Mounting up, his thoughts strayed as he guided Devil into the woods, once more leading the procession. After he’d had time to wrangle down his anger and frustration, he’d make his displeasure known to his people.
Chapter Seven
Aileana trembled still, in spite of the warm fire at her back, earning another censorious frown from the seamstress bent down before her. But she couldn’t shake the morning’s Yule log hunt. She couldn’t quell the confusing swirl agitating her: shameful cravings to be kissed that spiraled through her at memories of James’s body pressed to hers while desire burned hot in his eyes, hurt burning like a cauterizing iron when she’d realized it wasn’t passion fueling his seduction but merely the opportunity to squash her brother under his thumb, and all his people were in on the knowledge. Nàmhaid indeed. She’d known she was a bargaining chip from the onset of their handfast, but she’d been a fool to consider that his attraction might be genuine.
The smell of bean cakes filtered through the crevice beneath her door with warm, delicious scents, bringing with it bygone memories of festive breads at Urquhart and traditions filled with excitement to see whose bread contained the wee bean, for the lucky finder would get to make a wish. As if the insult of the morning wasn’t enough. She’d never once gotten the bean, though Peigi had been lucky twice, and both times, her sister had wished for a valiant suitor and prosperous marriage—a destiny stripped from her the moment MacDonald men had stolen their dowry coin.
Aileana swayed from the hours on her feet and gripped the edge of the table to hold steady while her traitorous stomach growled.
“Hold still, mi lady.”
The seamstress sighed, an exasperated sound she managed to keep tethered low. Was the woman annoyed? Of course she was. Aileana had known from the moment she’d been punished by Anag’s anger, followed by the rude remark spoken under the soldier’s breath this morn, that those wouldn’t be the only signs of displeasure from the MacDonald people she would have to endure. James’s white flag—a lie—certainly wasn’t the banner under which his people marched, either. For all the rich finery and prosperity at Tioram, the castle still managed to be chillier than Urquhart’s chipping walls and barren hearths.
Aileana cleared her throat and gazed at the wall.
“The bread smells delicious. I commend Tioram’s skilled bakers. Making so many loaves in a day is to be admired.” Once more, Aileana tried to begin a conversation to ease the woman’s reservations and, in truth, distract herself from her anger while she considered what to do about James, though nothing had worked yet.
“And do ye, a ranking lady, ken much about bread baking?”
The question, uttered plainly enough, still carried with it a thread of sarcasm.
“Indeed, I’ve helped Urquhart’s bakers numerous times.” As if Urquhart could afford for her to sit on her ladylike rear and be waited on hand and foot. She knew well the ache in her wrists, arms, and shoulders from hours kneading and the feel of sweat trickling down her temples from the hot ovens. “There’s always work to be done and nay enough folk to do it.”
Again, silence met her ears. Her eyes flitted down again to the crouched woman, who pinched a pin in her lips. James had suggested she be herself, yet it was clear she wasn’t winning any points of favor for it. And even though his reasons for wanting a permanent marriage were apparent now, how on earth had he expected this to work? Did he honestly think his people would welcome any children she bore with open arms? Or would they see James’s heirs or heiresses as half enemy?
Sakes, why think on children with such a man? To think on children meant to think on how children were begotten—
Butterflies once more erupted into a swirl within her belly, confusing her, whispering reminders of how her fickle body had reacted with shivers of delight when James had pinned her to that tree and the look of unabashed desire contorting his face. She might know his true colors now, but her body still seemed to delight in thoughts of his playfulness—a secret side she’d never thought the Devil MacDonald could harbor. No wonder women had children—many of them, sometimes. If the excitement James’s flirtations that morning had induced within her were any indication, eventually the burgeoning attraction that flared for him would get the better of her. And where would that leave her? Just as Peigi had feared: deflowered and divorced. She had to return home before that could happen, and get her clan out from beneath his domineering thumb.
“I’m content to wear the borrowed gowns my maids supplied me with instead, good woman,” Aileana said. “Rather than use up yer lovely fabrics.”
The seamstress plucked the pin from her lips.
“Our laird ordered these clothes made, mi lady.” The seamstress placed the pin in the fold of the beautiful burgundy wool—the overskirt to a matching burgundy kirtle made of samite and patterned in subtle, darker damask—then plucked another pin from her cushion and gripped it in her teeth as she bunched a pleat together along Aileana’s hip and gave it a stiff tug to pull into alignment. The utter richness of the fabric was enough to steal a lady’s breath. Peigi would be in awe. “I’ll nay defy him,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Mistress.” Aileana stepped back, knowing it would annoy the woman even more that she wasn’t just swaying but deliberately interfering now. “I ken there is bad blood betwixt our people, and I’m sorry that—”
“I believe I’m finished, mi lady.” The woman stood and began packing her pins and shears, unwilling to meet Aileana’s gaze, and in the distance, a bell clanked. “There is the supper call. Food is served.”
“Did my brother’s raid kill one of yer loved ones, too?”
So blunt was the question, but the directness caught the seamstress off guard, and Aileana had to know. The woman froze. Her eyes flashed to Aileana’s. Pain poured from the silent stare. Finally, the women shook her head and once more began packing up her basket.
“Nay, I was a lucky one. My husband passed on of natural causes several years ago. But the raid saw my entire shop gutted. All the fine fabrics and threads, the imported passements from the Continent I used to use to trim Lady Brighde’s gowns. All of it, up in flames when they torched it.”
Aileana absorbed the woman’s grievance as echoes of screams rang in her mind from that terrible day at Urquhart. Then she began unpinning the waist of the overskirt. She’d known this same heartache. James’s men had done the same thing to each and every office and outbuilding at Urquhart, and part of her wished to take the woman’s hands in her own and share in her grief.
“And now I must use the lovely supplies his lairdship paid a pretty penny for to clothe one of the very people who so wronged us…”
The desire to take up the woman’s hands vanished. Hurt once more burned a path down Aileana’s spine, and she hurried out of the loose sleeves, slipping them off onto the table, then allowing the skirt to drop in a bunch around her feet. Her brother might be guilty of transgressions, but she was not, and yet she was bearing the brunt of Seamus’s punishments.
She hastened for her robe to cover her chemise, leaving the seamstress at her back. She’d never been part of the Grant raiding party. She’d never harmed a living soul. How she so wished to shed the woman’s presence now. After a bout of silence, the woman cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry, mi lady,” she muttered.
“I refuse yer gift of clothing,” Aileana croaked, allowing bitterness to taint her words, and pulled the robe tightly to her neck, shivering. She paced to the window shutters to crack one open and stare out at the afternoon light hanging low over the horizon and sparkling off the waters. “I’m certain the pieces you’ve cut today can be adjusted to fit Lady Brighde.”
The luster of the beautiful fabrics had been tarnished. Wearing any specially made garments would forever be blemished by the hurt she felt and the anger within these folk who she’d known wouldn’t give her a chance. Yet why should she
wish for their acceptance when she was only going to leave them?
“But it’s the laird’s wish, mi lady,” the woman replied softly.
Aileana shook her head, still not turning around. “But it’s nay mine. He’s nay the one who has to wear them and be disdained for it. The expense is nay worth the trouble, considering I can always send for my trunks from Urquhart should I desire them.”
More silence. Please leave. Blessedly, as if the seamstress had heard her thoughts, the door finally opened, then closed. She exhaled hard and dropped her hands clutched at her throat. The robe sagged open. What to do? She glanced at her borrowed sapphire gown lying smoothed upon her bed, ready to once more be donned. And groaned.
“I’ll need the help of my maids to tie each lace, fasten each opening…”
There was no way to do it on her own—and in her hurt, she’d failed to ask the seamstress to summon her maids back. She scurried to the door, drew it back, careful to hide her undressed form behind it and peering around it.
“Anag, would ye mind helping me…”
No one was there. Anag had helped her undress. She’d known Aileana wouldn’t be able to assemble everything again for supper. Had they left her on purpose?
“No matter.” She lifted her chin, refusing to allow further hurt to spike her.
At Urquhart, she would simply don her brown woolen dress and wrap her tartan around her shoulders. That’s what she’d do now… But James will wonder immediately why I’m wearing my old, ugly dress again. Worse, her maids would know why she was so poorly outfitted. Gossip, a blasted plague in any self-respecting castle, would surely cast her in a poor light.
Nerves, once more, surged through her blood. Couldn’t she just remain hidden in her chambers, like a coward, or escape home sooner than planned and shed their presence? Shake James’s false seductions off like a dirty shoe fit only for the rubbish heap? Aye, that was it. Leave.
“Ye’re nay a coward, Aileana Grant.”
No, she wasn’t. But she also wasn’t daft, and she’d bide her time for the first moment available to depart. She lifted her chin and strode to her trunk to find something else to wear, prying up the heavy oaken lid and resting it against the wall. On top sat the green ensemble, a deep velvet over-gown meant to fall open at her waist for the associated kirtle. She lifted the over-gown. It laced beneath the arms, up each side from her hips. She would never be able to tie them properly, and the sleeves themselves needed several eyelets tightened at the wrists. And her hair, besides, was wrapped in netting adorned with sapphire embellishments, nay green.
After dropping it, she held out the mauve fabric instead, a soft silk gown with a furry sable lining and hooks up the back that she’d never be able to fasten. Then let it drop. It was no use. Folded in the bottom was her brown dress. She’d have to wear it. She scooped it up and shed her robe upon her chair by the hearth, slipping the thin woolen garment over her head to tug tightly at her waist. The laces still hanging loose at her back, she plucked each pin from her hair with growing urgency and dropped them in a pile upon her dressing table, until the coif and net slackened. She flung it beside the hairpins and shook out her hair so that it tumbled down her back, then dragged her meager bag of possessions out of the trunk and took them to the bed, dumping them out to sort so she’d be ready to flee at first opportunity—
Knocking thumped. Had her maids taken pity on her? Already her ears were ringing with what rumors had been started about her tarrying when by now the hall was likely well into their meals.
“Who calls?”
“James. The hall is feasting, and yet my wife has yet to show her face.”
His deep voice greeted her. Anger lashed through her, at the same time that her heartbeat kicked up traitorously at the thought of seeing him again. Blasted heart, defying her sensible mind. Looking down, she frowned at her unlaced bodice in her impoverished dress. Could this moment become more embarrassing?
Nay tempt the fates to take ye up on the challenge, Aileana, for embarrassment seems to be yer lot recently.
On a sigh, she strained to fumble with her laces, ignoring him. The latch lifted, and the door pushed open without invitation. Her eyes flitted to the ajar door, glaring at his presumptuous entry. Handsome and clean-shaven, in a newly cleaned red-and-green great kilt pinned ceremonially at his shoulder and billowing down his legs, his loose locks and braids had been pulled back at his nape so that the cut of his jaw was more pronounced. He looked fit for Yuletide ceremony, and here she was in rags. Her stomach did a flip as his twinkling blue eyes roved over her state of dress, as he then spied her traveling bag upon her bed.
“Aye, he does indeed subdue the Grants abed.”
Her heart clenched angrily at the bitter reminder of his people’s disdain, and she turned away, her brow tight and furrowed in an attempt to bite her tongue.
“Sakes, the crestfallen expression contorting yer face is almost believable,” she muttered.
And yet heat splotched her cheeks as misplaced guilt cut through her, knowing he was putting the clues together that she was readying to depart.
“What’s this? Why are ye packing?” he demanded, not responding to her remark.
Her mouth opened to argue as she cast a glance backward at the sight of his unabashed hurt.
“I was simply looking for extra hairpins.”
His gaze darted to her dressing table and the heap of pins upon it. He leveled a disbelieving glare at her.
“Ye’re shite at lying.” He frowned, striding over to her window to secure the shutter closed against the chill. “Ye’re packing. Why?”
“Why?” she gasped, then swiveled to face him. “I should have gone home the moment ye offered to take me. Why should I remain now that I ken the true folly in thinking we could forge a thread of peace? When yer people look at me, they see only my brother. They see an enemy, and considering this farce will only last a fortnight, I see no reason to attempt to win their favor when they wish nay to give it. Name one person who wishes me to remain.”
“Me.”
He spoke the single word with such ardor, he nearly sounded desperate, sincerity alight in his blue gaze. False sincerity. Yet still, her eyes watered with no control to stop them, and she fought desperately with her dress to tie the strings.
“Aye, to put me in yer bed so my brother will forever be kept at bay.” His face grew stormy, but she continued, “To keep my brother under yer thumb so that if ye should ever wrong him again, he’ll have no recourse for fear of hurting me in an attack. From the beginning, I knew, deep down, this was merely an attempt to overpower us, but I’d hoped that mayhap, just mayhap, especially after ye confided in me about Lady Marjorie, that ye felt differently, and I was a fool to think yer attempts at flirting were because ye might fancy me—”
His hands gripped her arms, and his brow, tight, drew together over his eyes into an angry scowl. “Stop.”
She shook her head. “I’m a foolish lass, even to consider a MacDonald who forced—”
“Aileana. Stop.”
Her fingers slowed. Then stopped. And she blinked her eyes to stave off the mist, her gaze bouncing around but not landing upon him.
“My man was out of line this morn. My folk were nay at Urquhart when we made this agreement, and they ken no’ my true reason.”
“Then what is your true reason?”
His jaw tightened as words seemed to tangle on his tongue and then die before passing his lips. The muscles beneath his ears bulged as he gnashed whatever his reason was into submission, and his hand migrated up to her cheek to palm it. He swallowed, and his tender touch induced a tingling of gooseflesh over her skin. “We agreed ye’d stay until Epiphany.” His brow softened. “At least give me that.” His thumb began gently caressing her cheek, and her belly twisted with frustration and warmth. “The Aileana I ken isnae a coward who runs and hides when there’
s work to be done,” he said more softly.
“Did ye forget the way in which we met?” she muttered.
He expelled a relieved breath. A smile tugged unexpectedly at his lips, dimpling one cheek. Blast it, but she, too, felt her mouth mirror his. She’d certainly run fast and hard to evade him back to Urquhart. His eyes dipped to the tiny concession of truce quirking up her lips, and his thumb swept softly over the pad of flesh as his fingers still gripped her cheeks, splaying into her hair, his eyes watching his thumb’s caress.
“Aye, lass. And a fine game of cat and mouse ye played.” He chuckled. “But I still tracked down the confounding lad who stole my foodstuff. And when I look upon ye, here, at Tioram, I cannae help but think that mayhap I was meant to discover him.”
She swallowed. Her fingers drifted to her stomach, to the swirl of butterflies that once more fluttered in her belly at the desire and relief upon his face and the confusion that once more twisted her heart—to desire the enemy’s affection, to desire to be home among her people, where she was wanted. And the worry she felt for her people while she indulged in the frigid yet generous hospitality here.
His hand dropped, and he moved to the bed, picking up the hem of the blue velvet and severing his tingling connection. “Do the gowns Brighde loaned ye nay suit?”
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