by Mariah Stone
“Amy?” Owen said.
“I—” she said. “I vow to be your wife to the best of my ability. To help you with whatever I can. And to…to…to be loyal to you.”
The word “loyal” came out with a little jump in the middle, and Craig frowned. That was to be expected, he reminded himself. She was, after all, the daughter of the enemy.
“Please hold out yer hands,” Owen said.
Craig and Amy turned and raised their joined hands to him, and Owen put a simple band over their hands.
“Here are the hands,” Owen said, “that will join and work together, the hands of friends and not of enemies, the hands of a man and his wife. These are the hands that will hold each other if ye’re lost and support each other if ye need a rest. These are the hands that will care for each other and wave goodbye before the last journey to the land of death.”
As he was saying the words, he was wrapping the band around their wrists and their fists, and finally tying a knot on top of them. Craig liked the feeling of Amy’s soft skin, now warm from his touch. The skin on the back of her palm was weathered, and her fingers weren’t the fingers of a gentle lady but had small calluses on them. It was the hand of a strong woman, a woman who did things on her own and didn’t expect others to do them for her.
He liked that.
“And with this band, ye are now man and wife,” Owen said.
The warriors around the room stomped their feet and hooted.
“Share a drink from the cuach.” Owen took out the communal drinking cup with two handles and poured the uisge into it. “As a symbol of many other things ye will share.”
He brought the cuach to Craig’s mouth, and he took sip, then watched as Amy sipped the liquid as well, her lips red and soft around the side of the cuach.
“And join the union with a kiss,” Owen said.
Craig suppressed a “finally” that longed to get out of his throat. He looked into Amy’s eyes, then gazed at her lips, a little swollen from the spirits. Oh, how he craved them. But he would never do anything against her will.
He looked into her eyes again, asking for permission, letting her know he wouldn’t kiss her unless she wanted him to.
She breathed quickly, her chest rising and falling. There was alarm in her eyes, but also desire—then they softened, and her lips called to him.
With a groan he couldn’t stop, Craig brought her to him with his free arm and sealed his lips with hers.
Chapter 10
Craig’s lips were like velvet, warm and soft, and yet his chest under her palm was hard as a rock and as hot as a furnace. His heart thumped under her hand fast and strong.
He smelled like clean skin, and male musk, and like mountains and the forest in fall after a rain.
And the kiss…
Oh, the kiss…
It spurred an avalanche of tingling and sweet burning through her lips. He pressed a little more, opening her mouth with his tongue. Then he swiped it against hers gently once, twice. Maybe she heard herself moan. Maybe it was him, but her head spun and her whole body ignited. Her mind went blank, filling with sighs and moans and dirty, dirty thoughts.
The room filled with whistles and hoots.
“Aye, ride the MacDougall so that she canna stand on the morrow!” someone cried.
“If he has anything to ride her with,” another man said.
The room erupted in guffaws.
Amy sprang away from Craig, her face hot. “Are we done?” she asked Owen. “Please, remove the ribbon.”
“Aye,” Owen said and glanced at Craig.
Amy ignored Craig’s eyes on her, which were as heavy as lead. She was such an idiot. Being attracted to him—allowing him to kiss her like that… As though it was normal, as though having feelings for him wouldn’t complicate things and make her leaving even harder.
Owen undid the tie, and Amy snatched back her hand. The warmth of Craig’s skin gone, coldness surrounded her. They were married now. She was tied to him. Entrapped even deeper here in the medieval Highlands—because she was tied to a human being now. And even though there was no ring to bind her, the memory of the band around her wrist was like a handcuff.
Craig held her gaze for a moment, then gave a curt nod. He turned to his men. “A wedding canna go without a feast,” he said. “Let us bring the tables and the benches back to their places. The hunters have already gotten back with the game and ‘tis being roasted. I bought bread, butter, and pies in the village. And there won’t be any lack of wine, ale, and uisge. Ye all may empty the casks for all I care. A Cambel marrit a MacDougall today.”
He looked at Amy, and this time she saw something like regret in his eyes. The sight punched her in the gut.
“We better drink to that,” he said.
Craig was a fool. He’d thought it would be easy to be indifferent to her. It would only be for a year, and only to break the enemy’s position.
But that kiss…the handfasting…looking into Amy’s eyes and seeing the vulnerability in her. The real her.
Craig had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. And he sensed that she was lying about something. Which he hated but also understood, given she was living among her enemies. He’d probably have done the same—anything to protect his clan.
But underneath that, he saw a good person. Her eyes were pure, honest. They didn’t lie. They showed him her pain, and in their depths, fear. A constant sense of panic.
He wanted to free her from it.
Was he the source of her pain, her fear? If so, he hated causing her distress.
But he shouldn’t care.
Craig grunted as he pulled the giant table into position with several of his men. The hall wasn’t decorated for a traditional wedding. There were no flowers, it hadn’t been cleaned, and the food wasn’t yet ready. The lack of a woman’s hand over the household was clear.
“I’ll go see about the food,” Amy said.
She’d been standing in the corner, looking a little helpless and lost, watching the men do the heavy lifting.
“Aye,” Craig said. “Thank ye.”
She nodded, not meeting his eyes, and walked out. What had changed? He swore she’d liked the kiss, she’d wanted him to kiss her. But then…
Stop caring about her feelings, he reminded himself.
But despite himself, he wanted to please her. Mayhap, a clean floor and tables would lift her mood.
“Owen, Lachlan, take two more men and wipe the tables,” Craig said.
Both stared at him.
“Ye’re jesting, cousin, surely,” Lachlan said. “’Tis women’s work.”
“The only woman here is my wife. So if ye dinna wish to dine in dirt, like pigs, ye move yer arses and clean.”
Frowning and mumbling curses, they turned and walked out.
At least they were Cambels and his direct relatives. He looked over at the others standing nearby. They all tensed, sensing they were all about to get similar tasks.
“Dinna look at me like that, lads,” Craig said. “Ye three, come with me. We shall take brooms and sweep.”
Unhappily, they trudged after him.
After a while, the dirt had been swept away, the tables and chairs had been cleaned of spilled ale, crumbs, and scraps of food, a fire was burning in the fireplace, and even the rain had stopped.
Craig, Owen, Lachlan, and the rest of the helping crew brought food and drinks from the kitchen: bread, butter, cheese, and roasted hares and fowls. Then casks of ale, wine, and uisge were brought from the storage rooms.
When everything was set up, and the hall was full of men sitting around the tables, chatting and drinking, and the homely scent of grilled meat, fresh bread, and woodsmoke filled the room, Craig’s bride finally returned. She took a seat by Craig’s side at the table at the end of the hall, next to the fireplace, where the lord and the lady of the castle usually sat surrounded by their family.
Family Craig would never have with Amy MacDougall.
&nbs
p; “Did you clean?” She cocked one eyebrow, looking around the room.
“Aye,” Craig said, watching a smile spread on her lips.
“Oh. Looks great! Thank you, Craig.”
He slid a cup of ale towards her and she took it, their fingers touching briefly and sending heat through him. He may enjoy this marriage if he managed to keep the peace with her, giving her what she wanted when he could.
He rose from his seat and raised his glass. “May my wife live long and well!”
The warriors echoed. Owen stood up, “And to Craig Cambel, I could have sworn I’d never see him marrit to a MacDougall. May God give him strength to live through this year!”
The men laughed, and even Amy smiled and shook her head, then drank.
Craig sat down and looked at her. “Do ye love the Earl of Ross?” he asked.
She coughed into her cup. “What?”
“I dinna ken. Mayhap ye love him already.”
“Excuse me, but how is it any of your business? How would you like it if I asked you the same question—do you love a woman who isn’t me?”
Craig leaned back and watched her carefully. She was all thorns, but judging by the vulnerability he’d seen in her eyes, it was only on the outside.
“I have nae problem answering that question for ye, Amy,” he said. “I never loved a woman. Nae yet.”
She softened. “Why not? No one good enough for the honorable Craig Cambel? Everyone may betray and backstab?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Aye. They may. I didna meet one I can trust my life and soul with.”
She nodded, thoughtful, as though remembering something. “And you may never meet one. Yes, if you don’t open up more and trust people, that may never happen for you.”
He chuckled. “This sounds like a prophecy. Are ye a seeress?”
“No. But I know things.”
“How mysterious. Tell me, what are ye good at? What do ye enjoy doing? Cooking? Embroidery? Sewing?”
She burst out laughing, the sound sweet and beautiful. “Me? Embroidery? No, my friend. I don’t care about that at all. I’m good at searching for and finding people. I can apply first aid, help with choking, stitch wounds, bandage and fix broken arms and legs—that sort of thing. You didn’t marry a wallflower, I’m afraid. You should have asked before—now it’s too late.”
His jaw hung open, and he closed it. She took a sip, smiling into the cup. He had never even heard of a woman being able to find lost people. But besides that, she sounded like she was a healer. Which was good news, given that he didn’t have one in the castle.
But searching and rescuing?
“So ye are a witch? How do ye find lost people?”
“No, nothing like that. Just tracking. Logic. Common sense. Then I know rock climbing and swimming and such. But I also need equipment…”
His eyes widened as she said the last word.
“I mean, certain tools. Rare tools. I don’t think you have them here.”
“Equipment?” The word was strange, like something from a foreign language.
He respected her for her skills more and more. She certainly wasn’t just a chief’s daughter. She was more. So much more.
“How did ye learn all that?” he asked.
She had just opened her mouth when a young man ran into the hall with something in his hand and strode directly to Craig. It was Killian, one of the younger boys from the army, who had stayed behind. He was good with his bow, Craig remembered. Tonight was the boy’s watch.
He had a bird in his hand, a pigeon, with an arrow sticking from its chest.
“Lord,” Killian said. “Forgive me, but I need a word.”
Craig stood up and followed the boy to a corner where no one could hear them.
“’Tis nae pigeon from our birdhouse,” Killian said. “I ken because we only have a dozen, and I ken every one of them. I feed them every day. This one is new. It has these white flecks on the breast, see? None of ours has them. It was brought here recently. Someone sent it from the southern tower. Since ’tis nae our pigeon, ’tis someone else’s, trained to fly to another house. And ye dinna receive pigeons from the Cambel house or I’d have kent. Aye?”
“Aye.” Craig removed the leather pouch wrapped around the bird’s leg. Inside there was a paper, and he unfolded it. A message was written in uneven letters, as though a child had scrawled them, or someone who didn’t have much practice in writing.
“Secret passage nae found,” the message said. “The lord, therefore, alive. He marrit Amy. Send more pigeons. More time needed.”
A chill ran through Craig.
There was a traitor in the castle, and they were searching for the secret tunnel.
Someone wanted to kill him.
The only person he knew about who would want all those things was his dear wife.
Chapter 11
Amy could actually see the broad muscles on Craig’s back stiffen as he talked to the kid in the corner. Craig turned to her, his eyes dark. His grimace of fury made her stomach flip. He walked right to her—his expression would make the devil himself pale in fear.
Her feet froze. Her pulse skyrocketed. Her lungs contracted. The walls were closing in on her like they had that night long ago, when her dad had been coming at her just like Craig, furious and powerful. And there was nowhere to go.
And something bad was about to happen.
He grabbed her by the upper arm and tugged her after him amid the hoots and wolf-howls of the men. He led her away from the great hall, out into the freezing night, with gentle snow falling. The mud of the courtyard had frozen and was hard underfoot. Snow was turning the blackness into a gray blanket.
The hum of voices seeped from the great hall, but otherwise, it was quiet.
So quiet, she could hear her own breath rushing in and out.
“Where are you pulling me to like a goat?” she growled.
“I must have a word with ye, wife dearest. Alone. In our bedchamber.”
He opened the door to the Comyn Tower—the air was warm from the torches on the wall.
“Our bedchamber?” Amy said.
He began climbing the curved stairs and pulled her after him.
“Why of course, our bedchamber. We are marrit, or did ye already forget?”
They passed the door to the lord’s private hall on the first floor and continued climbing.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”
“Good.” He opened the door on the second floor. It was pleasantly warm in the bedroom—the fireplace burned, and the room looked homey. Suddenly, the bed took up all the space in the room.
He closed the door and turned to her.
“Good that ye remember, dear.” He took a step towards her, and there was such dark promise in his eyes, that she stepped back. “Because this”—he held a small paper in front of him—“suggests that ye might have forgotten.”
“What’s that?” Amy said.
“Oh. Nothing much. Just yer regrets ye sent to yer father that ye didna kill me yet.”
Amy shook her head. “Excuse me?”
He took several slow steps towards her and stopped so close she could feel the heat of his body, could smell him—all manly and delicious—could see the vein in his neck throbbing.
“Ye want to kill me,” he said. “Don’t ye, Amy? ’Tis the perfect opportunity for yer clan. Ye’re close to me.”
Amy’s mouth was suddenly dry. “I don’t want to kill you, Craig,” she said, careful not to let the shaking in her fingers slip into her voice.
“Hm.”
In one swift movement, he reached for his dagger and held it out, handle to her. Flames from the fireplace were reflected in the long, sharp blade.
“We might as well see, shall we?” he said.
He put the point against his heart. Amy’s stomach flipped.
“Take it,” he said. “Kill me. Now.”
“Craig—” she said, her voice trembling.
“Then yer mi
ssion will be complete. Yer father will rejoice. Ye can marry the Earl of Ross.”
She shook her head. Her chest tightened further, making it hard to breathe. “Stop it this minute! I don’t want to kill you.”
His arms fell, and he put the dagger back into his belt.
“Oh nae, wait. Ye canna kill me yet. There’s one more thing ye need, do ye not? That is why I am still alive, aye?”
“I don’t need anything from you except freedom.”
Craig chuckled. “Ye can pretend really well. Aye, MacDougall blood, what can I say.”
He stepped away from her and looked her up and down. “So ye deny it? Ye deny writing this?”
He held the paper out, but it was too far to read the tiny script.
“I didn’t write anything, and I sure as hell didn’t send this. I don’t want you or anyone dead.”
“Why is it that ye wanted access to the whole castle, Amy? Is there something specific ye’re looking for?”
Her body went as stiff as wood, and Amy exhaled to relieve the tension. What did he know? Did he suspect she was looking for the rock? Was he even aware of it? If he thought she was a witch or something, surely he’d kill her. Or lock her away somewhere dark forever… A tremor went through her, and she moved to the fireplace to warm herself.
Get yourself together, she commanded. He isn’t locking you up again. Not yet.
She turned to him, her head high, her shoulders straight.
“I have absolutely no idea where this message came from, what is in it, or who wrote it. I do not want to kill you. I’m not a murderer, I save people’s lives for God’s sake. And I know you don’t trust me—you have no reason to—and I don’t know how to prove my innocence. But I have nothing to do with this.”
His heavy, piercing gaze bored into her. It was as though he saw beneath her skin. She held his eyes, even though hers burned and she needed to blink.
Then he smiled, and a sense of relief went through her.
“Mayhap, it was nae ye who wrote this. That would be too easy.
“But it doesna mean ye’re not involved,” he continued. “So I will be even more careful. We will sleep together in one room because we’re marrit now. And because I need to know what ye do and with whom. Ye’re under my watch now, Amy, understood?”