Twelfth Knight's Bride

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  Hollowness ached in her stomach. Had she offended him? “Jamie, I’m sor—”

  “No matter. Come. We light the Yule log.”

  Upon a flick of his finger to a cluster of men at the door, they pushed the door wide. Attached to chains was the Yule log, heaved home the day before by horse and cart. So that was what James had been doing outside before the commotion within had drawn his attention away.

  “Gather ’round,” the seneschal exclaimed, “as the laird hoists in the Yule log!”

  Cheers rose loudly, and James installed her by the hearth, then dashed across the rushes to the door, taking up a chain alongside his men. The musician’s music kicked up, and this time, as people passed Aileana by or clustered near to her, some regarded her with tentative smiles or uncertain glances.

  “Thank ye, mi lady, for yer kindness,” a serving man said, bowing to her as he went by.

  She exhaled a shaky breath and nodded to him. The Yule log was supposed to be the spectacle, so why were so many of them still casting her surreptitious glances, making her forever feel like a novelty put on the spot? But the sting she’d seen on James’s face at her remark still bothered her. What if these were her people? They already thought she was here to stay. If their acceptance should grow, would she ever gain their hearts? Would they ever gain hers? Could she abandon them so easily on Twelfth Night and reinforce their negative sentiments toward the Grants?

  “This is my favorite part!” twittered Brighde, arriving beside her and clasping her hand in sisterly affection. The lass was older than James, and yet still, girlish whimsy plagued her.

  “What is to happen?” Aileana asked.

  “’Twas our faither’s job before us and grandfaither’s before him. My brother will crown the Abbot of Unreason for Christmastide, who will then order the Yule log lit, and such is always a surprise, for sometimes he picks a lad, sometimes he picks a guardsman. Last year, he picked the smithy, who ordered the laird bring him a tray each morn to break his fast.”

  Aileana laughed, caught off guard, as Brighde giggled beside her at the memory. “And he did it, I wager.”

  “Aye, and with good humor,” his sister replied. “He lives for his people. He kens what it’s like to nay be accepted and has always worked to be fair and honorable toward them. Little does the fool man ken that our people have never begrudged him for being born a bastard. Only my mither did. I was a wee bairn when he was born, but I remember much fanfare and feasting the night our faither presented his firstborn son and rightful heir to the great hall. A Yuletide gift, is how we always thought of him.”

  The sentiment lingered in Aileana’s thoughts as Brighde prattled on, and the men hoisted the massive log through the hall, up to the hearth—parting the rushes in its wake like waves thrust outward by a boat. What does she mean by Yuletide gift? Is James’s day of birth during the winter season?

  The men unchained the log and tipped it beneath the chimney, and James dusted his hands and stood upright, unclasping his fur to reveal his tunic, coming unlaced at the top and exposing part of his pectoral. He didn’t seem to notice, and passed the garment off to his seneschal, in turn, taking from him a crown of woven twigs and berries in hand.

  He offered his hand to her now, in spite of the sweat beading his forehead. She furrowed her brow. “Where do we go now?”

  “Nowhere. Right here,” he replied.

  “Stand with him in ceremony, Aileana,” Brighde encouraged, nudging her closer. “Ye’re his wife. No matter how unexpected, ’tis yer duty to present these festivities alongside him. My mither always stood beside our faither.”

  A tick jumped to James’s jaw at mention of his stepmother, but he nodded once in agreement. He leaned down to her ear. “Aye, lass. Until Epiphany, at least, ye’re my wife. For ye to sit aside would nay be customary.”

  She took a deep breath and glanced around the expectant faces, so ready to make merry that they would forgive her her birth name for the moment. Aye, she and James had frolicked when they’d thought themselves alone, but to publicly display unity seemed to mean something. His palm was warm, rough. He turned over her palm, running a finger over her calluses. She’d helped her people reap what harvest they could, helped the healer time and again, helped her brother hunt, helped wherever was needed, and her skin wore the telltale signs of the underprivileged life thrust upon them.

  “They’re unsightly, are they no,’” she remarked, looking down.

  “Sister,” James said, ignoring her.

  “Aye, James. What can I do for ye, wee brother?” Brighde replied.

  His mouth quirked up at his sister’s teasing. “See to it some of that cream yer maids make for yer hands is delivered to my wife’s chamber tonight.”

  Brighde curtsied to her brother. “I’ll see it done immediately.”

  Brighde scurried away, then James tucked Aileana’s hand into the crook of his elbow as the folk teemed around them, ready for the season to officially commence.

  “What sort of cream?” she asked him.

  “Brighde uses it for her hands. To soften them. Ye’re lady-born. Yer fingers should nay be so blemished.”

  She opened her mouth to argue that a lady’s hands always looked best when serving her people, regardless of how soft—

  “Nay argue, and accept the kindness. And by the way, I told the seamstress to make those gowns whether ye protest or nay,” he admonished. “What sort of husband would I be if I nay provided my woman with the things she needed? Gather ’round!” he called, giving her no chance to reply as she gaped. “The time is nigh to light the Yule log, a blessing for ye all! Ye work hard all year long, and Tioram Castle would nay remain so prosperous without yer efforts to protect its walls and to protect each other from the MacLeods and the Gr—” He cut himself off.

  From the Grants.

  But knowing groans ensued, drowning out his blunder. James hushed them with an open palm.

  “Lady Aileana tonight has reminded us of this very thing. To protect each other.” She felt his eyes fall sidelong upon her, and she felt him squeeze her hand in his arm. “The maid Anag is nay doubt indebted to ye, for having the presence of mind to act, and so am I.”

  “I suppose that we can overlook the fact our lady is a Grant!” called a jest, which was met with good-natured laughter.

  That familiar distaste nipped, but this time, Aileana quelled it. The faces looking upon her were expectant, as if they hoped she might return the ribbing.

  “We feast tonight!” James boomed, and a boyish grin split his lips open, revealing a peek at his teeth and a divot in his cheek where a dimple had once dotted his face. The innocence of the smile, so unexpected, was wondrously beautiful, as copper light danced upon his skin from the hearth fire. “But first, it’s my honor to announce the Abbot of Unreason! The laird to preside over the castle for the remainder of Christmastide!”

  The people cheered, filling the hall with such vociferousness, Aileana had a mind to plug her ears. The tradition of selecting a layman to rule over the holiday festivities was an old one—a Lord of Misrule, as the Sassenachs south of the Scottish border called it. Nostalgia for times gone by afflicted her again. She gripped her stomach with her other hand to quell the unease it induced. That she should still stand here, enjoying the rich foods that her brother would be proud to provide for their clan, to rest in the security of these fortified walls each night, feeling safe and warm when her people did not…

  James pulled her closer to his side amid the cheers, with the comfort and unconsciousness of a true husband accustomed to doing so, then slid his arm around her waist to secure his hold. She took a deep breath. What liberty he took! Nay, ye’re his wife. He handles ye as a husband would to convince his people. But the reminder did nothing to calm her nerves. What a picture they must make, for his hand was grasping her hip as if he really did have ownership, and his smell, so intoxic
ating—riding leathers and wine and the faint scent of sweat. What would such skin taste like beneath her kisses—

  She clapped a hand over her mouth at the thought.

  “Are ye well?” James muttered discreetly, eyeing her.

  Sunbursts flamed upon her cheeks. But just the thought, so close to his body heat, set free those butterflies in her stomach once more. Would she ever be rid of these girlish butterflies? Excitement skittered across her skin like flickering feathers. Still, she nodded—for words failed her at the revelation of how deep her attraction was growing—and rested against his chest.

  Her hand, moments ago holding her stomach, migrated to sit upon his belly to brace herself. His breath hitched. She felt the intake of air beneath her palm, rather than heard it over the din. Felt his arm tighten in response to her touch. Warm. Secure. Security was something she hadn’t experienced in so long. What harm was there in enjoying it? Her brother had sanctioned this arrangement in the span of an afternoon. Why feel guilty about finding a moment’s pleasure? Goodness, such pleasure now was the same burning that had afflicted her in the woods as James had braced her playfully to the tree, as he’d pushed back her hair while they sat fireside on their trek to Tioram. It was the same pleasure she’d felt when he’d helped her dress and caressed her lips and kissed her knuckles. Feeling his eyes upon her again, she glanced up and held his gaze. He chewed the corner of his lower lip as if chewing upon words he wished to say, or perhaps uncertainty at how to say them.

  “And as my bride is new here,” he continued, finally looking up, though his voice was rough and husky, “I’ll allow her to do the crowning!”

  Aileana’s eyes shot wide at the novelty as hushed gossip overtook the hall. “Pick the Abbot of Unreason?”

  James nodded, that boyish smile teasing the edges of his mouth again.

  She surveyed the expectant faces, then him again.

  “It appears I’ve rendered my sweet-tongued wife speechless.” He nodded with a satisfied smirk, looking down his arrogant nose at the jest only they understood. Damn the man. Sweet-tongued, indeed. She’d spent the whole of their first meeting slicing him with cutting words. “The honor is yers. Who would ye select? Some advice, though.” He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Never select Smithy. He abuses his power!”

  Rows of guffaws ensued—such a change from last night and the tension surrounding the bean cakes. “Made the laird wait on him hand and foot, he did!” a maid exclaimed.

  “Aye, and I might be sore about it, still!” James added with a grin.

  Aileana giggled. “It might be nice, Jamie, to make ye run at my command for a fortnight. Mayhap I’d reconsider Twelfth Night if—”

  Blast it. She jested. But a look of wanting so deep overtook James’s face, his eyes glittering mysteriously, and she felt her stomach drop for having led him astray.

  He wants me. Truly wants me. The revelation—that to him, this wasn’t a farce—rocked her. And I’ve gotten his hopes up. Did she wish to stay? It was much too soon to tell. And besides, how could she abandon her people and take up residence as this man’s legitimate wife?

  He forced a strained smile that didn’t meet his eyes, and she glanced over the expectant faces, the boys and men posturing to be seen, and the women…laughing and cheering their top choice on.

  “Must I choose a man?” she whispered up to him.

  James’s brow knitted as he comprehended her meaning. “I suppose nay. I never laid out terms, now did I? I will say it must be a person.”

  “Nay a fox or a horse?” she added, her lips lifting in that smile of truce.

  His eyes dipped down to her mouth, as if transfixed, and he brought his thumb up to caress across her lower lip. Sakes. Her smile fell at the sweep of his skin, the pad of his thumb roughened and snagging as he pushed the flesh out of shape. She’d burned for a kiss the last time he’d done this. And now he did it in front of all to see.

  He cleared his throat. Dropped his hand.

  “Who do ye choose?” he asked, relinquishing her waist, too. He took up her hand once more and tucked it in the crook of his arm, his throat bobbing hard. So formal a pose after their close hold a moment ago. Why was he putting distance between them when the closeness of their embrace had felt so good?

  Knowing her choice, she leaned up to his ear and cupped her hand around her mouth. He leaned down to listen, furrowed his brow, then grinned. He nodded once, then looked around at the celebrants.

  “I told my wife she may select anyone of her choosing! Mistress Maudie, come hither!” At first, no one came forth. “The wee lassie, Maudie!” he called again, and this time, the lass crept shyly from the shadows, circumventing the crowd, and padded across the rushes, shock paling her face.

  “Did I do something wrong, mi laird?” the child asked, bobbing in a curtsy.

  Sakes, Aileana hadn’t intended to frighten her, but James scooped Maudie up onto his forearm.

  “Nay, lassie,” he said. “Quite the opposite. My bride is pleased with ye, which pleases me that ye would bring her joy. And we are all glad ye’re well.” He turned to the crowd again. “Lady Aileana has dubbed Maudie the Abbot of Unreason!” he boomed. “Or should I say, Abbess!”

  Exclamations ran through the bailey and reverberated off the stone walls, as did clapping at the novelty of a girl wearing the title. Maudie’s face split into a wide, surprised grin, and James lowered her back to the rushes as Aileana took the woven crown and placed it upon the child’s bonnet.

  “Per tradition, Yer Grace,” James continued, teasing Maudie with a courtly bow as the people laughed, “ye must demand yer first ruling before ordering the Yule log lit. What be yer wish? A new dress? Sweets?”

  Maudie beamed and clasped her hands in front of her, twisting from side to side as those gathered around her volleyed suggestions for her first command. She stared at the crowd, overwhelmed by the onslaught of demands, then glanced up at Aileana, a grin lighting her face.

  “As the Abbot—Abbess of Unreason,” she began with uncertainty, giggling, and everyone fell silent so as to hear, “my very first ruling is…that his lairdship…”

  The silence, so deafening when the noise had moments ago been vociferous, gripped Aileana, too, as the girl covered her mouth to quell her giggles. What would the child request? Perhaps it would be enjoyable to see this warlord so humbled, toting trays of food to the child’s bed pallet with a towel draped over his arm.

  “That he kiss his new bride so that she kens he fancies her as much as Lady Brighde gossips he does!” Maudie called.

  The cheeky lass! Aileana’s stomach dropped. She’d thought wee Maudie was a sweet innocent, nay an urchin. James stiffened beside her, if only for a moment, then stood tall once more. A glance toward Brighde’s smiling face, just returned to the hall, further defeated Aileana, for her sister-of-marriage seemed pleased.

  “Kiss the lass, mi laird!” came the heckling.

  Still, James did nothing. These folk knew nothing of the conditions of their handfast.

  “Is the laird afraid?”

  “We ken ye never flaunt yer women, cousin!” taunted Angus. “But is it because ye’ve never kissed one?”

  Oh God. Attacking a man’s prowess, especially one as purely masculine as Jamie, would never do. Aileana looked down as rows of laughter mixed with further heckling. Confusion churned with curiosity in her heart. Only Angus could get away with such a remark since he, too, was noble born and a close relation.

  James turned toward her, dipping his head to her ear. “I promised yer brother I’d no’ take liberties with ye.” He squeezed her hands in his. “But hell if I havenae wanted to kiss ye since yer tongue first lashed me at Urquhart.”

  Her stare shot up to his.

  He waited for her response, but her voice failed her. All she could muster was a nod.

  “Are ye certain?” he whisper
ed, his thumb rubbing nervous caresses across her clutched fingers.

  Again, she nodded, a frantic gesture mirroring the excitement in her gut and the dryness that suddenly afflicted her mouth.

  James relinquished her hand. A finger touched her chin, tipping up her face. His twinkling blue eyes held hers captive while his people laughed and goaded him to claim the prize. Such concentration.

  He seemed intent and focused, then with a handsome smile that creased his cheeks and made nervous wings beat across her skin, said much louder now, “It’s been so ordered. One cannae disregard the Abbess of Unreason’s ruling, for it’s akin to defying the king!”

  And he dropped his lips to hers.

  She stood frozen as the ruckus roared in her ears at the laird’s audacity. How did one kiss? How did one breathe? How did one think? What was he thinking? The noise faded to the periphery of her thoughts. Her lips tingled where his touched hers, and—goodness, she needed to breathe. She sucked in a lungful, and God above, this enemy smelled so…good. Nay just like leather and wine and sweat, but like fire smoke and soap made of almond powder and marjoram mixed with the scent of his skin, a male musk all his own.

  Her pulse raced away like Devil’s galloping hooves. And then she felt his hands slide onto her waist, holding her hips, as if to anchor her. As if she needed an anchor! Her body felt rooted, leaden, her mind unable to communicate to her feet whether to stand, wobble, or dash away.

  At some point, she became aware of his tongue, running across the seam of her lips as if seeking for her to part for him. A hand snaked up her back to hold her at the nape, to fondle her hair netting tethering down her wild hair. His thumb raked up her other arm, across her collarbone to her jaw, where he rested it upon her chin. Fire lapped through her blood, pulsing hard in her ears, roaring at the sensation of such an intimate embrace. Was he finding amusement in fulfilling the bairn’s order? Blast her for choosing the wee lass! She ought to have picked a nice old peasant man, perhaps a page or squire intent on personal gains instead.