Highlander's Sword (6 page)

   The room was clean and, apart from a great curtained bed, rather simply adorned. A brush and copper mirror lay on a small table beside the bed. A chest sat at the foot of the bed, and a washing tub, still filled with water, had been placed by the window alcove. It appeared he may have interrupted her in the middle of her bath, yet the room was neat and orderly. And nothing in the room resembled the frightened looking lass he married that morn. He was unsure of what to do next. There were no tapestries on the walls and nothing of a personal nature to provide him clues to her disposition. Feeling an odd mixture of relief and disappointment but seeing no point in standing in an empty room, he went back to the staircase. Noting the stairs went farther up to what he guessed was the turret, he decided to take a look and orient himself to the terrain that may soon be host to his next battle.

   He bounded up the stairs, thinking of strategy, and reached the top of the turret before he realized he was not alone. He froze at the unexpected sight. A woman, dressed in nothing more than a linen chemise and a plaid wrap that hung loosely about her arms, was standing in profile, gazing at the valley below. Her figure, which he strained to see in the sunlight through the thin chemise, was perfect. The wind swirled around in teasing gusts, pressing the fabric to her skin, revealing her curves and then billowing out the material once more. In the late afternoon sun, her hair seemed to reflect the sun's rays with no lesser brilliance, shining like red-hot embers, as if her long ringlets were emanating a light of their own. The wind played with her hair, swirling it around her. She closed her eyes and arched her back into the sun.

   MacLaren's mouth fell open. He was reminded of the sirens who led men to their deaths. This one could certainly lead a man to destruction. Since he was a man newly married and she had not yet seen him, he endeavored to leave before notice. His boot scuffed the floor. She turned at the sound and made a small gasp, covering her mouth with one hand, her chest with the other. MacLaren also gasped. The beauty before him was none other than his wife.

SAINTS ABOVE, BUT SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL. MACLAREN stared at his wife, and she stared right back at him. He tried to think of something to say, but his mind grew ever more blank as the awkward silence continued. He was seized by the compulsion to kiss her, rejected the idea, but then remembered that with this lass, he had the right. He walked slowly toward her, the desire to thread his fingers through her hair and press his lips on hers growing with every step.

   "Sorry, sir, ye startled me. I dinna ken you were there," Aila finally said. She chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes growing larger with MacLaren's approach.

   "Hmmm," said MacLaren, because it was all he could think of to say.

   "I have been remiss in not stating this earlier," Aila's words tumbled on top of each other, her voice a little high. MacLaren drew nearer and reached out to touch her. Nothing could stop him now. "Please let me express my deepest gratitude for the return o' my beloved brother."

   Nothing but that.

   Painful memories came flooding back, and MacLaren's arm dropped along with his desire. He remembered the night he returned to the battle ground of Neville's Cross. There had been so many dead. It had taken hours, crawling body by body to evade capture, before he found the remains of William Graham. Will had been a good friend, quick with a sword, faster on a horse. It should not have ended this way. If only MacLaren had arrived in Scotland sooner.

   When MacLaren heard of King David's advance into England, he followed his path, intending to join his forces. He met the Scots when they were in full retreat. All he could do was to protect their retreating flanks and avoid a rout as they crossed back into Scotland. He had been a day too late. One day earlier, and he could have helped to turn the tide. Or maybe he would have joined his friend in the sleep of death.

   He nodded to Aila, accepting her words, and turned his focus to the waning sun casting its long shadows across the landscape. The vista from the tower was impressive, providing a view of some of Graham's extensive lands. Awkward silence threatened to engulf them again, and MacLaren recognized it was his turn to say something.

   "'Tis a highly defensible position," he stated, showing his appreciation for the castle's design.

   "Pardon?"

   "Dundaff. 'Tis well built. Good visibility. Ye winna be able to take her by surprise."

   "Oh… aye," said Aila, looking a bit confused.

   "So…" He voiced the first question that came to mind. "Ye were meant for the Church?"

   "I was destined for the Church from an early age. My mother's dream was for me to be an abbess. But wi' her poor health, I was needed here. I was waiting until my brother took a wife who would act as chat elaine of Dundaff in my stead, but then…" She turned toward the waning sun now setting to her left. "But then ye came." She turned to him with a tentative smile, looked down the length of him, blushed, and turned back to the battlements.

   MacLaren noted her appraisal of his person with some interest and wondered if he had passed inspec tion. Uncommonly conscious of his appearance, he was glad to be clean shaven and freshly bathed. At Chaumont's insistence, he had abandoned his Highlander's garb in favor of the attire he was accustomed to wearing while in France. Instead of his kilt, he wore snug-fitting russet-colored breeches tucked into black leather boots. Over a linen tunic, he wore a formfitting surcoat of dark green that hung to mid-thigh.

   The coat had cost him a considerable sum and was a fine piece of work, embroidered with gold thread along the edges and held together with gold buttons down the front. He recalled, with some repul sion, he had commissioned the coat to wear to the French court, in large extent to impress the Countess Marguerite. Both the countess and Laird Graham's daughter had been born into higher rank and privilege than he, and he wondered if Aila also thought herself beyond his touch.

   "Ye seemed reluctant to wed this morn," MacLaren said, edging closer to his suspicions about her pride.

   "I was surprised." Aila gazed over the green valley below. "I have always been destined for St. Margaret's." She turned to him. "Have ye ever had yer life change in a moment? And everything ye thought ye knew was gone, altered forever?"

   "Aye, I have experienced something o' the like." Indeed, his whole world had been shattered with the blink of a traitorous eye. Perhaps her hesitation was not a rejection of him, but rather shock and surprise. He could understand that.

   MacLaren was trapped once again by a pair of green eyes. He moved closer to her, keeping his eyes on hers. He reached out and softly stroked the side of her face. Her eyes widened, and her breathing increased with the quick rise and fall of her chest underneath her thin chemise. Bedding her was his duty. He was certain he would be diligent with his responsibilities.

   Aila's eyes broke from his and fluttered around, as if looking for purchase, before landing on the sleeve of his surcoat. "Ye've changed yer clothes since this morn."

   "Aye," said MacLaren, his arm dropping by his side, his suspicions raised once more. He wondered if his current attire was more to her liking. He did not wish to elevate false expectations in her. Best to set her straight now. He did not wish to deal with a fractious wife.

   "May I ask why ye made an offer for me to my father?" Aila's voice was soft, and MacLaren noted she once again was chewing on her lip.

   "Graham proposed the alliance to me. I accepted."

   "Oh."

   "When we return to Creag an Turic, I rarely have

occasion to wear such as this." MacLaren watched for Aila's response.

   "Creag an Turic?"

   "My home… and yers now, too. 'Tis no' so grand as Dundaff." MacLaren was disappointed at the look of panic on Aila's face.

   "But I canna go wi' ye. I must stay at Dundaff. I canna leave my mother."

   MacLaren's jaw set, and he fell back upon the mask of grim determination he was so accustomed to wearing. It was as he expected. She would never accept him.

   "I'm sure yer mother will miss ye greatly. Forgive the intrusion, m'lady. I'll let ye continue wi' yer dressing." He gave a short bow, turned on his heel, and left.

Laird Archibald McNab arrived on horseback to the meeting place. The appointed glen was far removed from any known road or path and would provide the necessary privacy for the occasion. McNab swung down easily from his horse and wrapped the reins around a low-hanging branch, stepping into the secluded glen surrounded with dense forest. The wind swirled around the trees, picking up leaves and debris, hitting McNab in the face. He squinted and put up his hand to shield himself from the angry gust.

   When he opened his eyes again, a man was standing before him. Startled, McNab jumped back, putting his hand to his sword hilt. The man merely gave him a caustic smile. It was he alright, dressed in a roughly woven peasant cloak and cowl he had obviously used to sneak unnoticed from Dundaff. McNab cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure. He did not like this man, this traitor of his own people. He would use him, surely, but he had no love for a man who would accept coin in exchange for his loyalty.

   "Did yer laird receive the message?" McNab asked. He had drafted what he considered to be a very polite offer for the Lady Aila in return for his protection against the marauders.

   "Aye, but dinna plan yer wedding to that Graham wench any time soon."

   "Why no'? What other choice does he have? "

   "He decided he'd rather have MacLaren for a son in-law and married his daughter off today."

   "What? How can this be?" McNab accused the cloaked man. "Ye said he'd have to give Aila to me. Ye said it would be easy."

   "Dinna worrit yer head o'er MacLaren. I'll take care o' him. He'll be dead before morn. But ye need to remind Graham o' why he has no other choice than to form an alliance wi' ye."

   "How could ye let this happen? Ye said the lass would tell us if Graham tried to plan a marriage wi' another."

   "Do ye wish to whine like a wench or do some thing about it? I have a plan, if ye're man enough, which I doubt."

   "What would ye have me do this time?" asked McNab with suspicion. The traitor had been helpful in giving information on the movements of Graham's men, giving McNab the ability to set fire to the fields without risk of being caught. It was supposed to be easy. He had not planned for MacLaren to be involved. Shame he had to die.

   The traitor held out his hand. Disgusted, McNab handed over a bag of coin. The hooded man made a show of opening the bag to count his bribe, enjoying the insult the action delivered. At length he appeared satisfied, saying, "Graham's soldiers stay wi'in his walls tonight. While he sleeps away the night, ye need to burn all ye can. Remind him o' what he needs to fear."

   "But tonight? I canna go out tonight. 'Tis St. John's Eve. The spirits are out tonight. And if I burn too many fields, my own clan will suffer."

   The hooded man laughed without humor. "Ye decide what sort o' a man ye are. Are ye afeared o' the faeries? Or are ye a warrior? Me thinks ye are what everyone always said about ye. Worthless."

   McNab reached for his sword, but the man simply faded away back into the trees.

   The traitor smiled and strode away.
Stupid, stupid
man. Does he really believe I would betray my clan for
naught but a few coins?
He set a quick pace back to the castle.
Ah, but this is sweet. Graham will wake tomorrow
to find MacLaren dead and more o' his precious fields
burnt. He'll be forced to wed Aila to McNab. Then, when
the timing is right, I'll kill the weasel McNab and that fat
bastard Graham. I'll say I slayed McNab trying to protect
the life of my laird, but alas he died in my arms, asking me
to carry on in his stead. Then I'll take Aila for myself. I
hope McNab winna have her breeding by the time I get her,
but no matter. If it be so, I'll drown the bairn in the loch.
He chuckled, looking up at Dundaff, perched high on the rocky cliffs in the distance.
Patience, patience, and
all is mine.

AILA REMAINED ON THE TURRET LOOKING AT THE empty space that had once been her husband. He had not offered for her. He had not wanted her. Her father had arranged the marriage, though for what purpose she was still unaware. Her face still burned where MacLaren had touched it. No one had ever touched her like that. She had been aware of a sudden desire for more. She wanted to feel her whole body pressed against his. She shook her head at her own shocking response to him. Perhaps it was a good thing she would not be a nun.

   Though she supposed it should not have been a surprise, the thought of leaving Dundaff was a shock. This place was all she knew. Her mother needed her. Her people needed her. It was her home. MacLaren's reaction to her concerns had been dismissive. She did not understand him. His feelings seemed to fluctuate, sometimes kind, sometimes cold; they were a rather unstable lot.