Reckless Scotland

by Vane, Victoria

  Fraser lifted his chin. “I’ve heard Mairi’s invited half the clans in the Highlands to your wedding.”

  “So it would seem,” Calum grumbled.

  “’Tis an occasion worth celebrating.” Fraser cracked a smile. “Let the lass have her fun.”

  “And what of Longford. Surely you’ve not forgotten the threat so soon. ’Tis just the sort of diversion he needs.”

  Shrugging, Fraser scratched his beard. “Mayhap. He can try, but he will not succeed. Arabella’s safe and protected. Do not worry so.”

  “I’m not. ’Tis just…” Calum waved his hand as if to explain.

  “I know, lad.” His ally grinned at him. “You’ll be good for my lass.”

  “Good of you to say so,” he wryly replied.

  Fraser cackled. “My lass has a tender heart. She’s a quiet girl, but prone to mischief. I’m sure you might’ve noticed.”

  Prone, his arse. She was downright reckless.

  The older man howled with laughter. “Aye, so you have.” When his humor subsided, he continued. “I promised your father I would look after you, and I’d like to believe I’ve honored my vow to Cormac. Your mother and father would be proud of the man you’ve become. You’ll honor my lass, and your vows, and show her every happiness and comfort.” Fraser cleared his throat. “I know this because you are your father’s son, Calum.”

  The warm sentiment left him speechless. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

  “I promise you, Hammish. I’ll do everything within my power to make Arabella happy and content. I only wish the best for her. She deserves that from me.”

  Fraser cast him a sideways stare. “And what of you? Will you be content?”

  Calum considered the question. “I’m content now.”

  “Hell, you’ve not fallen in love with the lass already, have you?”

  He gaped at Fraser. Saints, where had the man gotten that idea? Sure, he cared for Arabella. But love? How should he know? He’d never been in love before. What he felt for her…he could not explain. He would not explain. ’Twas a matter between him and Arabella.

  “’Tis none of your concern, old man.”

  Fraser barked out a laugh. “Just as I thought.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And what of Elena?”

  “What of her?” Fraser sobered.

  Calum cast him a sideways stare.

  “Well now, boy, that’s none of your concern.”

  ’Twas his turn to bark out a laugh. “I could speak with her for you.”

  “Nay, she and I will have to sort our differences on our own.” Fraser rocked on his heels. “I suppose I’ll have to make amends.”

  “Aye, you will.”

  Both, he and Fraser wrenched their heads around to see Liam standing a short distance away. His eyes trained on Fraser, Liam scowled at the older man.

  Fraser swept his impassive gaze over Liam. “Do not concern yourself with the matter.”

  “Any matter that concerns my mother ’tis mine.”

  The vehemence in his cousin’s voice surprised Calum.

  Studying Liam, Fraser gripped the pommel of the sword at his side. Liam countered by stepping forward. Neither of the stubborn men showed signs of yielding.

  Enough of this foolishness. Calum moved between the pair and glared at both men. “When you two have finished comparing your swords, do you suppose we might attend the evening meal? I’m a bit famished.”

  Fraser and Liam slowly turned their heads to stare at him as if he’d sprouted horns.

  When neither responded, he lifted a brow. “Well?”

  Suddenly, Fraser snorted, defusing the tension. His cousin’s usual roguish grin slid in place.

  Liam shook his head and cuffed Calum’s shoulder. “You really should learn to jest better, Cousin.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The stench of soured rushes, rotten food, and unwashed bodies assaulted Geoffrey’s nostrils, and he choked back the instinct to gag. Following behind Finn and John, the two Scots in his employ, he curled his lip in disdain as they passed through the disgraceful hall of the MacRae Clan.

  A score of disheveled men slumped around filthy trestle tables full of used trenchers and tankards, while a pack of gaunt dogs fought over bits of scraps littered amongst the spoiled rushes. Cobwebs hung from dusty, wooden rafters. Drafts of frigid air pushed into the hall through gaping window holes, which Geoffrey counted a mercy. The faint flow of fresh air was all that kept him from retching from the horrid odor.

  Finn and John had assured him their former laird would welcome any opportunity to pad his coffers. Taking in the meager surroundings, Geoffrey had no doubt of that. ’Twas no wonder the two men had sought a more prosperous future in the service of another lord. The MacRae keep was a far cry from Penswyck.

  Christ, he itched to wrap his bare hands around Arabella de Percy’s throat. The foolish wench had caused him naught but trouble since the start. However, this latest inconvenience would carry a heavy price.

  He and his men halted a feet away from the high table, and Geoffrey took the opportunity to look over the fat, unkempt man sprawled at the head. The man’s beard scarcely disguised the deep lines of age carved in his face. Dried ale and sweat stained his rumpled, threadbare tunic. The hideous man released a belch followed by a fit of bone-jarring coughs.

  This pitiful excuse of a man was Laird MacRae?

  Biting his tongue, Geoffrey trained his features to hide his revulsion. He hardly wished to offend the wretched churl before requesting the man’s aid. Not that it mattered in the end, but his next move had been set in motion. ’Twas time for him to follow through with his part.

  Seated on the laird’s right sat a youth who looked no more than five and ten summers. The Scot seated to the left appeared closer to Geoffrey’s age. The laird’s sons, he presumed. Finn had warned him of the eldest before their arrival. He met the Scot’s weighing stare, noting a mix of wariness and intelligence gleamed in the other man’s gaze.

  “Why’ve the pair of you chosen to grace my hall again?” The old laird’s harsh query resounded throughout the hall, silencing the other occupants.

  Finn, the taller of his two escorts, tipped his head and stepped forward. “We bring you an offer, my laird.”

  “Your laird? You two whelps left without a thought to me or this clan,” MacRae barked out. “Now, you come to me with an offer?”

  “Aye. A prosperous one. To make amends.” Finn motioned to Geoffrey. “Lord Longford is prepared to offer a bounty for the MacRaes’ aid with a simple chore.”

  “What chore would that be?” the laird’s eldest son drawled out. “And why should we help an Englishman?”

  Laird MacRae drained his tankard. Ale ran from the sides of his mouth and dripped into his beard. “Aye, Finn.” He slammed the goblet on the table. “Why’ve you brought the enemy into my home?”

  Geoffrey held up his hand, cutting off Finn’s reply. He’d spent enough time in the king’s service dealing with a few of the Lowland clans to grasp an adequate understanding of the barbaric language.

  He cleared his throat and appealed in Gaelic. “I seek my bride.” At Laird MacRae’s raised brows, he explained. “We quarreled days before our wedding and she’s taken flight to her uncle in a fit of anger. I merely seek the return of my property.”

  “Mayhap she’d no desire to wed you.” Laird MacRae cackled.

  Insolent heathen. Blood rushed to Geoffrey’s cheeks and he gritted his teeth at the offense.

  “How do you expect us to aid with a wayward bride, my lord?” the eldest son asked.

  “This uncle of hers, he’s a difficult man. He despises the English so he’ll not take kindly to my request to see her returned. For a tidy sum, I seek your clan’s help retrieving her.”

  Laird MacRae frowned. “Who’s the uncle?”

  “Hammish Fraser.”

  The eldest son leaned back in his seat. One corner of his mouth hitched upward. “’Tis interesting,
Lord Longford, but not two days past we received word of a wedding banquet to honor Fraser’s niece. Ara…Ara…well, I do not recall the name.” He leaned forward and looked past Laird MacRae to the youth. “Connor, would you fetch the missive from the solar?”

  The information hit Geoffrey like a blow to the gut. The air pushed from his lungs in a rush. Surely, ’twas a mistake.

  The boy bolted from his chair and hurried from the hall. The eldest son’s gaze remained locked with Geoffrey’s as they awaited the whelp’s return. In no time, Connor tripped into the hall with a rolled vellum in his hand.

  MacRae’s eldest waved at Geoffrey. “Read for yourself.”

  Seething in anger, he snatched the missive from the youth’s extended palm. His gaze flew over the foreign words and he spat a curse. While he may speak the cursed language, he damned sure could not read it.

  He tossed the vellum to his man. “Read it.”

  As Finn read aloud, stumbling over the contents, Geoffrey trained his features to conceal his genuine surprise and the rage swelling inside him.

  So, the cunning wench thought to wed another? And a Scot, no less? Did the bitch honestly believe that would stop him? He’d never rightfully secure his hold on Penswyck without her as his wife. Nay, he would not be outdone, and most assuredly not by a mere woman.

  Let the little fool marry her Scot. Hardly mattered in the eyes of English law and the church. He simply needed to return Arabella to England, wed and bed the wench, and secure his claim. Afterward, well that depended upon her. ’Twas not uncommon for a wife to meet with an unfortunate end.

  “So you see,”—The eldest son interrupted his thoughts—“the woman you seek is to wed another.”

  Geoffrey sucked in a lung full of stale, rotten air and strove for his composure. With false calmness, he peered at the contemptible old laird. “Are you interested in my offer, Laird MacRae?”

  “We’ve no quarrel with Fraser or MacGregor,” the eldest said. “I do not believe—”

  “Name your price, Longford.” Laird MacRae spoke over his son.

  The eldest’s gaze flew to his father. “Have you gone mad? You cannot—”

  “Shut it, Aaron.” Laird MacRae grabbed his tankard. “I merely wished to hear the price Lord Longford is willing to pay.”

  Aaron straightened, slamming his fists on the table. “Are you so desperate for coin, you would call down the wrath of Fraser and MacGregor upon us? Do you care so little for your clan?”

  Geoffrey listened with interest. A man’s greed and pride could easily be the source of his downfall. A fact he’d do well to remember in his conquest of Penswyck. In this case, however, he added fuel to the flames.

  “Forgive me, but I labored under the impression your father was laird of this clan.”

  Aaron pinned him with a harsh, loathing stare.

  “Indeed, I am.” Laird MacRae banged his goblet down. “I’ll decide what’s best for this clan. Fraser and MacGregor be damned.”

  Despite his rigid stance, Geoffrey infused charm into his tone and applied a false smile to his face. “So, what say you, Laird MacRae?”

  The foul man belched. “Aye, Longford. The MacRaes are at your service.”

  Aaron bolted from his seat, shouting a string of Gaelic Geoffrey could not decipher. With a parting glare aimed at him, the other man stormed from the great hall.

  “Do not mind Aaron.” Shaking his head, Laird MacRae stared after his son.

  Geoffrey shrugged. Aaron MacRae was the least of his worries.

  “The boy’s as stubborn as his mother was.” Laird MacRae cuffed the youth beside him on the shoulder. “At least my Connor is not a pain in my backside like his brother.” He waved to the empty seat at his other side. “Please, sit. Drink. Let’s discuss your offer.” The old laird licked his lips. “Tell me, what is your price?”

  Oh, you shall soon find out, you disgraceful, filthy swine. “’Tis a bounty fit for a king to be sure.” Geoffrey smiled a toothsome grin. “I believe I have just the thing in mind.” He grabbed the missive from Finn. “This summons has presented quite a propitious turn. In fact, I believe your son, Aaron, might be the proper man to carry out the duty I have in mind.”

  He scanned the chamber, noting none of the hall’s occupants had shifted from their seats since he’d entered, which made his next move much easier. His gaze slid to John, who straightened his spine and gripped the pommel of the weapon at his side. Geoffrey met Finn’s gaze and gave a barely discernable nod as he moved to join the laird on the other side of the high table.

  MacRae struggled to his feet, his wide grin baring a row of rotten teeth.

  Geoffrey paused a few steps away and smiled at the pathetic creature before him. “I hope you understand, ’tis a service I’m doing your clan.”

  The laird cocked his head and his brow puckered, confusion clouding his features.

  Holding his body taut, Geoffrey motioned to Finn, who released an ear-splitting shout, shattering the peace. Chaos ensued as men streamed through the entrance of the great hall and the kitchens in the rear. Effortlessly, his men overtook the unwitting, unarmed MacRaes where they sat, rounding up the lot in the center of the chamber.

  “To arms. To arms.” Laird MacRae bellowed as he looked on in horror.

  “’Tis of no use, I’m afraid,” Geoffrey calmly replied. “You see, my men have been busy while you and I’ve had our little chat. No one will come to your aid.”

  He withdrew his sword from the scabbard at his waist. The ring of steel gained the laird’s notice and his startled gaze darted to Geoffrey’s.

  “You must forgive me, but I’m short of time and patience, Laird MacRae.” He stepped forward and swung his blade with all his might, lopping the old man’s head from atop his shoulders. Heedless to the warm spray of blood and hard thump at his feet, he shifted his attention to the frightened youth gaping at his dead father.

  Geoffrey pointed the tip of his weapon at Connor’s neck. “Your brother and I have much to discuss.” He nodded to Finn. “Bring our friend, Aaron, into the hall. Somehow, I’m sure you’ll find him far more gracious now.”

  In fact, Geoffrey wagered Aaron might thank him later for seizing upon MacRae’s weakness. ’Twas what he did—prey on the weak. Everyone had failings, and he intended to use them to his benefit.

  Avarice slew Laird MacRae. Honor murdered Iain. Despair destroyed Geoffrey’s mother, while misery killed his father. As for Arabella, willfulness would guide her to ruin.

  In no time, Aaron rushed into the hall. His wide gaze flickered from his father’s body to the sword at his younger brother’s throat.

  “Let him go,” the fool demanded.

  Geoffrey applied pressure to his weapon, the tip scoring skin and pulling a hiss of pain from the youth.

  With a shouted denial, Aaron leaped forward, but Finn and John grabbed his arms, restraining the man.

  “Do you wish him to meet the same fate as your father?” Geoffrey lifted a brow.

  Hatred gleamed in Aaron’s eyes, but he shook his head.

  Geoffrey tipped his head at Finn and the pair released the man. Rolling his shoulder, he dropped his sword from Connor’s throat and leaned closer to the youth.

  “For your sake, I hope your brother is a reasonable fellow.” He waved to Finn. “See to our young friend for the time being.” He motioned for Aaron to sit at the table. “Please, have a seat.”

  Unwavering defiance reflected in the Scot’s burning gaze and he stubbornly refused to comply which snapped the remaining reserve of Geoffrey’s temper.

  He bellowed, “Sit the hell down, or I shall hand over your damned brother’s bloody head on a cursed trencher.”

  The words had the desired effect. Aaron marched forward and slipped into a seat across the table.

  Rolling his eyes, Geoffrey stepped over the headless body at his feet and dropped down into the laird’s chair. Not that the man would require it any longer.

  Irritated by the entire affair,
he cut straight to the point. “The only thing keeping you and that whelp brother of yours alive is the mere fact I have a task for you.”

  Aaron spat out, “What task?”

  “Steal MacGregor’s bride.”

  Disbelief flashed in the Scot’s gaze, promptly swallowed by outrage. “Or what?”

  Geoffrey leaned back in his seat. “Simple. I’ll slit your brother’s throat, then I’ll slit yours.”

  *

  Exasperated, Arabella stared into the flames as Heartha and the others fretted over her wedding gown. Saints, how much longer would they continue? Nearly the entire day had passed since the women dragged her into Calum’s solar. A rap at the door silenced the chattering women, much to Arabella’s satisfaction.

  Elena called out, “Enter.”

  The door swung open and her Uncle Hammish stepped inside, making the already packed confines seem smaller. The women shouted and attempted to shoo him from the chamber with little success.

  “The lot of you, hush.” He waved a hand toward Arabella. “I desire a word with my niece. In private.”

  Elena moved to protest, but he paced closer to her. “Please, Elena.”

  The older woman’s eyes rounded and her lips parted in surprise. She blinked several times before snapping her mouth shut. Finally, she nodded. “All right. Let’s give them their privacy, ladies.”

  Circling the solar, Elena helped the women pack their materials away into baskets, then held the door as she ushered them from the chamber.

  Arabella sat at attention when she spied her uncle grasp Elena’s arm as she passed. He bent his head to her ear and whispered something Arabella could not hear. The pair stared at each other, then Elena nodded. Smiling, Uncle Hammish released her arm and she dashed from the chamber without a backward glance.

  Curiosity pricked, Arabella wished to know what was going on between the two.

  Once he barred the door from intruders, her uncle paced the chamber until he came to rest in front of the hearth, feet away from her. Stroking his rusty beard, he stared down into the flames.