Much Ado About Highlanders (The Scottish Relic Trilogy) (11 page)

Inside the courtyard, the castle folk rushed forward with cries of delight. Women pressed in around her, wanting to carry her off and bathe and dress her. The cook appeared, covered with flour and soot, ready to drag her into the kitchens and feed her. Clan elders tried to push past the others, eagerly shouting questions. Amid this mayhem, Graeme MacDougall stood on the steps leading to the Great Hall, silent and calm. He’d always known she’d be back safe.

Emily looked about her happily. Maggie the cobbler’s wife and her twin bairns on each hip, Molly the scullery maid with her red face and lisp, Robbie the stable boy with his shy smile. So many others. These people were her clan, her friends, her family. A warm feeling washed through her. The look of joy mixed with relief on their faces was not feigned. They cared about her, loved her as their own.

And she cared about them. She always had. But as the daughter of the laird, she held a special place here, a position of responsibility. She would never do anything to endanger them, she thought, feeling a twinge of uncertainty gnawing at her.

She shook off the feeling. She knew what she must do. And she was happy to be back, even if it were for a short time.

Emily dismounted and handed off the reins of her mount. She turned and found Kester standing beside her. She looked up into his kindly gray eyes.

“Aye, do it now, lass. Seize your moment. Speak your mind.”

Emily nodded and gathered her courage. Smiling and greeting the crowd as she passed through, she climbed the stairs.

“Father.” She halted a step below the laird. To everyone else, he was a man of business, cool and analytical. He was known as the one to call on for tricky problems, to offer suggestions on which course of action to take. For all of Emily’s life, Graeme MacDougall had been relied upon by both king and ministers, often called away from Craignock to negotiate something on behalf of the crown. But as busy as he was, he always had time for his daughter.

Today, she thought, he looked tired. And when he was tired, her father was not always his most receptive.

Emily inclined her head as he kissed her brow. “May I have a moment alone with you?”

“Aye, my dove. You go with the women now. We’ll take a late supper in the hall and you can tell me and everyone about your travels with your cousin, Kenna.”

He was speaking for the benefit of those around them, and Emily couldn’t miss the warning glance he sent her. She’d learned from Kester what people had been told about her whereabouts.

“I need a moment alone with you . . . now,” she repeated in a lower tone.

“You must be weary from your travels.”

“
Now
, Papa.” She moved to his side and took his arm. She had to sway him, convince him that something that he’d done for the sake of the clan must be undone. In her entire life, she’d never tried to do that. Her father loved her, in his own way; she was his only child. But for Graeme MacDougall, the clan’s welfare would always come first. “Please. It’s urgent.”

Emily was relieved when he nodded and they went inside. The MacDougall was a respected and reasonably even-tempered man in the eyes of other leaders at court and among the clans. Nearly all his life, he’d contended with others who claimed to be chief, and because of their rivalry, she had witnessed his occasional bouts of rage. She knew he was capable of it. But he’d never lost his temper with her. She never gave him any reason to. Today, she guessed, might be the first time.

She waited until they were alone in the laird’s private chambers. His worktables, as usual, were strewn with sheets of parchment, bottles of ink, wax and quills that lent a smell to this room that Emily always associated with her father. On one wall, a French tapestry depicting a lady and a knight in a garden of trees. She had a rose in her hand and was holding it out to the knight. On the wall behind his favorite chair, another tapestry with the MacDougall crest. Above the image of the steel-encased arm flexed and clutching a cross, the clan motto: “Buaidh no Bàs.” Conquer or Die.

She took a deep breath, embracing those words.

“So what is so urgent?” he asked, going to a sideboard and picking up a pitcher of mead.

“I need you to postpone my wedding by a month.”

Her father stared at her, the color in his face rising.

“What happened?” he demanded finally. “Did one of those Highlanders . . . ? Did they force you—”

“Nothing happened,” she interrupted. “But don’t you think you might have thought of those possibilities before delivering me and Kenna into the hands of the Macphersons?”

He poured himself a cup of mead, all calmness again. “I knew nothing would happen to either of you. I was helping the MacKays and the Macphersons, kinsmen and allies. So tell me, how does your cousin fare? Has she put all that foolishness behind her? Is she ready to return to her husband?”

“I don’t know how she fares. She is missing. I don’t know where she is.”

“Missing?”

Emily wasn’t ready to drop the subject of her father’s participation in the scheme to get Kenna and Alexander together. Nor was she ready to forget about his willingness to keep her ignorant of it. But right now she needed him to focus on the impending date of her wedding.

“In part, that’s why I need you to postpone my wedding.”

“Rubbish. She’ll turn up tomorrow or the next day. We can’t postpone the wedding, Emily. Not after all these preparations. And what would I say to Sir Quentin?”

“Father, we
will
postpone this wedding . . . or cancel it,” she said forcefully. “The choice is yours.”

“What did you say?” He fixed his gaze on her, one brow raised. He was no longer the solicitous father; he was now the hard-dealing laird.

“I’m giving you the choice out of respect,” she said. “I’ll not spend any more time preparing for this foolish affair. And you can tell Sir Quentin anything you like. Or you can lock me in the dungeon and drag me to the chapel and force me to marry against my will. But if that is your choice, you will end up with a far greater mess than you can possibly imagine.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’ll not marry right now. That decision is not yours to make. But you have the choice to postpone or cancel.”

Her stomach was in a knot. She pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering.

Her father slammed his cup on the sideboard, sloshing mead onto the dark polished wood. “You dare to tell me what I have a right to decide and not decide?”

“Did you raise me to be bullied into decisions that affect my entire life?”

“What do you know about life?” he bellowed. “You’re a mere chit of a lass.”

“One who has no say in whom she marries? Am I a prize cow to be auctioned off?”

“Enough! I’m laird here. I’m your father. You will do what I see fit for you and for the clan.”

Emily took a step toward him and matched his glare.

“I’ve been the perfect daughter. Submissive, agreeable, never a moment’s trouble. I’ve not demanded anything of you until now.”

“By the devil, you ride out with Kenna MacKay and return more like her than—”

“I’m not Kenna. I’m a thousand times worse.”

“That’s nonsense.”

It was now or never. Her hands fisted at her sides. “You’ll grant me my wish or I’ll walk out of here now, and you will never see me again.”

“Go on. This is all talk.”

“Talk? I will bring disgrace on this clan like you’d never imagined possible. Kenna escaped to a priory. I’ll move to a brothel in Glasgow where there will be more contenders to your laird’s seat in a year and every year after that. I will become mistress to your—”

“Enough,” he shouted. “That’s enough.”

“You can’t keep me in chains forever. Sir Quentin will recognize my insanity the moment you drag me to the kirk steps.”

Kenna saw her father’s face change, as if he were seeing her in a new light.

“What do you want?”

“I already told you.”

The descending sun was casting long beams of golden light through the narrow windows when Emily left the laird’s chambers and hurried up the stairwell to her own.

She had a month. If she could not succeed, the marriage would proceed as planned.

Servants were waiting for her, but she sent them out, directing one to find Kester and send him to her. She sat for a moment by the open window. She had a plan, but she needed to act now. The sea air wafting in seemed to carry a scent of promise.

Her gaze fell on a small needlework pincushion her mother had made when Emily was just a child. She picked it up. An image of a shield divided in two. At the top, the motto of the MacDougall’s. On one side, the arm and cross. On the other, a blue sailing ship. Emily stared at the ship now, wondering what her mother was thinking when she devised the image.

Buaidh no Bàs. Conquer or die.

I have a good eye, uncle. I can see a church by daylight.

Alexander followed the short, barrel-chested man called Peter to a heather-covered hill overlooking the loch. The red-bearded cousin of Jock lost half his hand only a few days ago in a fight with the marauders. The stitches that Kenna had used to close his wound glistened with oozing blood, but the man would live to use that hand again.

And Peter was not the neediest in this camp.

“We’ve put the wounded down there at the water’s edge. The womenfolk are keeping the sick, the old and young, in an old kirk beyond that brae.”

The moon had not yet risen, but Alexander could see dozens of people huddled around a few fires. There had to be more refugees beyond what he could see. Alexander guessed most of them had to flee with only the clothes on their backs. They were hungry, desperate, vulnerable. This made them unpredictable. He wanted Kenna away from here.

She had already gone to work with those needing her. As he looked from one group to the next, he spotted her at the center of a small cluster of folk. A tall lad in rags was holding a torch up for her, and she was cleaning and bandaging the head of a wounded farmer. A moment later, she followed an old woman to another dark shape by the water’s edge. She bent down for only a moment and then stood up, giving directions to a bystander. Alexander watched her move on to the next.

“We’ve had no time to bury the dead. The bodies, bless ’em, are by them trees. There’s a priest come into the camp today. Says he’ll give them last rites in the morning. Don’t know as it’ll do them much good then.” Peter spat on the ground and glared at the grove of trees. “But what do I know, being just a fisherman?”

Alexander glanced at the shadowy grove, but he quickly turned his attention back to Kenna. He wasn’t about to lose track of her. So far, they’d been received with gratitude, and he’d seen no sign of hostility, but their position was uncertain. Right now, they needed her. But what would happen when they didn’t? He was a Macpherson; she was a MacKay. They had to be considered outsiders, at the very least.

“Who are all these people? Where did they come from?”

“Some are from around Knipoch. But some are folk from other villages to the south. MacDougall land mostly. And there are others from inland,” Peter said. “With them dirty English bastards and that treacherous Lowland scum doing their killing for them, it’s safest to take to the hills.”

Alexander nodded, fixing his gaze on Kenna.

“Jock arrived here ahead of you this afternoon. The lad said yer wife has a gift at healing. We were anxious for you to get here.”

Kenna was directing those around her, and bits and pieces carried to them. Her voice was clear. In control. Confident. He’d seen many a surgeon work on the wounded, and there was common sense in everything he saw her doing.

Above the trees at the far end of the loch, the black velvet expanse of night sky was studded with stars. He felt foolish for the teasing he’d given her when they were walking. There had to be a logical explanation for how he was healed.

“My wife was trained by the nuns at Glosters Priory on Loch Eil, on Cameron clan land,” Alexander told him. “She knows how to bind a wound and deliver a bairn.”

“Did a fine job with mine,” Peter replied, holding up his mutilated hand.

Jock had disappeared as soon as they arrived. Alexander wanted to find the lad and talk to him about exactly what he’d told these folk. He didn’t want any ignorant nonsense circulating.

Apparently finished with the wounded for the time being, Kenna was led away from the loch toward the rise and the kirk beyond it. Alexander followed, with Peter hurrying to keep up.

“Does everyone know who we are?” Alexander asked. “My wife? Me?”

“Aye. Yer the Macpherson’s laird eldest. You command yer clan’s ships. Not many folk along the shore don’t know you.”

They reached the top of the hill as the moon appeared above the mountains to the east. The ruins of an old kirk nestled between two hillocks in a broad meadow. Not far away, a stream ran down toward the loch. The building must have been deserted long ago, he decided, from the overgrown look of the vines and other plants covering the crumbling walls and windows. The roof was gone, from what he could see.

Kenna and her entourage disappeared into the kirk, drawing looks from the scores of travelers who’d built fires outside the wall surrounding the kirk yard. Now those faces turned toward Alexander.

“Word spread before you arrived,” Peter told him. “Alexander Macpherson and his wife Kenna MacKay.”

“Jock,” he muttered as they started through the refugees’ encampment. So much for the boy’s promise. No wonder he was making himself scarce. Alexander wondered where he was hiding.

“Don’t blame the lad. He didn’t know his sister was injured until he found her lying here with a gash on her leg and a terrible burned arm.” Peter motioned ahead to the ruined kirk. “Jock’s young. He was desperate that we find yer wife. And we—”

At the sound of the rush from behind, Alexander whirled in time to knock away the arm holding a blade. As he smashed the assailant on the side of the face with his fist, a club whirred through the air, aimed at Alexander’s head. The weapon landed low, striking him hard on the shoulder and sending him tumbling backward. He was on his feet before they could reach him.

The two remaining men hesitated, and Alexander knew from their faces this was not going as they’d planned. Another man—the one with a short sword—was shaking his head and trying unsuccessfully to rise.

He faced them, and the two began to spread out. From their clothes, he knew his burly attackers were fishermen. They carried small clubs and dirks. Behind them, Peter was on one knee, clutching his injured hand.

“Do I know you lads?” Alexander asked coolly, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Because I like to know the men I kill.”

“Ne’er mind about that,” one growled, raising his club menacingly. “We know you . . . pirate. You and yer MacKay bitch.”

The two rushed at him, clubs swinging. Alexander took a glancing blow to the head as he ducked under one club. Coming up quickly, he slammed his fist into a furious face, driving one fisherman into the other. The two tumbled to the ground. Following, the Highlander landed a kick to the head of one, knocking him cold. He turned to drop a knee on the throat of the other, who was moaning.

He glanced up just in time to see the third assailant, standing now with his sword in hand, take a blow to the side of his head and topple like a straw man in the wind. Peter was behind him, glaring fiercely at the three.

“I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind,” the wounded fisherman growled, picking up a club. “I know these birds only too well.”

As Alexander stood, Peter solidly rapped the head of the moaning attacker, silencing him for the moment.

Kenna appeared, pushing through the crowd that had formed a larger ring around them. She looked from Alexander to the three fishermen and Peter, and back at her husband.

“Have you finished introducing yourself around?” she asked tensely.

Alexander glanced at the crowd. No one else appeared ready to fight. “I believe I have, wife.”

Kenna took him by the arm and pulled him toward the ruin. The crowd parted for them.

As they started across the kirk yard, Peter could be heard shouting at the others. “So this is the way to thank the MacKay lass for helping yer kin now, is it?”

Alexander turned to see him kick one of the men who’d started moaning again.

“Yer lucky the Macpherson didn’t cut yer throat, you cod-faced dolt. And nay, I’d not blame his wife for not sewing you back up if he did.”

Inside the kirk, Alexander saw that a small fire had been lit at the far end of the church nave. Near it, a number of sick folk lay on blankets, and those seeing to them hovered around. Kenna took him across the chancel through an open doorway into what must have been the vestry at one time. Now, only three walls and part of a fourth remained, and ancient charred timbers from the former roof stretched across the room.

The rising moon cast shadows across the stone floor, and Alexander looked up at the broad night sky above.

Kenna led him to a timber in the corner against a wall.

“How many times do I have to fix you?”

“I believe we took an oath that calls for . . . a lifetime’s worth.”

She shook her head and pressed a flat hand against his chest.

He sat down. They were eye to eye. Alexander wondered if this would be the good time to apologize for his earlier ribbing.

Kenna looked exhausted. She used a rag and dabbed at his forehead and the side of his mouth. He wished there were a way he could carry her away from all this, take her somewhere where it would be only the two of them. To a place where he could take care of her and show her that he was a husband that she’d want to keep.

“That was the same oath that we’re getting annulled. You’re far too much trouble.”

“Aye, I’m some trouble. But I’m worth it.”

“For a brigand and an ape, you do have a fanciful imagination.”

“Admit it, Kenna. You like me.”

He pulled her by the waist until she stood between his knees. Her eyes rivaled the stars above. Her mouth was inches away.

“You’re a curious beast, to be sure.” She traced what had to be a bruise by the line of his jaw. “But you have very little charm. Nothing that entices me nor tempts me to change my mind.”

He drew her closer until her breasts were crushed against his chest and kissed her with a lashing assault of lips and tongue. There was no hesitation on her part. She moaned deep in her throat and her arms encircled his neck. Her mouth opened under the pressure of the kiss, her tongue dancing with his in a seductive promise of more.

He wanted to tear open her blouse, taste the sweetness of her breasts, feel the weight of their fullness in his palm. He ached with desire for her. He wanted to bury himself deep inside of her. She ground her body against him, and the urge to yank up her skirts, to lift Kenna onto him, was the only half-conscious thought racing through the flashing heat in his head.

And then, from somewhere, a rational thought intruded.

To take her here, now, would mean there would be no annulment. The choice he wanted her to make, the choice to stay with him, would be gone. And she would blame him for the rest of their lives.

Bloody hell, he cursed inwardly. Bloody, fucking hell.

He ended the kiss, wrenching his mouth away. She was breathless. Alexander stared at those swollen lips, at those half-closed eyes, clouded with passion.

“I’m telling you now, lass, sex between us will make the Highland storm seem tame, make the summer lightning only a pale flash of light. And you don’t even know where my fancy can take us.”

“So my reason, my sanity even, depends on
never
making love with you.” Her eyes, clear and focused now, flashed with mischief.

“Nay, your reason will never be trustworthy until you experience the bliss that I bring to our marriage bed.”

“A wee bit full of yourself, I’m thinking.”

Before she could object, he turned her slightly in his arms, reached under her skirt, and slid his hand up to the junction of her thighs. She gasped as he touched her wetness. Holding her steady, he slipped a finger into the tight sheath and saw her eyes grow round. A soft cry escaped her lips.

“What . . . what are you doing?”

“Showing you something of what’s to come.”

He withdrew his finger and slid it in again. This time she rocked against his hand. He stared into Kenna’s eyes. Her desire matched his.

“Bad timing, lass. And not the perfect place, but I want to give you this, now.”

He rose to his feet and pressed her back against the wall, his body shielding hers.

Her body quivered when he pushed a knee between her legs and he touched her again. He teased her slick folds, and his tongue played the depth of her sweet mouth as he copied the action of his finger. Her breaths became shorter and shorter; her little gasps became whimpers. Suddenly, with a cry that Alexander swallowed with a kiss, she arched against his hand and shuddered with complete abandon.

Sweeping her into his arms, he sat down and gathered her on his lap. She clutched him about the neck tightly, and he could feel the tremors racing through her body as waves of pleasure continued to wash over her. Doing his best to ignore his own throbbing desire, he simply held her.

It was some time before he felt enough control to set her again on her feet and find his voice. “And this is only a sample, wife.”

She took a deep breath. “Oh my. I’ve . . . I’ve never . . .” She stopped, smiled shyly, and stared at his chin. “Very well. I admit it. You’re a temptation.”

He heard Peter call for him from the nave. Kenna straightened her dress, and he waited until she gave him a nod before going out of the vestry with his wife behind him.

A hooded, ferret-faced priest was standing beside Peter. His eyes followed Alexander as they drew closer and then fixed on Kenna.

“The good Father here wants a word with you,” Peter said. “Alone.”

“I’ll be over there, tending to those who need me.” Kenna motioned with her head toward the sick.

Alexander watched her go, in no hurry to recover from what had just happened. To him, Kenna’s magic—if that’s what it was—ran far beyond the power of healing. Her true gift lay in the power she had over his heart.

“What is it, priest?” Alexander demanded when Peter walked away.

“I need to speak with you privately.” The man looked at the women working at the far end of the ruin. “What I have to say, what I have to offer, is for your ears only.”

Alexander wasn’t letting Kenna out of his sight. “Whatever you have to tell me, you’ll tell me here and now.”

The priest visibly bristled; then he shrugged.

“I know who you are, Highlander, and I know why you’re here,” he said, glancing in Kenna’s direction.

“So, what of it?”

“My church and living in the Borders were destroyed by the English marauders, so this is my flock now, such as it is.”