Kilty Party

by Markland, Anna

  Brodie’s scowl deepened.

  “Shaw and Caitlin will wed, nay matter what ye say or do,” Jamie continued. “They’ll bring bairns into the world. Do ye want yer grandchildren to continue the feud? And what of Gordon and Logan? We’re all heartily sick of the toll yer stubborn hatred has taken. Do ye nay want peace?”

  *

  Shaw decided this was as good a time as any to challenge his father’s refusal to acknowledge him as laird. He glanced at Fiona, hoping she would understand his strategy and come to his aid. “Do ye remember the day I was born, Da?”

  Brodie frowned, but his jaw slackened.

  “I was just a bairn,” Fiona told him. “But I remember it weel. Ye strutted around the castle with yer son in yer arms crowing to anyone who would listen that Drummond at last had an heir.”

  Brodie studied his feet.

  “Was I nay born to be laird of this clan?” Shaw asked. “’Tis the destiny ye always wanted for me.”

  Brodie slumped into a chair, staring into nothingness.

  A wave of regret washed over Shaw, but it was Caitlin’s father who spoke next. “I understand yer reluctance to cede the chieftaincy, Brodie Drummond. I thought to be in my grave when my son took over our clan. ’Twas a bitter medicine to swallow—the realization I’m nay the leader I once was.”

  Caitlin’s fingernails were digging a furrow in Shaw’s arm; she evidently feared, as he did, Ian Blair’s interference might bring on another round of curses on the Blair Clan. However, his father heaved a sigh, got to his feet and faced Ian. “So, ye’re saying I’m too old? Ye think I should acknowledge my son as laird and let him make the decisions.”

  It was the first time Shaw had heard his father speak in a civilized manner to Caitlin’s sire.

  “I’d say he’s more than capable,” Ian Blair replied. “And with my son as our laird, who kens what they might achieve for both our clans?”

  As the silence stretched, Shaw was certain the answer would be nay. He was gobsmacked when Ian offered his hand and Brodie accepted. Two bitter enemies shook hands. “First Fiona and Rory, now our fathers,” he whispered to Caitlin. “There’s definitely wizardry going on here.”

  It was a good omen, but both former lairds were volatile. There was no guarantee the truce would last.

  The Library

  After much, sometimes heated, debate among the men of both clans, it was agreed Shaw and Rory would travel to Stirling with Major Merryweather and a party of dragoons. “I’m relieved,” Shaw admitted to Rory after everyone else had left Drummond’s library. “On the face of it, our fathers have buried the hatchet, but we canna predict what they might do when it comes down to expressing our regrets to Davidson.”

  Rory nodded. “I agree. ’Tis important we present the missive stating their apologies for what happened, but they are unpredictable. They did naught but scowl and contradict each other during our meeting.”

  “We dinna want a repeat of what happened at the betrothal.”

  As soon as the words were spoken, Shaw regretted them, but Rory apparently didn’t take offense.

  “I am truly sorry for the part I played in that debacle,” he admitted. “I’m too much my father’s son.”

  “Well, ’twas as much Fiona’s doing as yers. None of us can be blamed for inheriting traits from our sires,” Shaw replied. “But I’m learning to be my own mon.”

  Rory stroked his bearded chin. “I’ve bowed to my father’s will for too long. I’ve kent for a while things were nay as they should be, yet I did naught.”

  “I might say the same about myself,” Shaw responded, heartened he and Rory could converse about such matters. They evidently had much in common as the eldest sons. “’Tis difficult to challenge a parent.”

  “Especially a strong-willed one.”

  They got up from the table to leave, but Rory stopped abruptly when they reached the doorway. “Speaking of strong-willed people, Fiona was telling me ye have all Master Shakespeare’s works in this library.”

  Shaw shrugged. “’Tis possible. I’m nay much of a reader. She’s the expert on the Bard.”

  “Do ye mind if I take a look?” Rory asked. “We’ve a few editions at Ardblair, mostly tragedies, but yer sister mentioned a comedy. Twelfth Night.”

  “Help yerself,” Shaw declared as he left, wondering how Rory had managed to engage Fiona in a discussion of Shakespeare’s plays. Could it be the two of them had actually gotten along? It seemed unlikely.

  *

  Caitlin was appreciative and not a little surprised when Fiona offered to give her and Nairn a tour of Drummond Castle. She’d included their father in the invitation but he’d declined in an embarrassingly surly manner.

  Caitlin wouldn’t have blamed Fiona for taking offense, but she didn’t react at all.

  “I thought Mistress Drummond was a bad-tempered shrew,” Nairn whispered when Fiona was distracted by a servant’s question about the evening meal.

  Caitlin pressed a finger to her lips as Shaw’s sister ushered them into her solar.

  Nairn wandered around, gaping at the opulent yet tasteful decor as though she’d entered the land of the fairies.

  “What a wonderful solar,” Caitlin gushed.

  Fiona smiled. “I’m glad ye like it. ’Tis my refuge. My mother’s solar hasna been touched since her death. When ye and Shaw marry I can help ye furnish it for yerself, if ye wish. Unless…”

  Caitlin waited for the rest, but it seemed nothing was forthcoming. She held her breath when Nairn sat in the chair that matched the expensive-looking desk.

  However, Fiona didn’t object. “’Tis called a Mazarin desk,” she explained. “Named after a powerful cardinal at the court of Louis XIV. I purchased it in Edinburgh.”

  Caitlin nodded thoughtfully. It was becoming clear the Drummonds were a wealthier clan than her own, but she didn’t get the feeling Fiona was showing off, and her next words were equally puzzling.

  “Wherever I go, the desk goes,” she said with an enigmatic smile.

  “I canna blame ye,” Caitlin replied, not knowing what else to say in response to the cryptic remark.

  Fiona gestured to the door. “I want ye to be happy here,” she said. “I ken ye have a library at Ardblair, but I’m confident ye’ll be impressed with ours.”

  “How do ye ken we have a library?” Nairn asked as they walked along the wide corridor.

  Caitlin had wondered the same thing, and was stunned when Fiona replied, “Rory told me ye have some of Shakespeare’s works.”

  Nairn was clearly as surprised as Caitlin. “Ye talked about plays while he was holding ye captive?” she asked.

  Sometimes it was handy to have a little sister who blurted out the first thing that came into her mind.

  “Aye,” Fiona replied with a broad smile as she thrust open the door of the library. “It began when I mentioned Viola from Twelfth Night, and…”

  “Rory,” Nairn exclaimed, rushing to embrace her brother.

  Fiona faltered, blushing to the roots of her hair.

  Rory returned Nairn’s embrace, but his gaze seemed fixed on Shaw’s sister. “Er…I was just…er…Shake­speare…ye ken.”

  Their arrival had clearly thrown her normally unshakable brother off balance. If Caitlin didn’t know any better, she’d say Fiona Drummond had captured Rory’s male interest.

  *

  Rory had never been prone to emotional outbursts. He’d been immensely saddened by his mother’s death, but hadn’t wept. Even during the struggle for power with his father, he’d kept reasonably calm and unruffled. Taking Shaw’s sister hostage had been a calculated decision.

  When Fiona strode into the library, something peculiar happened. A twitch plagued the corner of his mouth. A pulse throbbed in his ears. He lost control of his knees, to say nothing of his cock. The urgent imperative to apologize for kissing her robbed him of breath, but that was impossible with his sisters present. In any case, he’d probably succumb to the temptation to kiss he
r again. It occurred to him his misstep in Stirling had been caused by Fiona’s presence knocking him off balance.

  Nairn’s enthusiastic embrace gave him a moment or two to gather his wits, though his mouth was spouting gibberish.

  Caitlin eyed him as if he had two heads. Had she guessed?

  He cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his turmoil. “Ladies, what a surprise.”

  “Shaw’s sister is giving us a tour of the castle,” Nairn explained.

  Fiona smiled weakly, holding on to the door handle as if her life depended on it, looking like she might flee. He wished she would say something—anything—but she just stared at him, her faced getting pinker by the second. Was she angry with him, horrified they’d shared a kiss? Or had she thoroughly enjoyed it, as he had?

  “Er,” he tried. “I canna find the play ye mentioned.”

  “Play?”

  “Aye, about a shipwreck, ye said.”

  “Twelfth Night?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is it nay there on the shelf?”

  “I’ll look again,” he said, though he seemed unable to tear his gaze away from her face.

  Finally, she walked to the shelf and quickly located the manuscript he sought. “There.”

  Noticing the tremor in her hands as he took it from her, he risked a suggestive smile. “I thank ye, Fiona—nay just for the book.”

  She met his gaze and nodded.

  He completely forgot his sisters were present until Caitlin coughed.

  *

  Caitlin’s cough jolted Fiona back to reality. She’d been about to throw herself into Rory’s arms and beg him to kiss her again.

  “Would ye like to see the kitchens next?” she asked Nairn.

  It was a silly suggestion, as evidenced by the lass’ frown. One kitchen was much like another, after all, but she had to get out of the library, away from Rory Blair.

  She fled, hoping the others were following.

  Almost in tears when they reached the kitchens, she prattled on about recipes and menus, this vegetable and that, painfully aware of Caitlin’s puzzled stare.

  She railed inwardly at Fate. Fiona Drummond had finally met a man who sent her senses reeling and drew her like a lodestone, but the intelligent, quick-witted woman who was never at a loss for words had no idea what to say to him.

  Goodbyes

  Because they’d given up their bedchamber for Caitlin and Nairn, Gordon and Logan slept on pallets in Shaw’s chamber. He thus had no opportunity to spend time alone with his beloved the night before he left for Stirling.

  Having broken his fast in the hall before dawn, he threw propriety to the winds and entered Caitlin’s chamber without knocking. Hoping not to wake Nairn, he tiptoed to his bride’s bed.

  She reached up to put her arms around his neck when he sat on the edge of the mattress and kissed her forehead. “I was waiting for ye,” she whispered.

  “Is Nairn still asleep?” he asked.

  “Hard to tell,” she replied. “Probably not.”

  “I’ll have to content myself with just a kiss, then,” he said, brushing his lips against hers.

  She responded greedily, running her tongue against the seam of his lips. The scent and taste of an aroused female calmed his heart but excited his body. He was smugly content she’d pine for his return, but her desire rendered it harder to leave. The temptation to ease the nightrail off her shoulders and suckle a nipple was powerful.

  “Who’s there?” Nairn murmured.

  Chastened, he sat up. “’Tis Shaw. I came to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” she yawned before turning over in bed.

  “I’d better go,” he whispered.

  “I’ll miss ye,” Caitlin replied.

  “We should be back in a day, two at the most. It depends how long Davidson keeps us cooling our heels.”

  “Safe journey, my love.”

  *

  Rory hesitated outside the door of Fiona’s solar. He’d lain awake most of the night. After finally deciding it was cowardly not to speak with her before he left for Stirling, he’d subsequently been unable to decide what he might say.

  I like ye.

  Pathetic.

  I’m drawn to ye.

  Better.

  I dinna really want a wife, but I think…

  ’Tis a lost cause.

  He’d never been interested enough in a woman to engage in wooing or flirting.

  Now, standing in the dimly-lit corridor, he reasoned it was likely Fiona was still abed in her chamber and therefore not in the solar. Reluctant to walk away, he put both hands on the frame and leaned his ear to the door.

  Nothing.

  Nevertheless, he obeyed the insistent inner voice that urged him to knock.

  *

  Fiona sat at her beloved desk. She’d been there most of the night, pondering her feelings for Rory Blair.

  She hoped he would come before his departure. Then again, what would she say to him? If he expressed regret for what they’d shared, it would break her heart. If he told her the kisses had been the most wonderful things he’d ever experienced…

  She shuffled papers on the desk, annoyed with herself for foolishly thinking an attractive man like Rory would be interested in her. Besides, they brought out the worst in each other.

  Shortly before dawn, she heard a faint noise outside her door, and knew he’d come.

  Gooseflesh marched from her toes to the top of her head. Heat rolled over her, then she shivered.

  If he knocked, should she allow him entry, or pretend she was still abed?

  She’d always been a decisive person, now indecision plagued her.

  “This love business is driving me out of my wits,” she murmured.

  Love?

  Was it possible she loved Rory Blair?

  Was that the reason for the previously unknown sensations of desire running rampant in private places?

  She startled when he knocked, then came to her feet, gripping the edge of the desk. The proud, independent Fiona who needed nobody’s love shook her head. The woman who’d longed to fall in love since she was a lass bade him enter.

  *

  Surprised he’d been granted entry, Rory stepped over the threshold and took his time closing the door. His emotions still had him in their thrall and he wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

  When he turned and saw Fiona holding on to the desk like a shipwreck survivor clings to driftwood, looking as bewildered as he felt, his confusion fled.

  He strode to her side, took her hand and went down on one knee. “Fiona Drummond, will ye do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Her mouth fell open. A myriad of emotions played out on her face—wide-eyed astonishment, joy, but then a frown turned to a scowl as she withdrew her hand from his grasp. “Ye needna make fun of me, Rory Blair. A mon doesna have to propose to a woman just because he kissed her.”

  He rose quickly, put his hands on her shoulders and looked into eyes filled with uncertainty. “Is that what ye think I’m doing, stubborn woman? I’m asking ye to wed with me so I can kiss ye again and again.”

  Some of the stiffness left her body as she gazed up at him, searching his face. “I hope ye see the love I bear ye, Fiona,” he rasped. “Ye’ve turned a sensible, independent mon into a fool who can think of naught else but ye.”

  Tears welled as she rested her head on his chest. “’Tis the same for me, Rory, but I canna leave Drummond. My life is here, and Shaw will need my help.”

  He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of the strong woman whose happiness was suddenly and unexpectedly the purpose of his life. She’d admitted she had feelings for him and he suspected fear alone was preventing her from giving in to her heart’s desire.

  He understood. For two people who’d never expected to wed, marriage was a daunting prospect. Much as he itched to lavish persuasive kisses on her trembling lips, he was a patient man. “Think on it while I’m gone,” he whispered
. “I want ye.”

  She nodded woodenly. “Safe journey.”

  Tackling the Issue

  It seemed like a lifetime since Shaw had last coaxed his tired horse up the hill to Stirling’s gate. The ride had been pleasant, the weather unusually mild for late November. He had hoped to continue his discussion with Caitlin’s brother. They were, after all, going to be related by marriage. However, most of the conversation had been between him and Marcus Merryweather. Rory seemed preoccupied, his thoughts evidently on other matters.

  It was doubtful they would have been granted admittance had the major not vouched for them, and it was his request for an interview with Steward Davidson that carried weight.

  “I’ve done my part,” Merryweather said after they were left to cool their heels in the castle’s entryway. “I’m off to organize billets for my men. Send a message when you’re ready to return to Drummond.”

  “It might take a while,” Shaw replied with a wry grin. “Thank ye for yer help.”

  The soldier nodded and left.

  Shaw and Rory waited in the castle’s entryway for well over an hour. Shaw perched on an uncomfortable stone bench, having anticipated they’d be made to wait, but Rory paced, getting more agitated by the minute.

  “I’m confident ’twill go weel,” Shaw suggested in an effort to calm Caitlin’s brother.

  Rory stopped abruptly. “Eh?”

  Shaw eyed him curiously. Obviously, the mon’s mind wasn’t on their mission. “We’ve come to apologize. The king will get what he wants and so will I. Even if they dinna grant permission to hold the wedding here, we’ll keep our castles.”

  “Aye, though I doot I’ll get what I want,” Rory replied, before resuming his pacing.

  Shaw stood and was about to delve deeper to discover what plagued his fellow laird, but Davidson arrived, looking less than pleased.

  “Drummond, Blair, I’m surprised to see ye after recent events,” he said curtly, making no attempt to offer a handshake.

  Shaw held out the missive. “Our clans have made peace,” he declared, deeming it prudent to come to the heart of the matter. “Brodie Drummond and Ian Blair have provided written apologies, and my marriage to Caitlin Blair will take place.”