Little Emeline seemed to accept it easily, snuggling back onto Aileen’s shoulder with a contented sigh.
“Oh, Aileen…” Laurien said softly as she watched her youngest daughter drift to sleep in her friend’s arms. “You look as beautiful as a French ange de Noel today, with that green gown and your red hair in such lovely plaits. I…I had so hoped this Yuletide would be a special one for you…”
“Marrying Lord Alsh will certainly make it memorable.” Aileen laughed, but this time her humor felt forced, and her friend did not join in.
Instead, Laurien looked troubled. “I wish I had known about your betrothal sooner.”
“I am sorry that there was no time to send word. ’Twas all rather quickly arranged. I hope ’tis all right that the wedding is to be held here at Glenshiel?”
“Aye, of course.” Laurien finished her tea and set the empty cup aside. “One does not deny a man as powerful as Lord Alsh when he makes such a request. But…” Her voice trailed off again.
“What is it?”
“Alors, there was to be a surprise.” Laurien waved a hand. “And now it has all gone awry.” She sighed. “You are certain you will not change your mind?”
“About marrying Lord Alsh? Nay, this alliance is too important, to all the MacLennans.” Aileen’s grandfather had been one of eleven brothers, which was why there were MacLennans for miles in these Highland hills. “Our clan may be numerous, but we are not wealthy or powerful. And there have been too many rogues and miscreants raiding our lands of late, stealing our sheep and cattle. A union with the Alshes will give us protection, security—”
“Aileen, you sound as if you are reciting your father’s reasons for you to accept this marriage.” Laurien’s mouth curved downward.
“’Twas more than just my father,” Aileen admitted quietly. “Other folk have kindly pointed out that a lass like me—” She reached up to touch her left cheek. “—was lucky to have one husband and should be exceedingly grateful to now have a second.”
Laurien muttered a French oath under her breath, her opinion of such folk clear. “Grateful? Regardless of Lord Alsh’s advanced age, his miserly ways, and his sour disposition?”
Aileen shifted the sleeping bairn to her other shoulder. “At least once I marry him, I will be living closer to Glenshiel. ’Tis only two hours to his keep at Murlaggan on Loch Arkaig. Mayhap I will be able to visit more often?”
“That would be nice.” Laurien still looked vexed and sad. “Have you…have you thought about where you would like the wedding to be held? The new chapel here at Glenshiel is rather small. I had once imagined you marrying in our library…”
“Nay,” Aileen said firmly. “It canna be there.”
They both fell silent. Aileen knew that her friend understood her reasons for rejecting the suggestion, even though the two of them had not spoken of Laurien’s brother in a long time.
Sir Henri d’Amboise was off chasing adventure and glory in France—and had forgotten all about the Scottish widow he had once called his sweet lass. He had ceased answering her letters, after only a few brief replies. Eventually she had stopped writing to him at all…and stopped dreaming of a future with him.
After her first marriage, she needed no further lessons in heartbreak. Dreams of love and romance might come true in the books of poetry she read, but not in real life.
At least, not for a lass like her.
“Ma chere amie,” Laurien persisted, “are you certain there is naught that could make you change your mind about marrying Lord Alsh?”
“Nay, the agreement has been made, the betrothal papers have been signed. All is arranged.” Aileen shook her head. “And ’tis not as if some handsome knight is going to come galloping across the Highland moors to sweep me away on his charger.”
Laurien cleared her throat. “That would seem most unlikely…” She glanced away, looking at the Yule log that now blazed merrily in the hearth, and a smile slowly curved her lips. “At any other time of year. But one can never be certain what sort of surprises might turn up at Yuletide.”
“That is the second time you have mentioned some sort of surprise.” Aileen arched one brow. “Is there some mischief afoot? What are you planning?”
Laurien held up both hands in a gesture of innocence. “I have not planned anything, I promise you.”
Before Aileen could question her further, the entry doors at the far end of the great hall opened. The hunting party had returned, Lord Darach striding in at the head of the group. A draft of winter wind and a scattering of snowflakes swirled in with them. There were at least twenty men-at-arms and squires, all wearing heavy, fur-lined brown cloaks and leather hunting gloves, some with quivers of arrows still on their backs.
Laurien rose and went to greet her husband. “What news of the hunt, mon cher?”
Darach slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close for a quick kiss before he answered. “An abundance of roast boar shall be enjoyed by all, Camhanach.”
Aileen walked slowly toward the group, carrying little Emeline, unable to help feeling envious as the lord of Glenshiel greeted his wife with such open affection. Six years now, Darach and Laurien had been married, and the two of them only seemed more in love with each passing day.
Once, she herself had been a warrior’s wife, until Sir Cael MacFarland was killed in an English ambush on the border, seven years ago. Lord Darach had lost his younger brother in the attack, and nearly died himself.
On that day when she had been made a widow, Aileen had been married but two years. Everyone around her had mourned her tragic loss…but she herself had not felt profound sorrow.
’Twas impossible to mourn a marriage that had only brought her tears. She had known not a single day of wedded bliss.
In the years since, she had come to appreciate the relative freedom that came with being a widow. And after being rejected by Henri d’Amboise, she had finally set aside her girlish dreams of romance.
Every last one.
Summoning a smile, she welcomed the hunters. “’Twas a successful morn, milord?” She released little Emeline into the arms of her father.
“Aye, milady, a most successful morn.” Darach tucked his daughter close and ruffled her spice-colored curls. The wee bairn squealed with delight and fastened her arms tight around his neck.
“We brought down a dozen boar,” one of the other hunters said, lowering the hood of his cloak. ’Twas Aidan, Darach’s son from his first marriage. At sixteen, he was already as tall as his father, with the same blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a crossbow strapped across his back. When Laurien welcomed him with a hug, he greeted his step-mother warmly, kissing her on the cheek.
“We also brought back a different sort of catch.” Darach turned toward one of the last members of the hunting party to enter the hall. “A rare beast from France.”
Dressed in a hooded cloak like the others, the broad-shouldered huntsman approached Aileen and bowed deeply. “Bonjour, milady.” As he straightened, he lowered his hood. “And Joyeux Noel.”
Aileen gasped in shock. “It…nay…it canna be!” Her heart suddenly thrummed like the wings of a dove taking flight. “Sir Henri d’Amboise!”
Aileen could not catch her breath, could not even blink, her full attention commanded by the tall warrior who stood before her, his black hair tangled from the wind, his lean jaw darkened by a beard, his green eyes locked on her. Mercy of Mary, it had been so long—five years? Had it been five?—since she had seen him last. But somehow, he was even more handsome than before, if that were possible. The great hall seemed to whirl dizzily around her.
“Surprise,” Laurien said with a nervous laugh. “After years of invitations, my brother finally decided to join us for Yuletide. His letter reached me only a se’nnight ago.”
“I thought it was long past time that I met my little nephew and nieces,” Henri explained, “and became reacquainted with this rather enormous fellow.” Slipping the strap of the crossbow he c
arried off his shoulder, he handed the heavy weapon to Aidan. “I scarcely even recognized him when he knocked on my chamber door before dawn to invite me to join the hunt.”
Henri’s voice was deeper than Aileen remembered. But his eyes still sparkled with merriment and mischief, and he still had the same easy smile. His manner had always reflected what the French called joie de vivre. Love of life.
’Twas unfair to the women of the world that God allowed any man so tall, dark and virile to also be so charming, so bold, so…
Irresistible.
Aidan took the crossbow and turned toward Laurien. “Mother, did you know that Uncle Henri has fought in battles all across France?” he asked breathlessly. “He helped win the siege of Angouleme. And he led the charge at Chalon-sur-Saone. And he rode beside King Philippe himself! And once, he killed three men at the same time, two with his sword and one with a lance right through his—”
“Lad…” Henri placed a gloved hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “The ladies do not need to hear every grim detail. And you may have missed the part where I tried to explain that battle is not all glory and adventure.” He returned his attention to Aileen.
“W-welcome to Scotland,” she finally managed to say. “I mean, welcome back to Scotland.” Her voice sounded like a dry croak. “Milord,” she added after a moment. Angels above, what was wrong with her?
Everything about Henri looked so familiar, yet so changed. He had left here five years ago a man of nineteen, but now he appeared…older, more heavily muscled, with a rugged look about him. And there was a scar on his forehead and another on his cheek that had not been there before.
But his smile was still exactly the same—and nearly enough to stop her heart.
“Lady Aileen, it is good to see you again.” He stepped closer, taking her hand and kissing it. “I hope you are well?”
She had been perfectly fine, up until this moment. Now her entire body felt too hot, just from that brief brush of his mouth against the back of her hand. She could not help noticing that his lips felt warm. And surprisingly soft. And his beard tickled. She felt a blush warm her face.
In reply to his question, all she could manage was a nod. She could not summon a single word to her lips.
She was too busy remembering all the words she had written to him in her letters.
Saints’ breath, her letters! Letters that had revealed far too much of her heart.
During his previous stay in the Highlands, Henri had been quite popular—and he had no doubt left several Scottish lasses pining for him when he left.
But Aileen doubted that any of those other girls had been foolish enough to commit their feelings for him to parchment and ink.
She suddenly wished that she could sink into the rushes that covered the stone floor. Simply melt in a puddle of embarrassment.
Laurien broke the awkward silence. “Well then,” she said brightly, “I am off to put this petite demoiselle to bed for a nap.” Turning to Darach, she scooped little Emeline onto her shoulder. “And I believe I may join her.” She took a cluster of mistletoe tied with ribbons from one of the trestle tables and handed it to Aileen. “Ma chere amie, I will leave you in charge of the Yuletide decorations. Mayhap you can find a suitable place to hang this? Henri could assist you,” she suggested with a hopeful expression.
Aileen gave her a look that could have seared the mistletoe to cinders. Why did you not tell me that your brother was here? A word of warning might have been helpful. It might have at least given Aileen a chance to prepare herself. Or go into hiding. For a day. Or a fortnight. Or until Henri left the country.
The French knight winked at his sister. “Excellent suggestion, ma soeur. Always happy to be of assistance. Come, milady.” He took Aileen’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “Let us find a quiet spot in need of a festive decoration.”
Not giving her a chance to protest or gather her scattered wits, he escorted Aileen out of the noisy, crowded great hall, into the maze of passageways that connected the keep’s many towers.
“Milady, please do not be angry with Laurien.” He shut the door behind them, setting a slow pace as he escorted her down a wide corridor decorated with tapestries. “I was the one who wanted to surprise you.”
“Oh, aye, you have surprised me, milord.” She withdrew her hand from his arm. With everyone else gathered in the great hall, it felt far too intimate, being alone with him like this. The only light came from torches that flickered in sconces here and there. “I…I had no idea that you would be returning to Scotland for Yuletide. I wish you had…”
Nay, but of course Henri would not have written to inform her that he would be returning to Glenshiel.
They had not corresponded at all in two years.
“Aileen…” His voice softened. “Before I say aught else, I need to thank you for your letters.” He met her gaze, then glanced away. “I am sorry that I did not reply more often.”
“It sounds as if you were exceedingly busy.” Her nervous fingers toyed with the ribbons on the mistletoe. “Though I…I would have enjoyed hearing more about your journeys in France.”
“As I said to Aidan, most of the details are not suitable for a lady to hear. King Philippe le Bel is a demanding sovereign, and his campaigns to unify his realm and secure the borders were at times brutal work. And I…” Again, he hesitated. “Aileen, when I left here, my head was filled with thoughts of adventure and duty and serving my king. I had no idea when I might be able to see you again. Or if I might be able to see you again.”
“You dinna need to explain. You made no promises to me, milord. There is naught to apologize for—”
“But I am apologizing anyway.” He stopped walking and turned to face her, removing his leather hunting gloves and tucking them into his belt. “So much has changed, I am not even certain where to begin. I came here because…” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “I had news from France that I needed to share with Laurien—news that I did not wish to send in a letter. My father has died.”
“Oh, milord, I am sorry,” Aileen said with genuine sorrow. She knew that Henri had lost his mother when he was only six. Things had always been difficult between him and his father, but Louis d’Amboise was his last surviving relative in France. “How did it happen?”
“My father did not lose his life fighting for any noble cause.” Henri’s mouth curved downward. “It was his love of drink that killed him. I felt Laurien should know.”
Aileen nodded in understanding. Louis had been Laurien’s step-father and raised her until the age of nine—when he deposited her in a French convent and abandoned her. Only years later had Laurien discovered the truth about her real father—and her Scottish heritage—here in the Highlands. “You have always been a good brother. She loves you very much.”
“As I love her.” Henri turned and started walking down the corridor again, seeming unsettled for some reason. He loosened the chain of his fur-lined hunting cloak and tossed the heavy fabric back over his broad shoulders. “Now that my father has passed, I have inherited the d’Amboise estates—along with Laurien’s vast dower lands in the Loire Valley, which she gifted to me on her wedding day.” He nodded in the direction of the great hall, a hint of his earlier smile returning. “The day when that fair-haired rogue back there persuaded her to stay in Scotland for the rest of her life.”
“I remember it well.” Aileen started to relax a little. Though Henri had changed in some ways, he still had a talent for putting her at ease. Mayhap it was the rich, deep timber of his voice, or simply the confidence that always radiated from him. Being in his company had always made her feel…safe. “So you are a landed lord now?”
“Aye. And unfortunately, while I was away fighting for King Philippe, the d’Amboise estates suffered badly under my father’s neglect. Five years of neglect. My task now is to restore our lands to their former grandeur. They were once among the finest in the Loire Valley. And…there is more.” He hesitated again. “In honor of m
y service in the wars, King Philippe has granted me a noble rank. I am now…Viscomte Henri d’Amboise.”
He seemed a bit embarrassed to hold so lofty a title.
“But Henri, that is wonderful news!” Aileen smiled. “I am happy for you. Congratulations.”
There was an awkward silence for a moment. He cleared his throat again. “I suppose this means you should now call me Viscomte Wicked rather than Sir Wicked.”
She laughed, a blush warming her face. “You still remember the nickname I gave you?”
“’Twas a proper dubbing, done with a branch of a Scottish rowan tree, which is considered sacred, so the name is binding for life.”
Aileen inhaled a quick breath, studying him through wide eyes. He had just quoted a line from the very first letter she had sent him, at Yuletide so many years ago.
She wondered how much he remembered of her other letters. “I-I imagine you have many responsibilities on your shoulders now, milord.” She looked up at the doorways they passed as they walked, trying to find a good spot to hang the mistletoe she carried. “Estates to manage, villages and tenants to protect. Your new title must carry many obligations.” It had to all be somewhat overwhelming, even for a man of his abundant confidence.
“Indeed, a great many obligations.” He stayed right by her side as they continued down the corridor. “I cannot remain long in Scotland. As soon as the Yuletide festivities are over, I must return to France. There are people depending on me now—rather a large number of people. I intend to take better care of them than my father ever did. I want to prove myself a better lord than he was.” He paused a moment. “And a better husband and father.”
“Oh. Aye, of course.” Aileen felt an undeniable sting of jealousy at the thought of Henri setting up his household with some pretty French maiden. Lucky, lucky French maiden. “You will need to marry. You will need heirs.”
“Aye.” He stopped walking, reached out to touch her shoulder, turned her to face him. “I need to take a wife…and there is one remarkable, beautiful woman I have never been able to forget, from the moment I first made her acquaintance.”
His Scottish Bride - Shelly Thacker Page 2