day before. Here, among his people and his wealth, he sensed her nervousness, and much of her confidence was now stripped. If his women were treating her unkindly, it was no wonder that she rode by herself.

  “That’s it, is it nay? Ye think to bed the Grants into submission since nothing else has worked?” Angus asked. “A surprising tactic, laird, considering ye’re careful about yer womenfolk. But aye, brilliant. Something a MacLeod would do.”

  Be damned! James hated mention of the MacLeods and thoughts of Marjorie in their grips. Being compared to one? Revolting.

  “We all see what ye’ve done, which is why we tolerate her presence—”

  “That’s enough,” James grumbled. He’d foisted a petty punishment upon the Grants and risked Aileana’s health, no matter how unknowingly, with a much bigger reason at heart: his inheritance, which none of his clan knew about, apart from his sisters, and one of them had taken the secret to the grave. He hadn’t been trying to conquer the Grants by warming his bed with one… Had he? And if warming his bed was the intention, it was a chilly bed to be sure.

  “I didnae force her to wife so that ye could all gloat about conquering the Grants. Our fight has never been with her, and I would expect better of my people. If ye’d give her a chance, ye’d see she has much to offer.”

  Angus cleared his throat, surprised by the admonishment. “Ye cannae expect our people to open their arms to her so easily as ye apparently did. Her brother raided upon us. Evicted ye, and declared ye an outlaw. Some of our fine men died that day, leaving behind widows and orphans.”

  “And we’ve raided on them, killing theirs,” James rumbled. “But Aileana raided on no one.” A lie, but he wouldn’t lump desperate snatches for food together with larger transgressions like attacking castles for reasons of power. “She pays a price now for decades of troubles. I bid ye, and everyone, treat her kindly.”

  He certainly wouldn’t allow his man, cousin or not, to jest at Aileana’s expense.

  “Apologies, cousin. I mean no disrespect,” Angus said after clearing his throat. “We’ve clearly misjudged yer feelings for the lass. Tell me, will ye plan a kirk wedding for her?”

  He shook his head. Aileana might have rejected his offer to be taken home right away—a pleasant surprise that made him wonder at a deeper motivation on her part. But she’d given him no indication that she wished their union to become permanent, either.

  “She does nay want one.”

  “What lady wishes naught for a kirk wedding?” said one of his knights to another.

  James twisted over his shoulder, wishing to quit their gossip.

  “My lady!” he called.

  His men and their wives fell silent, glancing over at Aileana, as if having forgotten she was riding with them. And as he suspected, many a frown captured their faces at mention of her. Be damned, but he needed his people to accept her. Aileana might be slowly warming to him, but it was only with their friendship did he hope to lay a foundation that could lead to permanence and convince her to stay.

  Aileana looked up at him, surprised, as if unsure that he spoke to her. He gestured to her. “Ride aside me, wife!”

  He steered his mount out of the procession and heard her palfrey’s hooves escalate to a trot. She pulled up beside him, relieving him from further interrogations, for Angus took the cue.

  “I’ll check our flanks, laird, and ensure no one straggles.”

  James nodded to him, thankful for his departure, and blessedly his people fell back into song. He glanced at Aileana’s profile, her bare neck and collarbones delightfully enticing as they peeked through the clasp of her cloak; her posture, straight and cultivated like a winter queen atop her mount. The maids had done her appearance justice by selecting the beautiful gown and amber bobbles, which nearly matched her hair.

  And yet he wanted her parrying. If he admitted it, he enjoyed crossing swords with her. What had his womenfolk done to silence her?

  “Have the maids treated ye well?” he asked.

  She nodded, offering a soft smile and gazing to the hills beyond, toward which they headed.

  “Then why so silent? Has something happened?”

  She frowned but shook her head. “Nay. I simply find myself pondering the state of things betwixt our clans.”

  What did that cryptic reply mean? “Care to explain?”

  Aileana sighed. “As I suspected, nay body much wants me here, for if looks could slay, I’d be dead, but having spoken to my maids, I suppose I can understand why. I used to think of the history betwixt our people in a one-sided fashion. I could only see the wrong ye’d done us. I believed nay the wrong my clan had done to yers.”

  He quirked the corner of his mouth, deciding not to press the matter. Could it be that we are finding more common ground?

  “Would it make any difference to ye now to ken that the mare ye ride is light of foot and won me a race in the Inverness games four seasons ago?” he diverted.

  She glanced at him. “She is quite spry for her age. What does that have to do with clan rivalries?”

  His semi-smile broadened, a
nd he leaned down to her, lowering his voice as he wrapped his hands around his reins in preparation. “Absolutely nothing. I’m saying my horse could use a good jaunt, and since yer palfrey bears the record she does, how would ye like a wee competition? Up to the wood’s edge where it’s dense of trees and sparse of people?”

  Her eyes brightened, and a smile of her own danced upon her lips as she looked ahead of them to get bearings on the mark. Just as he suspected. The lass, bold of tongue, was also competitive.

  “I do believe I’m being challenged to a race by the enemy. More rivalry is what we need, then?”

  “Only a gentle bird frightened of losing would refuse,” he taunted, sitting upright again and staring down his nose at her like a haughty prince.

  “Then I suppose the only way to silence ye is to put ye in yer place.” She giggled.

  A giggle. His eyes dipped to her lips.

  “What’s the boon for winning?” she asked.

  “The chance to gloat that their clan is better, aye?”

  She lifted her eyes heavenward. “Childish of ye, Jamie.”

  And damn, but the moniker again made his heart skip like an eejit. She gathered her reins alongside her mount’s neck, patting the pretty beast. He grinned.

  “Ye bring out the best in me, lass.” Turning to his nearby guardsman, he ordered, “Bother us nay. We’re off for a gallivant and will await the party from the forest’s edge.”

  The knight nodded his nasal helm in compliance.

  “Since ye challenge me, laddie,” she bated further, though he wondered if she, too, was anxious to break away from the party. “Ready…go!” she breathed, tapping her horse into motion, and launched ahead of him.

  His grin never faltering, he shook his head and tapped Devil into a charge, overtaking her.

  “I see ye’re a cheat, nàmhaid, jumping the start!” he taunted.

  “As are ye!” she called back as her cloak billowed like shimmering banners behind her, and sakes, but a gorgeous, full grin had split her lips, the likes of which a man would want to litter with pecks as he acquainted himself to every secret within her kiss.

  “How so?”

  “Ye challenge me, and yet it’s ye who rides a prime stallion who isnae even exerting himself yet! Ye’re certain to win, and I needed the head start to even the stakes!”

  He laughed, a husky, hearty sound. “I’d expect something so underhanded from a Grant!”

  Her mouth dropped in feigned shock, though she laughed. “As I would from a MacDonald!”

  “Careful, woman, ye’re one of my kind now!”

  “Never!”

  She urged her horse onward, overtaking him by a neck, which he leveled out easily, surging ahead.

  “Cheat!” she called, inciting more laughter, and he glanced back to see plumes of powder rising in their wake as she made a champion’s effort to capture the lead.

  Devil puffed onto the air, stretching his muscles after a day of lazing in the stable, and he indulged the horse, achieving the tree line several lengths ahead of her and jumping nimbly off his stallion before the beast had completely halted.

  He dashed to a nearby tree while Devil panted, propping his shoulder against it, giving Aileana his back as she fast approached, and slouched, folding his arms and crossing a leg. Was he daft? Why was he playing at such sport with her—or anyone—when he, a grown man, had always been so serious? He’d had to be, as his father’s only son, and disdained by his stepmother at every opportunity. And yet it felt good to flirt. He harrumphed at that.

  He peeked over his shoulder to see what Aileana was up to. She would need help down in her heavy layers of finery.

  He yawned, stretched. “Ach, lass, I’ve been waiting for ye to catch me for so long, I must have dozed off—”

  A hand ripped down the neck of his doublet, and an icy pillow of snow shocked his skin.

  “Christ’s bones!” he cursed, jumping and whirling around as Aileana fell into a fit of laughter.

  He shook out his doublet, feeling the snow melt down his back and soak into his tunic, and his shock slowly turned to mirth. Even in layers of beautiful but useless fabric, she was as nimble as he was, sneaking up on an enemy.

  Giving her his full front, he smirked. “Would ye like to ken why they call me the Devil MacDonald?”

  She righted herself, though her smile remained, as did a quiet giggle behind her pinched lips as he continued.

  “Because of this!”

  He swiped a branch of its snow and lobbed the powder back at her.

  “Oh!” she jumped, the snow leaving a starburst upon her stomach.

  He tipped his head back and guffawed a deep, rumbling laugh—

  A wad of snow hit him square in the jaw.

  “Ach, nàmhaid, ye’ll pay for besting yer laird,” he baited, and soon the two ducked and dodged each other, flinging up snow. Her hair was falling loose from her netting, and she didn’t seem to notice or care, as her face remained light with laughter, and his heart opened an inch farther to her. Snow landed upon her cheek. She smarted, backing up a step, then swooned playfully.

  “’Tis a good thing I have yer flag of truce with which to wipe my brow.” She sighed, and withdrew his white kerchief from her sleeve to dab her face.

  “Oh, ye insult the enemy by sullying his flag?”

  She nodded, grinning, and scooped up another fistful to lob at him. He dodged it, withstanding a barrage of snowballs and guarding his face with his arm as he encroached upon her.

  “Nay…” she breathed at his approach, and took flight, tossing poorly aimed fistfuls at him. “Do nay capture me!”

  He snagged her about the waist, spinning her around as a squeal escaped her throat, and they stumbled off balance. He caught her as she fell against a tree, barely catching himself before he crushed her to it.

  “Do ye surrender, nàmhaid?” he breathed.

  “Never, nàmhaid!” she declared, as if a valiant warrior going down a hero while he held her to the tree.

  Their laughter subsided. He could feel her chest heaving for air against his abdomen, could smell the rosewater used to freshen her skin, could feel her body heat, steamy from their exertion and damp clothes. He took in her hazel eyes, glowing in the stark midmorning light, took in each fairy kiss upon her nose and the bonny wisps of escaped tendrils that hung loose around her face. Her lips parted, and his eyes dipped to them. Her smile fell, and her hands…sakes, he could feel her palms braced against his belly, palming him through his doublet. His mind ran wild with sudden thoughts of those hands, what they might feel like snaked beneath his coats and tunic, skin to skin, fingers inducing quivers of delight, burning patterns across his flesh…

  Her breathing grew erratic, and uncertainty sprang to her face. Desire throbbed unchecked through his blood. His hands dropped his grip upon her shoulders and migrated to her fingers, peeling them away and enfolding them, lifting them over her head and pinning them to the tree. Their bodies flush, her wedged beneath him, he stared at her lips as desire to taste them nearly overpowered him.

  Could he steal a kiss? Could she not give him a sign as to whether or not she wanted one? For he wouldn’t kiss her otherwise.

  Singing in the distance was faint but brought with it reality, and reminders that the Yule party would eventually join them. Yet he remained against her. She had yet to indicate she’d prefer him to relinquish her—a prize in itself, to have her acquiescence. But the singing grew louder, and as he glanced toward it, he could see Angus and the others approaching with a clear view. Had they watched the entire snowball spectacle? Jesu, they probably thought their laird had gone daft.

  Aileana, too, seemed to come to, and she dropped her head. “Mary mother…” she prayed beneath her breath, wriggling her hands from his grip. He released them. “Ye’re nay like what I expected.”

  She
didn’t sound as if she’d intended to speak the sentiment aloud. His brow lifted, and he glanced askance to examine the dips and rises of the landscape.

  “What did ye expect?”

  “I wanted—nay, needed—ye to be the same beast ye were when ye attacked Urquhart, with yer face covered in woad and mud, who cut down our sentries and breeched our curtain wall, so that I could remain shielded to ye. I didnae expect someone who feeds foxes and finds pleasure frolicking in the snow.”

  He frowned and eased back an increment so that she wasn’t so flattened beneath him. Cleared his throat. Was she saying that she liked him? But the remark poured cool water upon his lust, quelling the throbbing. They’d shared amusements and playful ribbing, but there was much that still lay between them. Wrongs he’d committed against her and her people, wrongs they’d committed against him and his.

  Would such an obstacle ever be overcome?

  “My thanks for the jaunt,” he said, clearing his throat again. “I sensed ye’d like to be free of my folks’ scrutiny, and in sooth, I wearied from my cousin’s questions about ye.”

  She nodded with understanding. “I do nay think yer kin and kind will be overly sad when I depart come Epiphany,” she jested, though like most jests, he could sense an undercurrent of truth.

  And didn’t the constant reminders of their union’s fragility nip him with unease. He pushed it aside. He still had more than a sennight left with her to build upon this truce and, perhaps, claim his money.

  “Mayhap ye should be yerself to them,” he suggested. “Ye’ll grow on them, as ye’re growing upon me.”

  As she opened her mouth to refute his suggestion, the plodding of horses approached and the singing tapered off. A whistle at his expense ensued, and Aileana’s face reddened with embarrassment.

  “Aye, he does indeed subdue the Grants abed,” sniggered a soldier softly.

  Aileana, scalded, yanked away from him, turning from them to hide the distress that had sprung to her face.

  “Aileana,” he began, reaching for her hand, but she ripped it away from him.

  Instead, James scowled at his people for the thoughtless remark, though they were preoccupied with their merry singing and once more passed their flasks about. Instead, he swiveled away to fetch the horses as they rummaged alongside an overturned tree buried in a snow drift, the magic of the morning ruined. Shame washed over him as he collected the reins and brought Aileana’s palfrey back to her—at the taste of the acerbic disapproval from his people, at her recoiling from his touch as he tried to help her mount, when moments ago he’d had her willing body against his. He’d wronged this woman, who he was starting to—he swallowed—feel something for. He’d forced one of Grant’s sisters to endure this hostility all because of his inheritance, no thanks to his stepmother. He should have known this would happen.