Highlander's Sword (2 page)

   A small bundle of yarrow leaves had been pressed into Aila's hand. It was common knowledge that if a maiden slept with yarrow under her pillow on St. John's Eve, she would dream of her future husband. Aila opened her mouth to call the lass back. She had no need of a husband; she was bound for the convent. Yet the words stuck in her throat, and she watched the girl skip away. She should drop the plant on the ground.

   She slipped the yarrow leaves into her pocket.

   "Och, Lady Aila." A serving maid, flushed pink with exertion, ran to Aila. "Come ye quick! Laird Graham done and invited more for the feast, and Cook's fashed something fierce."

   "How many more are expected?" Aila inquired and followed the maid back to the kitchens.

   "Fifty men, m'lady. And they look the hungry sort."

   Aila frowned and quickly did some calculations. She muttered in Latin when it came to some more difficult sums, not realizing her thoughts found their way to her lips and unaware of the strange look the maid gave her. This was going to be a problem. Her father had not bothered to send word of any changes to the guest list. The oversight was not unusual, since he rarely spoke to her, most likely a result of the ongoing feud with her mother. Not for the first time, Aila wished her parents would end their silent war.

   Aila stepped into the kitchens and was assailed by the heat of the ovens and the welcoming smell of rising yeast and baking bread.

   "Lady Aila, Lady Aila," wailed Cook when he caught sight of her. "Fifty more men. What am I to do? I've got precious little grain left, even if I had the time to bake. What wi' the fields being ruined, we'll be short this winter. We'll all die o' starvation." The big man was near tears and wringing his pudgy hands. Cook was excellent with the preparation of food, but he never failed to make the most of any inconvenience.

   "No one is going to starve, no' tonight, no' this winter." Aila spoke with more confidence than she felt, given the current situation. Despite Cook's tendency to overreact, his current worry was one of true concern. Without explanation, there had been several accidents of late in which their fields had been burnt. If the destruction continued, it would indeed be a lean winter, but Aila was confident it would be well. How many accidents could there possibly be?

   "Send some lads to Carron to help wi' the baking. If the meal be a little late, I assure ye, no one will notice." Aila spoke with brisk calmness and decided a change of subject was in order. "Do ye ken who will be joining us for the feast?"

   "'Tis the MacLaren and his men."

   Aila's mouth dropped at the mention of MacLaren's name. Her heart skipped a beat then thumped wildly as if to compensate for the missing pulse.

   "MacLaren? MacLaren is here? Are ye certain?" Memories hit her like a hot blast from the ovens. The last time MacLaren had entered the castle walls, he had brought news of her only brother's death. Her brother had led the contingent of warriors from Dundaff to join King David's ill-fated campaign against the English. The Scots had been hard-pressed at Neville's Cross. Attempting to turn the battle, the Graham clan, known for their fierce valor, had charged the field, only to be cut down by the longbow. The Grahams suffered grievous losses. Aila's brother, uncles, cousins—all dead. The Scots fled, King David was captured, and the fragile unity of Scotland, forged under Robert the Bruce, dissolved.

   And now MacLaren was here again? Aila fervently hoped his presence was not a sign of some new calamity. Though perhaps Graham meant simply to invite MacLaren to thank him for his service to the clan. She had heard a rumor that MacLaren was the one who had snuck back over the border to retrieve her brother's body from English soil and bring him home for proper burial.

   Aila pushed aside the pain of her loss and focused on the task at hand. She would probably never know why her father had invited MacLaren, but at least she could make sure he was properly fed. She gave additional instructions to Cook and sent some lads to prepare sleeping quarters.

   "Lady Aila," a castle page addressed her with solemn self-importance. "Laird Graham requests yer presence."

   Everything stopped. No one moved. The kitchen, for the first time in Aila's memory, was silent. The last time she had been called before her father, he had told her of the slaughter of her clansmen and the death of her brother. Despite standing in the heat of the kitchens, a chill crept up Aila's boots and slithered all the way to her fingertips.

   "By the saints," murmured Cook. His eyes were filled with fear.

   "Continue preparing for the feast," Aila said quietly, though her throat had gone as dry as their burnt fields. "'Twill all be well."

   Aila followed the page to the main keep and the domain of her father, Laird Graham of Dundaff. Why would her father summon her? Had MacLaren come once again to leave ruin and grief in his wake? Worse yet, had her father discovered what she had been doing every morning? What would he do to her if he had? Her stomach flipped in a mean, queasy roll. Her father had never been unkind to her, but neither had she ever given him cause. Laird Graham was a large gruff man who could intimidate seasoned warriors with ease. If he was now angry with her…

   Aila entered her father's solar with some difficulty, since her feet grew heavier with every step. Confirming her fears, MacLaren stood next to her father. The two imposing men stared at her, saying nothing. This could not be good. Her father folded his large arms across his massive chest and turned to MacLaren.

   Aila was struck at the change in MacLaren. She had known him years ago when he had been a friend to her brother. The warrior now before her hardly resembled the braw, cocksure young man who had left Scotland to fight the English in France. He looked older, his slate eyes cold. A red scar carved a wicked path from the corner of his left eye down to his chin.

   "Well?" demanded her father.

   MacLaren looked her up and down in a manner that brought heat to her face.

   "Aye, I'll have her."

   Aila's mouth dropped open, and she stared at one, then the other. MacLaren frowned and turned to Laird Graham.

   "Ye've no' told her then?"

   "I've told no one," replied her father. "Watch yer back, laddie. I warrant there will be some what will take offense to yer marriage."

   
Marriage?

"WHAT DO YE MEAN, 'MARRIAGE'?" AILA'S VOICE squeaked. What was happening?

   Her father spoke with authority. "I mean ye to marry MacLaren here. He's a good lad and will be kind to ye." Graham gave MacLaren a hard look. "Or ye'll be answering to me, laddie."

   "Aye, m'lord."

   "But I'm for the convent…"

   Her father sighed. "Nay, lass. Since yer brother, along wi' most o' our kin, died at Neville's Cross, unless I sire another son, ye stand to inherit all my holdings. I'll no' be giving all of Dundaff to the Church, no' wi' Barrick as abbot. He'd be turning out my tenants afore I was cold in the ground. Nay, I owe more to our clan than that. And I'll be damned if I let that bastard McNab have ye." Graham's voice raised and he pounded his fist in his hand. "Now, we are to the Church."

   "Now?" MacLaren and Aila spoke as one.

   "Aye, children, let's be done wi' it."

   "But, father, I canna… Ye dinna mean… marry

him?" It was unfortunate that coherent speech chose that moment to abandon her. Aila felt slightly dizzy, as if the air in the room had gone thin. MacLaren was uncom monly large, his even larger claymore strapped to his back. This man could not be her future. She was going to be a nun. She had been promised to the Church as a young girl, and a new convent and monastery had been built on her dower lands—lands that would be given to the Church. Marriage was not possible.

   "Daughter," said Graham in a low voice that resonated with danger, "I say ye will marry MacLaren, and marry ye will." Graham looked at Aila, then MacLaren, as if daring either to brook opposition. "'Tis time to be wed."

   In numb silence, Aila followed her father as he limped across the courtyard to the tower chapel, MacLaren directly behind her. She sensed his presence behind her and knew he was staring at her. A shiver went up her spine, and the nape of her neck tingled.

   As they crossed the courtyard, a tall, attractive knight Aila had never seen before fell into step with MacLaren. He spoke to MacLaren quietly in French, and though it was not good manners, Aila strained to hear their conversation.

   "How did it go with Graham?" asked the tall knight.

   "I'm getting married," replied MacLaren evenly, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

   "What, now?"

   
"Oui."

   "Are you ready for it?"

   "No."

   "Will you go through with it?"

   The question remained unanswered as they entered the chapel tower and marched up the stairs. Aila followed her father blindly, feeling naught but a hazy bewilderment. At the landing before the chapel door, Laird Graham left them to speak privately with the priest. Aila turned to MacLaren, her future hanging on his answer to the French knight.

   MacLaren looked appraisingly at Aila, causing her once again to fluster. Men did not look that way at her. Everyone knew she was bound for the convent. Besides, she knew there was nothing in her appearance that would interest a man. Her kirtle was plain and modestly cut. A white linen wimple covered all of her hair and wrapped around her chin, revealing nothing of her mass of red curls. Her face she knew to be plain, her ivory complexion hiding none of the freckles no amount of buttermilk could wash away. Worst of all, at least according to her mother, she had grown much too tall.

   MacLaren continued his assessment in a manner most unchivalrous. It would have been more modest to look away, but with a rising sense of indignation, Aila squared her shoulders and met his gaze. Perhaps if he saw her undesirable features more clearly, he would change his mind about proceeding with the union.

   "Aye, we'll be wed," MacLaren answered in Gaelic with a tone of finality.

   Aila's knees gave way and she stumbled to a bench beside the chapel door. How could this be happening? This could not possibly be real. Surely she would awaken soon. She felt the lump in her pocket and pulled out the yarrow plant, staring at it suspiciously. She knew St. John's Eve was a dangerous time, for mischievous spirits were abroad, but she hardly thought a little plant could be quite this magical. What was in this thing?

   Aila put her head in her hands, her mind having difficulty keeping pace with all that was happening around her. Up until this morning, her life had been utterly predictable. She knew her duty well. She was to tend to her ailing mother until she passed, and then she would take her vows. Her mother! Saints above, her mother would be furious to find her married. Her ears burned thinking of what her mother would say. And how could she possibly explain this to the sisters of St. Margaret's? What would her mentor, Sister Enid, think?

   Trying to focus her thoughts, Aila considered all she knew of this man her father wished her to wed. MacLaren had returned to the Highlands less than a year ago, after spending many years in France fighting against the English. He must have been successful, since he had been knighted for valor and brought back a considerable force of seasoned warriors. She also knew that MacLaren's clan had suffered during his five-year absence, and he returned to find there was not much left. Aila's thoughts were interrupted by the laughter of the French knight.

   "Faith, man, not like that, I pray," said the French knight to MacLaren in a jovial tone. "You cannot intend to enter the house of our Lord wearing naught but a blanket." Apparently, the French knight took issue with MacLaren's Highland garb. At the well-dressed Frenchman's chastisement, Aila thought to remove the simple smock she used to cover her silk kirtle.

   "I'll leave it to ye to be concerned wi' fashion. I'll no' compete wi' ye on that score," MacLaren answered without concern.

   "Few men can, to be sure," replied the Frenchman immodestly.

   Since the men were paying her no heed, Aila took a moment to make her own assessment of the two knights. They were both tall, well-formed, and moved with the fluid grace of skilled warriors. The Frenchman was a wee bit taller and slimmer. He was richly dressed in the latest court fashion and stunningly handsome, as he was clearly well aware.

   Despite the Frenchman's fine looks, it was MacLaren who held her gaze. MacLaren was dressed in the rough attire of the Highlander. His large plaid was belted at his waist and thrown over one shoulder, pinned to his linen shirt. It was not a garb worn frequently by her clan, but living on the border of the Highlands, she was accustomed to their style of dress. The plaid revealed his lower legs and, occasionally—she noted with a sudden skip of her heart—a glimpse of a muscular thigh.

   Aila swallowed hard. MacLaren was as tall as her father, with broad shoulders and a powerful presence. Yet where her father was large and barrel-chested, MacLaren was more lean and muscular. His black wavy hair fell about his face in an unkempt manner, framing his gray eyes, cold as granite. She had spent her entire life preparing for the convent, praying with the sisters, studying the scriptures. Nothing had prepared her for this. MacLaren turned toward Aila and caught her staring. He raised an eyebrow, and this time she had the decency to turn away with a blush.