Kilty Party

by Markland, Anna

  Davidson looked to Rory. “Can ye confirm this?”

  “Aye. As well, Shaw is now laird of Clan Drummond and I am laird of Clan Blair.”

  Davidson arched a brow as he read the missive. “’Tis hard to believe yer differences have been resolved in such a short time.”

  “Nevertheless,” Rory replied curtly, indicating to Shaw he was as irritated by Davidson’s lack of trust as he was. “Ye can be assured my sister will wed Laird Shaw, and I’ll…”

  He broke off abruptly.

  Davidson frowned.

  Shaw worried they were losing the steward’s confidence. “We’d also beg a favor. We want the nuptials to take place here.”

  “In the Chapel Royal?” Davidson spluttered.

  Shaw soldiered on. “Aye, neutral ground, so to speak, and no Scottish castle could be more auspicious. By year’s end, if possible.”

  The request clearly took the steward off guard. “Ye realize I canna grant such an honor. ’Twill be decided by Sir John.”

  “Today?” Rory asked impatiently.

  “Nay,” Davidson snarled, clearly at the end of his patience. “Word of the decision will be sent to Drummond. Ye can be on yer way.”

  *

  Since Shaw and Rory’s departure earlier in the day, Caitlin had seen nothing of Fiona. She didn’t appear for the evening meal in the hall. Caitlin felt decidedly uncomfortable sitting at the head table between Brodie Drummond on one end and her own father on the other. They’d shaken hands earlier, but now seemed to have resumed glaring at each other.

  Despite Gordon and Logan’s efforts to engage their sire in conversation, he merely grunted in reply.

  “Thank heavens ye’re here,” she whispered to Nairn. “’Tis clear they dinna ken how to be civil to each other.”

  “Grumpy old men,” her sister replied with a naughty smile, turning to chat with Gordon seated beside her.

  Caitlin ought to chastise Nairn for belittling their father, but Ian Blair seemed determined to be cantankerous. She wished he could be happy for his daughter. Not every young lass had the good fortune to wed the man she loved. She could only hope that, in time, he’d come to accept Shaw as a fine son-by-marriage.

  “Ask Gordon if he kens where Fiona is,” she told Nairn.

  “I’m nay sure,” she heard him reply. “’Tis unusual for her to miss the evening meal.”

  A servant clearing away trenchers overheard. “I took Mistress Fiona’s supper to her solar earlier.”

  As people finished eating, Caitlin pondered the situation. She was to be the Lady of Drummond Castle. While it might be hard for Fiona to adjust to not being mistress of the household, it was important she agree things would run more smoothly if they got along. Caitlin was anxious to learn from Shaw’s sister and preferred not to be at odds with her.

  Earlier, Fiona had seemed happy enough to show her around the castle, but now she sat in her solar. Was she sulking? Plotting how to undermine her rival’s position? There was no time like the present to tackle the issue head on. If Fiona disrespected her, it would be nigh on impossible to establish her authority over the household staff.

  Servants began moving trestle tables from the center of the hall in preparation for a performance by a troupe of wandering Morris Dancers. Both former lairds slunk away without so much as a goodnight. Caitlin was confidant Gordon and Logan would watch over Nairn. “I’ll be back shortly,” she assured her sister.

  Nairn smiled, clearly content to remain with the Drummond lads.

  Caitlin hurried along the well-lit corridor and tapped on Fiona’s door, bracing herself for a difficult conversation.

  *

  Fiona had been unable to make a final decision about Rory’s proposal of marriage, though she’d pondered the pros and cons for hours. For a brief moment, she thought the tapping at her door signaled his return. Her instinct was to rush into his arms and declare she would indeed marry him.

  She inhaled deeply to slow her racing heart when a soft voice whispered, “’Tis Caitlin. Are ye there?”

  It would be cowardly to ignore her future sister-by-marriage. The situation in which she found herself was none of Caitlin’s doing and, in any case, she’d taken a liking to her brother’s betrothed. “Aye, come in,” she replied, regretting the uncertainty on Caitlin’s face when she entered and stood dithering. The lass no doubt wondered why she’d missed the evening meal.

  It was tempting to remain seated at her desk. It had become a fortress, a place she felt confident, in charge. However, that would put Caitlin on the defensive and turn a friendly chat between friends into a more confrontational situation. She stood, gesturing to the high-backed sofa.

  They exchanged petits baisers on each cheek before they sat.

  “I was afraid ye were unwell,” Caitlin said with genuine concern.

  “Nay,” Fiona replied. “Just thinking about the future.”

  Designed for two people, the sofa forced them to sit close to each other. Caitlin ran a hand over the velvet of the scroll arm. “Luxurious.”

  “’Tis Dutch. A concession to our monarch, I suppose—the only piece I didna import from France.”

  “I hope to learn a lot from ye, Fiona,” Caitlin replied. “Nay just about furniture. I trust we can be friends, if only for Shaw’s sake.”

  Fiona had to admire Caitlin’s spunk. On the surface, she appeared to be a shy, meek soul, but the lass clearly had a sturdy Highland backbone. She was staking her claim to the role of Lady of Drummond, though her tone was conciliatory. Shaw was lucky to have found her, but how could she know of Fiona’s emotional turmoil over the Blair chieftain?

  Yet, who knew Rory better than his sister? The compulsion to confide everything was stifled by a loud knock at the door.

  “’Tis Shaw, Fiona. Is Caitlin with ye?”

  I Need Ye More

  Rory followed Shaw into Fiona’s solar when she bade her brother enter. Unable to come up with a reasonable excuse for not accompanying the Drummond laird, he was left with no choice.

  The woman who occupied his every thought might have changed her mind, or had she convinced herself not to marry him?

  As he expected, Caitlin rushed to embrace Shaw. Her wide-eyed delight when she saw her brother had also arrived back safely from Stirling helped settle his nervousness.

  “Rory,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Fiona clinging to the arm of a sofa on which she sat. He hesitated only a moment before striding over to sit beside her. His thigh briefly touched hers before she inched away. The contact was enough to stir a predictable response in his loins.

  She stiffened, her eyes darting here and there, like a deer held fast in the huntsman’s sights. However, she didn’t flee, which was hopefully a good omen. “Fiona,” he said softly, itching to take her into his embrace and refuse to let her go until she agreed to marry him.

  “Laird Blair,” she rasped in reply, dashing his fledgling hopes.

  He crossed one leg over the other in an uncomfortable effort to hide his arousal.

  Shaw and Caitlin eyed them curiously, which was hardly surprising. The betrothed couple should be sitting beside each other on a sofa. “Er…go ahead, Laird Drummond,” he declared. “Bring them up to date on Stirling.”

  Frowning, Shaw moved an armchair from in front of the hearth, sat down and pulled Caitlin into his lap. “As ye can imagine, we werena welcomed with open arms.”

  “But ye did gain entry?” Caitlin asked.

  Shaw nodded. “Thanks to Merryweather. Then we were kept waiting. However, the steward eventually accepted the missive and told us he would convey our request regarding the ceremony to Sir John.”

  “So, when will ye hear word?” Fiona asked her brother, still refusing to look at the man seated next to her.

  Rory decided he’d kept quiet long enough. “He didna say. We just have to be patient.”

  Still, Fiona stared across at her brother, hands fiste
d in the fabric of her gown. If only she would look at him, she’d see the need in his eyes.

  “’Tis easy for ye to say,” Caitlin declared. “Ye’re nay the one who wants to get wed.”

  *

  Fiona’s reaction to Caitlin’s innocent remark came as a surprise to Shaw. The sound she made could only be described as a squeal. Clearly, she was ill, her face getting redder by the minute. Some wretchedness had befallen her during the episode in Jamie’s cottage. He scowled at Rory, wondering if he had also fallen victim to a noxious disease. His face was more flushed than Fiona’s and he appeared to be sweating. “The pair of ye dinna look very weel.”

  Fiona tried to extricate herself from the sofa, squealing again when she realized she’d put her hand on Rory’s thigh. He grasped her wrist, forcing her to remain seated.

  Shaw bristled. “What’s going on?”

  Caitlin abruptly got off his lap and pulled him to his feet. “I think we should go,” she said.

  “But…”

  “’Tis all right,” Fiona murmured. “Rory and I need to talk.”

  Shaw allowed his bride to lead him into the corridor, an absurd truth dawning. “Rory and Fiona?” he whispered as the door closed.

  Caitlin nodded, linking his arm. “I had my suspicions. Now, I’m certain of it.”

  Shaw foresaw a difficulty. “Judging by what we just witnessed, I’d say Fiona’s smitten with yer brother, but she will ne’er agree to leave Drummond.”

  “Then we must convince her.”

  *

  When Rory put his arm around her, Fiona surrendered to the inevitable and allowed him to pull her close.

  “My feelings are still the same,” he said. “I want ye for my wife.”

  “Ye barely ken me,” she replied, content to rest her head against his solid shoulder for a little while.

  “We met the same day as Caitlin and Shaw, yet ye canna doot their love for one another.”

  She inhaled deeply. “’Tis different.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re…older.”

  Even to her own ears it sounded like a feeble excuse.

  “Older means wiser,” he retorted, meshing his long fingers with hers. “I’m nay a mon who makes decisions lightly. I ken ’twill mean an upheaval in yer life, but I hope ye’ll say aye.”

  Fiona let her eyes rove over the solar, trying to imagine her beloved furniture in Ardblair—an impossibility since she’d never been there. When she was younger, it was easier to cope with upheavals, though the biggest upset in her life had been her mother’s death. There’d been many a disappointment as the years dragged on and suitors were sent packing, but she’d learned to live with spinsterhood. “’Tis wiser to accept some things can ne’er be.”

  “What are ye afraid of, Fiona?” he countered. “Do ye nay wish to share yer life with me?”

  Marrying Rory was her deepest desire. However, what if she agreed to go to Ardblair as Rory’s wife, and folks there didn’t accept her? Or she might discover she didn’t love Rory at all, or, worse still, he didn’t love her. The uncertainty was all too frightening.

  “I’m nay afraid,” she lied, staring at their joined hands. “I canna leave Drummond. Shaw will need me. My father and my wee brothers need me. The clan needs me. This castle will grind to halt if I’m nay here.”

  She gritted her teeth, appalled by her outburst.

  Rory gathered her closer and tilted her chin to his gaze. The love she saw in his amethyst eyes broke her heart.

  He hesitated before placing her hand on his manhood and covering it with his own. “I need ye more,” he rasped.

  An understanding of what the hard warmth signified sent desire spiraling in private places. Her womb ached for him, her nipples clamored for his caress. His gentle kiss opened a floodgate, swamping her with longing and regret. She welcomed his tongue, savoring the last taste and touch she would ever have.

  “Fare-thee-well, Fiona Drummond,” he whispered as he broke them apart.

  She could only nod woodenly as he rose. When the door closed behind him, the tears fell.

  The Road to Damascus

  Caitlin and Shaw were on their way back to Fiona’s solar when Rory emerged. Their agreed intent was to confront their siblings together, but it was clear from Rory’s scowl and hunched shoulders the interview had not gone well.

  “Did she nay agree?” Caitlin asked her brother.

  He frowned. “To what?”

  She took hold of his forearms. “Ruaraidh Blair. I’m yer sister. ’Tis obvious to me ye have feelings for Fiona.”

  Rory raked his fingers through his hair. “Aye. But she evidently doesna have feelings for me.”

  Shaw shook his head. “Do ye believe that?”

  Rory leaned back against the wall. “Nay. She’s afraid. Claims ye and yer father and the clan need her.”

  Caitlin had never seen her brother look so dejected. “Do ye love her?”

  “Aye. ’Tis hard to explain, but there’s an alchemy between us.”

  Shaw chuckled, putting his arm around Caitlin’s waist. “Ye needna try to explain that to us. We understand.”

  “What’s to be done?” she asked, anxious for her brother’s happiness.

  Shaw passed her hand into Rory’s. “Can I ask ye to escort yer sister to the hall? I’ll have a word with Fiona.”

  Caitlin linked arms with her brother. “Come. If anyone can persuade her, ’tis Shaw.”

  *

  Shaw leaned an ear to Fiona’s door. The unmistakable sounds of sobbing convinced him to leave her alone for now. She wouldn’t welcome his intrusion, though he itched to shake some sense into her. His sister was stubborn, a trait inherited from the person he intended to visit first.

  He strode down the corridor, rapped on his father’s door and entered without waiting to be given leave.

  Brodie Drummond slouched in a chair in front of a fire belching smoke, a tumbler of golden liquid propped on his belly. “I’m nay in the mood for visitors,” he growled, without turning to ascertain who had entered.

  Evidently, the whisky had resurrected Brodie Drummond’s anger.

  “Greetings to ye, also,” Shaw retorted. “Ye havena opened the flue.”

  Brodie sipped his whisky. “Canna be bothered.”

  Shaw retrieved the poker and hunkered down, the smoke making his eyes water as he poked at the stubborn damper partway up the chimney. The flue finally opened and drew the smoke out of the solar. “Ye whine like a bairn,” he accused as he stood, confident the barb had found its mark when his father sat up straight.

  Shaw pulled a chair to face his father’s and sat. “I’ve nay come to speak with ye about the chieftaincy. As far as every other member of the clan is concerned, I am their laird, and ye just have to live with it.”

  His father took another sip, never taking his eyes off the flames. “Why did ye come then?”

  “I want to discuss Fiona.”

  “Another Judas,” Brodie spat. “Ye canna blame me if she and yer lady-love dinna get along.”

  Shaw resisted the urge to censure his father’s disparaging words about Caitlin. “They actually get along weel. ’Tis my sister’s happiness I want to discuss.”

  Brodie finally looked at him, but the glazed eyes suggested none of what Shaw had to say would penetrate. “Her happiness?”

  “She wants to marry Rory Blair.”

  His father snorted. “Thinks she’s getting married, does she? At her age. Pah.”

  “She has refused him.”

  “Of course she has. She’s nay the marrying sort.”

  “Why is that, Da? Why has Fiona never married? I recall many worthy suitors coming to call, none of whom stayed very long.”

  “She put them off,” Brodie declared.

  “Did she, or were ye determined to send them packing so ye could keep her here at yer beck and call?”

  The tumbler fell to the carpeted floor as Brodie struggled to his feet and brandished his fist. “Ye cann
a speak to me with such disrespect.”

  Shaw remained seated, determined not to flinch. “The truth hurts, aye? Fiona has devoted her life to ye and this castle because ye denied her the opportunity to wed when she was young. Now, she has a chance at happiness, but she’s still afraid of yer censure. After all ye’ve done to deprive her of a family, she still loves and respects ye.”

  He decided he’d said enough. Brodie’s bloated face was so red, he feared his sire might have an apoplectic fit. He got to his feet and walked to the door. “’Tis incumbent on ye to undo the harm ye’ve wrought.”

  As he walked down the corridor, he hoped at least some of what he’d said had made an impression.

  *

  Fiona tried to ignore the insistent knocking. She’d long since cried herself into a stupor and collapsed with her head on the desk. “Go away,” she said, though her throat was so dry, she doubted the visitor could hear.

  The knocking persisted.

  “Go away,” she shouted.

  “’Tis yer father, Fiona.”

  She groaned, unwilling to face another confrontation. Someone had told him about Rory and he’d come to rant and rave. It was mildly amusing to think Rory Blair wouldn’t be as readily intimidated as the suitors who’d flocked to Drummond Castle when she was younger.

  “I’ll keep knocking until ye let me in.”

  He sounded tipsy. There was nothing unusual in that. However, she didn’t detect anger in his voice. Bracing herself for his censure, she rose and went to open the door, puzzled by the stricken expression on his face. “I’m nay in the mood for an argument,” she warned as he stepped over the threshold.

  “Can I sit?” he asked. “These auld bones.”

  She gestured to the sofa, tamping down the unkind thought that his inability to stand without swaying was due to whisky, not old age.

  As he fidgeted with the frayed edge of his dress plaid, it struck her he’d dressed more formally than usual. His trews were clean, his shirt crisp. He’d shaved off the unkempt beard. “Say what ye came to say,” she said curtly.