Highlander's Reckoning (The Sinclair Brothers #3) (3 page)

Rona knew she should have returned to Loch Doon
hours ago. Night had already fallen, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from
Bhreaca.

The peregrine falcon perched on her gauntleted wrist
cocked her head, hearing something that Rona couldn’t. What Rona wouldn’t give
to live in Bhreaca’s body, even for a day. All afternoon and evening, Rona had
flown Bhreaca, sending her hunting for rabbits and pheasants and letting her
stretch her wings.

Reluctantly, Rona eased the falcon into her mews,
which provided protection and safety while she slept. Fionna, Ian’s white
gyrfalcon, preened in the wooden mews built next to Bhreaca’s.

With one last stroke of her speckled chest feathers,
Rona closed the door to the mews and sighed.

“It’s never long enough, is it?”

She turned at the warm sound of Ian’s voice behind
her.

“Nay. I wish I could fly her all day. Or better yet,
I wish I could fly
with
her!”

Ian chuckled, and they both turned from the mews,
which were built against the small cottage Ian shared with Mairi.

As Rona entered the cottage behind Ian, Mairi’s
dark-locked head lifted from the caldron of stew she was preparing.

“Shall I fix you a bowl, dear?” Mairi asked Rona.

Rona’s stomach rumbled and she took a deep
inhalation of the warm, seasoned rabbit stew. “Though I’d like nothing more
that to share Bhreaca’s catch with you, I have already overstayed.”

Ian frowned as he went to Mairi’s side. “You know
you’re always welcome, Rona.”

“Of course!” Warmth suffused her at the couple’s
kindness. “It’s not that. It’s…apparently Daniel Sinclair is supposed to arrive
today.”

“The one who—” Mairi halted. She knew from previous
conversations that the arranged marriage was a sore subject for Rona.

“Aye, that one,” she replied with a weak smile.

“And when you say he’s supposed to arrive today, you
mean he probably already has?” Ian quirked a light brown brow at her, trying to
keep his tone neutral.

“I’m going to catch hell for this,” Rona muttered,
but that only brought a broad grin from Ian and a forced look of disapproval
from Mairi.

Seeing her husband’s smile, Mairi swatted his
shoulder. “Don’t encourage her, Ian,” she said, trying to sound stern. “You’d
best be off, then, dear,” she said to Rona. “The birds will be here when you
return.”

Instead of comforting her, Mairi’s words sent her
heart sinking. She had tried to tell herself all day as she flew Bhreaca that
nothing would change now that she was to be married. She could still sneak away
to Ian and Mairi’s little cottage in the Galloway woods and fly Bhreaca
alongside Ian and his gyrfalcon Fionna. She could still sit and chat with
Mairi. She could still keep their secret.

But what if her new husband kept a closer eye on her
than her father did? What if he wouldn’t let her travel alone through the
forest to Ian and Mairi’s isolated cottage? Or worse, what if he found out that
she not only knew how to train and keep falcons, but that she flew a peregrine
falcon? And that Ian flew a snow-white gyrfalcon?

The fact that she knew how to hunt with a bird of
prey wasn’t entirely incriminating. As the daughter of a Laird, it was
conceivable that her family could keep a falconer on hand for when they wanted
to go hunting.

But as a lady, she was only allowed to hunt with a
sparrowhawk or a merlin, smaller birds that flew more for show than to put food
on the table.

A peregrine falcon, on the other hand, was the sign
of wealth and status. Such birds were normally reserved for princes. And flying
a bird above one’s station was considered a felony and an act of rebellion
against the social order. She could have one or both of her hands cut off for
flying Bhreaca. And she didn’t even want to think about what would be done to
Ian—gyrfalcons were reserved for kings.

But more damning was how she came to learn
falconry—it was the secret she kept for Ian and Mairi. Even if, as the daughter
of a Laird, she knew how to hunt with a falcon, she shouldn’t know how to train
a bird, how to bring it from the wild and teach it to trust her. Even the most
avid hunter of noble birth had his own falconer, someone trained in the art of
working with a wild bird. A lady wouldn’t know such an art—nor would two
peasants living humbly in the woods.

Rona’s fears and heartache must have been written
all over her face, for Mairi approached and wrapped her arms around her. “Are
you worrying again, dear?”

She nodded silently and tried to swallow the lump
that was forming in her throat.

“We’ll be all right,” Ian said softly. “We’ve always
gotten by.”

Rona straightened out of her embrace with Mairi,
forcing a brave smile on her face. “I know you’re right. I just need reminding
sometimes.”

After all, Ian’s family had been practicing
falconry—illegally, according to the King of England’s laws—as a family
tradition for generations. They didn’t seek wealth and prestige as noblemen’s
falconers. Instead, they practiced the art as a way to put food on the table
and to honor the powerful, awe-inspiring birds of prey they worked with.

“I just know so little about this Daniel Sinclair
whom I am to marry. But you know that I’ll keep your secret, and mine.”

Ian and Mairi both nodded solemnly in response.

Rona hustled out the cottage door, looking back once
at the warm light that spilled around Ian and Mairi as they stood in the
doorway watching her go.

By the time she reached Loch Doon, it had been dark
for hours. Luckily, all the extra activity around the village and castle in
preparation for her soon-to-be-husband’s arrival meant that it was easy for her
to find a boat to transport her back to the island. When she docked, the
portcullis still stood open.

Clutching her cloak around her, she hurried under
the portcullis and into the courtyard. It struck her that although there was
still an air of tense anticipation hanging around the castle, the yard was
quiet and empty. She could see that light still shone from several of the tower
keep’s windows, though. Perhaps she wasn’t too late. Perhaps Daniel Sinclair
hadn’t arrived today.

She eased open the large doors to the great hall.
Instead of finding it filled with servants and people sitting down for the
evening meal, the hall was nearly empty. Her eyes fell on her father, who stood
nearby wringing his hands. But then her attention shifted as a shadowy figure
crossed in front of the fire in the huge hearth.

“Rona!” Her father’s voice pierced the eerie quiet,
but her attention was held on the stranger in front of the fire, whose head
whipped up and toward her.

“Rona, where have you been? How dare you disappear
like that, and on such an important day?” Her father rushed toward her,
blocking her vision of the stranger. He wrapped his hands around her arms and
shook her hard.

“Answer me, girl!” her father shouted, giving her
another harsh shake.

“Laird Kennedy.”

The stranger’s voice boomed across the empty hall,
and yet he hadn’t shouted. He merely spoke with complete authority.

“I would thank you to take your hands off my bride.
Seeing as how I am the keeper of this castle and the lass’s future husband,
I’ll handle this.”

Her father reluctantly stepped aside, but suddenly
Rona preferred to face her father’s wrath that this stranger’s cool, commanding
authority.

As the man approached, she got her first good look
at him. He was garbed in a simple linen shirt, and though it was soiled and
dirty, it couldn’t obscure his large, muscular frame. Over one broad shoulder
was thrown a length of red plaid, which was fastened with a simple pin. The
plaid was also wound around his trim hips in a kilt. She had only ever seen
kilts on the rough Highlanders who occasionally passed through the village on
their way to fight the English.

His lower legs were covered in woolen hose and tall
leather boots, which looked just as soiled and worn as his shirt. Though he
didn’t wear a great sword on his hip or strapped to his broad back the way the
other Highland barbarians she had seen did, he had a long knife secured to his
calf, making him look all the more fierce.

But what truly took her breath away was his handsome
yet ominously stormy visage. His long, dark brown hair was pulled back loosely
from his face. Dark stubble obscured his jawline, but she could see that it was
firm and angular beneath his scruff. Frowning lips sat below his straight,
strong nose, and his eyes—they looked almost black in the low light of the
hall, but as he approached, she realized they were blue-gray like a squally
sea.

“Leave us,” the man said flatly to her father,
though his eyes never left her. In fact, she suddenly felt very exposed and
vulnerable under his hard, sharp gaze.

Without a word of protest, her father hurried toward
the staircase leading to the chambers above.

Rona forced herself to straighten her spine under
the man’s silent stare. She wouldn’t be made to quaver in her boots by some
stranger, even if he was to be her husband. Never mind that his gaze made her
feel silly and tongue-tied.

“I take it you must be Daniel Sinclair, third son to
the Laird of a Highland clan,” she said levelly.

If her father had been there, he would have gone
into a fit at her impertinence for drawing attention to the man’s lower rank.
But she was no docile, sweet lady; it was best he knew that from the beginning.

She was prepared for his frown to deepen, or even
for him to berate her for her insolence. Instead his face remained flat and
unreadable.

“And I take it you must be Rona Kennedy, daughter of
a disgraced and disloyal Laird.”

She felt her eyes widen and her jaw slacken at the
open insult he flung at both her and her father. Well, she had started it. But
to openly call her father disloyal? Too late, she realized that her temper had
reached the boiling point.

“How dare you come into our home and insult us in
this manner! My father did what was necessary to keep Loch Doon in one piece!
I’m sure a
Highlander
like you wouldn’t understand the finer points of
diplomacy and negotiation required in the Lowlands during this tumultuous
time.”

“You call Loch Doon your home, but I’ll remind you
that it is Robert the Bruce’s ancestral land, and he built Loch Doon with his
own two hands. I am the keeper of the castle now, and I serve the Bruce—not the
English who threaten us.”

Daniel watched as a series of emotions flitted
across the Kennedy lass’s face. Though he doubted she was aware of it, her
thoughts and feelings were written clearly on her comely features.

Actually, she was more than comely. As Daniel had
approached when she entered the hall, he took in her bright red hair, which
rolled in loose waves down her back. It made her look wild, like some forest
fairy. Her skin was pale, but her cheeks had a pink tinge from the cold
outside. When he was standing right in front of her, he realized that a
smattering of freckles crossed the bridge of her small, pert nose, making her
look all the more impertinent. Her eyes blazed bright blue, a cold fire to
match her flame-red hair.

Anger, outrage, and stubbornness all warred for
dominance on her face. She nearly retorted again, but she forcefully swallowed
her words and pressed her lips together.

That gave him another moment to strategize his
approach to the lass. First she had evaded him by disappearing for the entire
afternoon and evening. That had given him plenty to stew about. Though he and
the rest of the castle had taken a quick and joyless evening meal in the great
hall, he had been too distracted and annoyed to bathe or get settled in his new
chamber. Instead, he had paced the empty hall with Kennedy hovering over him
until she suddenly appeared.

Then her first words to him were a direct challenge
to his authority and rank. Gilbert Kennedy had at least attempted to suppress
his feelings of frustration at being deposed. This lass, on the other hand,
went straight on the attack.

So, how was he to treat a hostile bride who was
evasive one minute and on the attack the next? Judging by the cracks she was
showing in her steel-spined exterior, perhaps his level coldness made her
uncomfortable.

After a long silence stretched, he finally spoke,
keeping his voice neutral. “Where have you been all evening?”

Damn, the question only seemed to harden her. She
crossed her arms over her chest, which caused the thick cloak she wore to fall
back over her shoulders. It was the first glimpse he had of her form. She was
slender and lithe, though at the moment her posture made her look fierce. Her
crossed arms emphasized her breasts, which were high and firm. Though not
deep-bosomed, she was endowed with a slim yet womanly figure. He suddenly
realized she was tall for a lass. Her head came up to his chin, and he towered
over most men.

The silence deepened as she continued to stare back
at him, refusing to answer.