Twelfth Knight's Bride

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  Her lips pressed back to his instead. She strained on the tips of her toes to reach upward. He held still, feeling her grip on his neck and shoulders tighten, offering a piece of her affection, and he capitulated, sinking into the kiss. Gratitude and relief released like a coil needing to spring, to feel her desire acted upon.

  “I’m glad ye’re home,” she whispered against his lips.

  “I’m glad to come home to ye—”

  He cut himself short. No more sentimental nonsense. After all that had passed and their passionate embrace now, as he whispered sweet nothings like a milksop to his mistress, she hadn’t corrected him about her intent to leave. Yet she was smiling warmly at him. Sakes, she was in sore need of washing, as was he.

  “Look at ye,” he murmured playfully, “covered in blood like a hellion delivered from battle.”

  “Go on, man,” she said with a giggle and pushed him away. “We make a scene, and ye no doubt have work to do in the aftermath of this reave. It always took my brother days to refortify…”

  She looked away, catching herself, and he tried to swallow the distaste of her remark.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to look back up at him. “I always speak before thinking, and forget how my words might be received.”

  She maneuvered around him, breaking contact, and began collecting her salves and supplies into her basket. Guardsmen were helping the injured stand and hobble to their barrack.

  He forced a smile, following her, coming up from behind as she hoisted the basket onto her arm.

  Guiding her face over her shoulder to his, he leaned down and placed a peck upon her lips, his other hand resting on her hip. “I’ve helped yer people. Ye’ve helped mine. I ken ye didnae mean to spike me with barbs and wish nay to dwell on it. The past is”—he looked away, too, then nodded—“painful. But the future doesnae need to be.”

  She nodded, squeezing his forearm, then strode across the bailey. He walked beside her, up the steps, and opened the door since his usual guardsmen were occupied elsewhere.

  She stopped in the doorway, smiled, and fingered his bejeweled brooch clasping his tartan at his shoulder as if it needed intense inspection, then a droplet of blood onto his shoulder caused her brow to crease.

  “Ye’re bloodied as well.” Her fingers splayed into his hair, over his temple.

  “I’m fine,” he assured her, basking in the gentle inspection of a woman concerned for his well-being.

  “Ye’re nay injured elsewhere, are ye? Do ye need me to tend a wound?”

  “Should I injure myself, then, so as to have yer hands upon me?” he teased, another smile shimmering across his lips.

  She blushed. Sakes, this lass—bold one moment, blushing the next. He chuckled as she batted his arm.

  “Ye promised my family ye’d take no liberties,” she warned him, and yet a cheeky smile danced upon her lips as she glanced up from beneath her lashes.

  “In sooth, ye seem to have a taste for such liberties, too, lass. Do nay blame it all on me,” he jested.

  She giggled. “True, aye. It’s only taking liberties if a woman rejects yer advances…”

  She sashayed away, a coy smile upon her lips as she glanced back at him.

  He cupped his hand around his mouth. “And do ye reject them again?”

  Disappearing into a corridor across the hall, she paused, flashed him another tantalizing smile, then left him rooted like an eejit, deciphering what it meant.

  “Are ye all right, laird?” Anag curtsied to gain his attention.

  “I…what?”

  How long had he been blocking the door? She was waiting before him, clearly trying to exit, with an armload in hand.

  “Aye.” He stepped aside so she might pass, and the meaning of Aileana’s smile finally struck like a kirk bell.

  Did it mean she wanted him? At least, wanted more of him? Had his gesture of goodwill affected her that she would give this marriage consideration now? Fool that he was, he pivoted to return to his men and establish a tally of damages and depleted supplies with a merry skip to his heart. Mayhap this would all work out in the end, and he’d create the peace his father had seemed to want toward the end of his life. An alliance. Mayhap she would choose to stay.

  Chapter Twelve

  3rd of January

  “It’s good to see my wee brother so happy,” Brighde said at Aileana’s side, and Aileana hid her amusement at the thought of a wee James. “He cannae keep his eyes from ye for long, and when he does look at ye, he cannae seem to wipe that smitten look from his face.”

  Aileana waved her off as they sipped the potent mead, a cask tapped tonight to celebrate their victory yesterday that had taken well into the night to recover from. She inched closer to the smoldering Yule log to feel the heat warm her skirts and back while Jamie talked with Angus across the hall, idly stroking one of his wolfhound’s heads. Her basket of ashen twigs lay unfinished beside her, but she and Brighde had long since abandoned the task.

  “Nay, he’s busy with his cousin—”

  “Oh, posh,” Brighde cut her off. “What ye did yesterday, Aileana, why, it’s the talk of the castle, and he’s proud of ye.”

  “Wouldna’ anyone do as I did?” she argued.

  “Nay, no’ everyone, lady, and ye ken that well. And after the history betwixt our clans, it means much to us all, but especially to him.” Brighde nodded toward her brother, who, blast it, was looking at her again.

  She dipped her eyes downward, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks.

  “All his life, he was trained to fight for our land, and that in order to be a worthy laird, he must keep up that fight until we achieved what our ancestors could nay—”

  Aileana masterfully suppressed the retort on her lips, for Brighde spoke of conquering Grant land, and this drink had a tongue-loosening effect.

  “But James is a, well, an introspective sort at heart, nay so much a fighter, believe it or nay. Our sister Marjorie’s death affected him deeply and turned him into the warlord he’s reputed to be. He turned into a brooding soul after losing her, for Marjorie was much older than him and was more of a mither to him than ours ever was,” she lamented.

  “I was sorry to learn of yer sister’s passing,” Aileana said, taking her hand. “Jamie—James,” she corrected herself, although Brighde smirked knowingly, “told me about her our first night together and has confided more since.”

  “Then ye should consider that special. He’ll nay even speak of Marjorie to me. He must trust ye, to open that wound to ye.”

  Brighde smiled wistfully and looped her arm through Aileana’s, gazing at the castle folk drinking heartily and eager to celebrate. Aileana tightened the sisterly embrace. Peigi had a habit of looping arms, too, and it made Aileana both long for Peigi’s affection and take comfort in Brighde’s sisterhood.

  She swallowed.

  This sisterhood didn’t have to be severed at Twelfth Night. She hadn’t accounted for the possibility that she would grow to like these people and that they might like her when Seamus had tied those cuts of tartan around her hand and declared her married. Not once had she anticipated finding friendship here, or kindness. Certainly, she’d never anticipated finding acceptance.

  “Our mither never forgave our faither for taking a leman and took out her anger on James. It’s made my brother self-conscious of his bastardy his whole life. I always felt badly for him, for he was birthed into this world through no fault of his own, and although our faither broke his marriage vows, James was the son and heir he needed.

  “But because he was a bastard, his claim to Tioram and the Earldom of Ross has been nothing but contested. His chief competitor, our second cousin Mathus MacRuaidhri, claimed his lairdship is illegitimate and that the line of succession should flow to them. ’Tis why they employed the Frasers and the Grants—” Brighde caught herself. “I
’m sorry, Aileana, to speak so accusingly of yer people.”

  Aileana forced a smile. Sakes, but would this rivalry never be put to rest? “Worry nay, lady. Ye are one of my people, too. Please continue.”

  Brighde restarted upon a deep breath, squeezing her arm. “’Tis why our cousin MacRuaidhri employed the Frasers to oust him four years ago.”

  “How did James regain this stronghold?” Aileana asked, eying her nàmhaid husband, whose demanding and desperate kiss yesterday had left her flustered ever since.

  “We’re loyal to James. He’s always protected his folk and handled their disputes with care. We didnae make it difficult for him to creep in under the cover of night with his men. He ousted the puppet laird easily and sent him packing back to whence he’d come. But I fear he didnae forgive yer brother, Laird Grant, so easily.”

  “Nay, I remember that day too well,” Aileana said. “Granted, I knew no’ how my brother had joined forces with the Frasers and have spent much time hating James for the reaving.”

  “I fear many of a woman’s troubles are brought on by men and their disputes,” Brighde remarked, sipping her mead.

  “I suspect my brother involved himself with the Frasers to retaliate against James for a past reave, but true, we often bear the brunt of their decisions, no?”

  Brighde nodded. “I’ll drink to the sentiment.” They both imbibed another sip. “But it’s nay just his stronghold he had to win back. As ye ken by now, my mither burdened him with conditions placed upon his inheritance because of his bastardy. He’s had nothing but a rough go of it, and yet he still finds a way to overcome.”

  Aileana frowned. “What conditions?”

  Brighde opened her mouth, then shut it, then looked down. “Surely he told ye. By now, I mean. Ye do nay ken?”

  “What are ye talking about?”

  “Ach, ’tis nothing.” Brighde took a nervous sip. “I swear, this drink makes me heady. I’m just glad James found happiness with ye. He positively glows when ye’re near to him, and I never thought he’d find such contentment. He deserves it. So do ye.”

  “What does that mean? Ye confuse me.”

  Brighde sighed, as if caught in a folly, and Aileana’s skin prickled. “I shouldnae have said anything. His inheritance is his business to tell ye about.”

  “Whatever do ye speak of?”

  “Well, surely he told ye about his inheritance, aye? Held in trust at Fearn Abbey?”

  Of what on God’s green earth did Brighde mean? And yet Brighde continued spilling.

  “It was my mither who put the condition on his inheritance, for even she contested our sire’s line of descent going to James—”

  Brighde cut herself off, a guilty look marring her brow.

  “Did he nay receive his monies and title upon yer faither’s death? As his heir?”

  “Oh, his title, aye, and the castle’s coffers and these lands, but in order to claim his personal money, he needs to complete a couple tasks to the satisfaction of the abbot with writ of proof—goodness, it’s nothing.” Brighde waved her off, readjusting her hold on Aileana’s arm.

  Yet Aileana pondered. What secret was being withheld from her? She’d suspected Jamie had initially intended to make an example of Clan Grant when he’d married her, a notion further bolstered by his soldiers’ gossiping about subduing her abed. But she’d chosen not to believe it. After all, Jamie had given back her earrings, ordered her gowns made, kissed her passionately, and made reparations to her people of his own accord—that, and he had yet to take her to bed, thus honoring his promises. But now, with Brighde’s alcohol-loosened tongue, suspicion niggled once more. What had James’s true reasons been for demanding this marriage? He’d still not told her, and she, overwhelmed by all that had happened, hadn’t thought to press him.

  And yet the way he was looking at her now…

  Their gazes connected once again, and he offered her a playful grin, lifting his tankard in salutation, as Angus chattered on about something and James stroked the massive hound’s head. Nothing in his gaze felt false. It felt right. So why did something feel so wrong about Brighde’s admission?

  “I just thought ye should ken the truth,” Brighde added, “because, well, ye make it all possible now, giving yerself to him, and I ken it means much to him, considering our clans’ contentious past.” She shook her head to herself. “My, what a birthday gift this makes.”

  “Birthday gift? My handfast?” Was Brighde speaking in tongues?

  “Why, James’s day of birth falls on Epiphany. He hates to acknowledge it, but did he nay tell ye?”

  Aileana frowned. She had thought to leave Jamie on his birthday?

  “I fear I’ve somehow confused ye—oh, the bard is going to sing!” With a nervous sigh, Brighde peeled herself away to gather around the bard and musicians tuning their instruments, decorated in Yuletide splendor of rich evergreen velvets.

  Odd. What did she make possible for James now? Losing herself in thought, she stared at nothing, feeling the fire heat at her back, feeling numb. It was as if Brighde was avoiding telling her more—

  “My lady,” a deep voice thrummed beside her, and she looked up. James stood beside her, his brow soft and content, holding out his arm to her. “May I join ye? We burn the Cailleach tonight, though mayhap, considering our poor luck yesterday, we should have burned it sooner.” He chuckled, for all knew that burning the Cailleach—the wooden carving of an old hag—was supposed to bring good luck.

  She nodded and slid her arm into James’s bent elbow, forcing a smile, as wee Maudie entered the hall, still donning her crown and carrying a small log in her arms with the carving upon the bark. The hall hushed, and the lassie, struggling to carry it, made her way into the room, resisting young Harris at her side, who tried to help her with her load.

  Shuffling across the floor, she eventually made it up the steps to the hearth, and this time, as she fumbled it onto the grate, spraying sparks, James scooped the child out of the way and picked up the log, repositioning it in the flame.

  “Easy there, Yer Grace,” he teased. “We cannae have yer tunic going up in flame.”

  Aileana giggled, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Had such a girlish sound just escaped from her? Aye, this drink was potent, for she was feeling light-headed. And, sakes, James was looking down at her, his elbow tightening around her fingers. His eyes dipped to her lips. Her tongue flicked out to wet them nervously, and blast it, but his gaze remained fixed there, unabashed yearning on his face, Aileana’s cheeks stained pink beneath his assessment. Had she really suggested that she might consent to more with him?

  He dipped his head to her ear. “Pray the lassie orders her laird to kiss his lady once again. I should like every chance I can get before Epiphany to taste such a treat.”

  She sucked in hard, held her breath, unsure what it would sound like coming out. How bold! And how she wished he would kiss her again, feel him encapsulate her in his arms once again. Feel his arousal, and know it was his attraction to her that compelled such a reaction of his body. Did he burn inside as she did when they kissed? Did it feel as if his blood was on fire, thumping hard and fast like galloping stallions? As he’d said before, there was no shame in sharing sweetnesses, for they’d handfasted.

  And should their handfast dissolve, there would be far less shame in having shed her maidenhead should she choose to explore her attraction to him more deeply—God above, what am I thinking?

  Yet there was sadness in his words, too. Acceptance that he only had a fixed amount of time, or perhaps he was offering her a chance to correct him and announce she would like to stay. Sakes, Twelfth Night was fast approaching, and now that she knew it was his birthday, guilt settled in her gut. There were only a few more sleeps until Epiphany. She needed more time! How did one make such a life-altering decision so quickly?

  “Ye’re fretting. Are ye we
ll?” he asked, his brogue rolling low and soft at her side and a concerned furrow creasing his brows.

  She nodded, swallowing in a futile attempt to wet the chalk in her throat. “Just shaken from the attack. ’Tis all.”

  He pulled back, determined to look at her more deeply. “A lie, I’d wager,” he said. “Ye’re thinking about something far more serious.”

  As if the MacLeod attack hadn’t been serious. And yet she didn’t sense malice in his statement. He’d always been good at reading her thoughts.

  “Would ye like to retire for the eve?” he asked.

  “Goodness, no. I wish to celebrate the victory.” This time, her smile softened genuinely.

  He lifted her hand from his elbow and placed a long, hard kiss upon her knuckles, then enveloped her in that warmth she’d been fantasizing about, which only added to the turmoil she felt about leaving. She rested her head against his chest. He’d clearly bathed, as had she. The smell of soap was strong upon him. His tunic, too, was sun bleached and freshly scented with dried herbs, and she buried her nose against it to inhale his musk. Did she want to give up this feeling and return to Urquhart? Nay. But after Brighde’s remarks, ought she ask him what his sister had been talking about?

  He looked down at her, as if he had more he wished to say. But didn’t.

  “What’s yer first command of the night, lassie?” shouted a guardsman at Maudie.

  Goodness, she’d forgotten about all the people watching! She pulled back, knowing her cheeks burned pink once again. And yet no one seemed to notice. It was as if they accepted her with their laird and paid their affection no mind.

  Maudie looked up at them both, an impish smile curving her lips and lighting her eyes with mischief.

  “I might just get my wish,” James murmured.

  Aileana chuckled, raising her eyes heavenward.

  “I command that the laird and lady share the first dance of the night!”

  A cheer rose up. Even the arrow-wounded soldiers who sat along the wall on benches shouted approval, and the troupe struck an initial cord and launched into a reel.