Highlander's Untamed Bride

by Maddie MacKenna

  Kirsteen gulped, her eyes widening as Beathan’s words settled over her. If she was not mistaken, he was pledging his love to her not for a night, or a week, but for always. For eternity.

  She opened her mouth to speak, to clarify, to discuss, but all that came out was, “Good night, Beathan. I love you.” She handed the candle to him, then turned and crawled into her tent.

  It was torture to leave him, but Kirsteen needed time to think. She had been so sure of her decision only half an hour ago, knowing that leaving Beathan was the right thing to do. But now, knowing that he was so committed to her, her mind was all a jumble.

  Removing her shoes and taking her hair out of its plait, she hoped sleep would help her mind organize itself. After all, she had Fred and Blanche to contend with in the morning, as well. She could practically imagine their angry expressions all ready, and it was with a shudder that she settled into her cot and fell into a rough, dreamless sleep.

  Beathan waited until the next morning to do what he had planned. The moment he had glanced down at the arrow in his hand as he was bent over behind the barn, catching his breath, he had known what to do.

  There were at least a hundred guests at the castle, and thrice that many people in the village and surrounding area. It was going to require the effort of all the guards and a good many of the servants, but Beathan wanted every person’s stash of weapons checked. If they possessed arrows with the same color fletchings as the one he’d picked up from the attacker, they’d know the attacker’s identity.

  As the operation would take a good many hands, Beathan woke early and strode immediately to his father’s office, forgoing breakfast and once again causing his valet a good deal of consternation. This early in the morning, he did not need to bother knocking. His father always read in the mornings, a cup of tea and a bowl of oats at his side.

  And this morning was no different as Beathan barged into the room. To his credit, his father only looked a little surprise by the sudden presence of his son.

  “Good mornin’, Beathan!” his father said cheerily, taking a sip of tea and inviting Beathan to sit.

  He declined the offer, feeling far too on edge to do anything but pace. He’d been up half the night walking the length of his room over and over, no doubt etching a pattern of footprints into the rug that covered the cold stone. His mind had vacillated between ironing out the details of the plan, and worrying about the look on Kirsteen’s face as he bid her goodnight.

  He had not meant to betray his desire to marry her, but after so dramatic an evening, his mind was unable to stop him from uttering the words. The lass had looked so afraid when he found her in the woods, and though he knew it was no doubt mainly from the attempted attack, he could not help wondering if it might also be regret about their lovemaking.

  After all, she had told me she would only give her virtue to the man she would marry, he had thought as he crouched down in front of her and scanned her bonny face. And I’ve made her no promises.

  So Beathan had tried to settle her mind, to tell her something of his hopes for their future.

  He needed to talk to Fred to solidify the proposal, of course. And that could only be done after a one-sided yelling match, during which Fred would berate him for once again putting his daughter in danger. But he assumed that telling the lass of his plans would do no harm; in fact he had hoped it would do her some good, knowing that he was not planning on abandoning her after the fortnight’s end.

  And yet, she had not looked pleased when he told her that he wanted her for all his days. Or at least, she had not looked wholly pleased. There was a touch of worry in her eyes after he said it, like she doubted him. Or, his worst fear: realizing that he was not the man she wanted to tie herself to for the rest of her life.

  Don’t worry about that now, he told himself as he walked back and forth in front of the mantle in his father’s study, letting the fire warm the backs of his legs. Focus on the matter at hand, and then you can deal with the lass and her family.

  “Cripes, Beathan, ye’re movin’ yer feet like ye’re at a caleigh!” his father remarked with a laugh.

  “Stand still and tell me what’s on yer mind.”

  Beathan stopped in front of his father’s chair, and without further preamble, laid out the events of the night before, and the ensuing plan he had crafted.

  His father stared at him, a frown settling deeper and deeper on Beathan’s face as he spoke. It hurt him to tell his father this, for he knew the man did not need any further stress. But his father had arranged the manhunt that had thus far proved ineffective, and he would know how best to arrange this one, too.

  “Well,” his father said when Beathan had finished speaking, collapsing into a chair. It turned out that finally getting all that off his chest had rather tired him out. No doubt the constant pacing hadn’t helped, either.

  “I’m sorry we have not found this scoundrel yet, son, but now that we have that arrow, I reckon we will catch him in no time. Ye have a good idea, lookin for arrows with similar fletchings. And with yer homecomin’ nearin’ its end, we can spare most of the servants to help with the search.”

  Beathan sighed with relief, glad his father agreed with his plans.

  “I can get started on this right away and have men sent out to the village within the hour. But I want ye to go back to bed, son,” his father said, setting aside the teacup he had just taken a sip of.

  “No. I can’t. I need to help,” Beathan said.

  “No, ye daenae!” his father said with force. “I told ye not to help with the manhunt, and I will tell ye the same with this. After all, look what happened last night, Beathan. Ye went out for a wee walk with yer lass and even then ye were nae safe. Though I don’t mind tellin’ ye it was a foolish thing to do, sneakin’ out like that, I dinnae think that even if ye had alerted the guards of yer whereabouts, they would have been able to do much, lad.”

  “What daeye mean, Faither?” Beathan asked.

  Sighing, his father said, “It’s clear to me that whoever this attacker is, he willnae stop until he has killed ye or Kirsteen. It’s clear he’s so focused on it that he’ll find ye when and wherever ye are. The best thing we can do, therefore, is keep ye inside and well protected.

  I’m havin’ Barclay follow ye around for the rest of the day, lad, with a dirk in his hand and another stashed in his boot. It will be a nuisance, but I dinnae want ye alone. I cannae take the risk of someone catchin’ ye unaware.”

  Beathan sighed, knowing his father was right, but still not looking forward to the prospect of a day spent being tailed by his valet. Barclay was a good man, but, like Logan, he was without humor. He would not let Beathan out of his sight, and neither would he let him so much as use the chamber pot on his own. It was going to be a very dull day, indeed.

  “Go and rest, lad. Ye look like ye havenae slept in days. Rest, and then go and talk to that lass’s parents. I’ll have Logan send for them. No doubt they’re spittin’ mad at ye after what happened last night.”

  “Aye, so they will be,” Beathan said, pushing himself into a standing position.

  “She’s a nice lass, though. Would make ye a fine wife, if ye liked,” Beathan’s father called to him on the way out.

  That, at least, put a smile on his face.

  She would indeed, he silently agreed.

  15

  Kirsteen had never seen Fred’s face as red as when she and Beathan had disappeared into the library earlier that day. She had told Blanche and Fred what had happened in the woods as soon as they were all dressed and headed to the castle for rehearsal.

  At first, she had thought that perhaps she, or rather, Beathan, had escaped Fred’s wrath. He had said nothing about Beathan’s part to play in the attack, had not railed against the man as he had before. Instead, Fred had been fatherly, focused solely on her welfare and how she was feeling. It was refreshing, but sadly it did not last.

  When Logan came to collect them for a talk with Beathan, though, Kir
steen had watched with horrified fascination as Fred’s face progressed from first blush pink, to dusky rose, finally ending at a cross between the red of blood and claret. Even Blanche had looked shock at the progression of her husband’s temper, but she knew better than to try and calm Fred down when he was in such a state.

  “He just needs to do his yelling, and then he will be better,” she had told Kirsteen just before entering the library. “Do not worry, ma fille. It will all be fine. Just go relax, yes?”

  Relax! As if Kirsteen could relax, knowing that Fred was no doubt threatening to leave once again, and this time with far more fortitude than he had before. She only hoped Beathan could calm him down enough that he would be able to perform that night.

  Fred was meant to be playing an old king’s servant who sang rather than spoke. Kirsteen was concerned that the singing would turn to shouting the second he glanced at Beathan. However, she need not have worried, for Fred had eyes only for her that night, watching her every move as though she was teetering on the brink of collapse, about to fall out of every dance position.

  But while Fred was staring at her, she was staring at Beathan. Emotions clashed inside her every time she looked into his blue eyes, constantly having to hold herself back from falling into their depths and losing herself. Fear and apprehension warred within her; fear for herself and Beathan after the night’s attack, and apprehension that perhaps he was regretting his confession of love.

  The emotions consumed Kirsteen so, that she nearly forgot a few of her lines, scrambling for them in her mind and blurting them out a beat too late, often with the words all a jumble. No one except the rest of the troupe noticed, thankfully. Fred gave her a questioning stare, and Blanche briefly grabbed her hand as she sauntered across the stage, squeezing Kirsteen’s palm and silently offering her strength.

  Kirsteen smiled her widest at Fred to appease his worries, and squeezed Blanche’s hand back in gratitude. But when she looked out at the crowd, wondering if perhaps Beathan had also noticed her mistake, she found that he was not even looking at her. Instead of pointing his gaze her way, his eyes were flitting all over the room, as though he was trying to keep count of every person sitting in the hall.

  Why is he doing that? she wondered as she voiced her lines and danced a jig in her role as the jester. The play was a dramatic tale of an old king betrayed by his much younger cousin. Kirsteen was the jester and narrator, whose jokes and stories eventually helped the king realize the truth of his relative’s treasonous ways.

  Though hers was a relatively small part, it was in fact the most important of the play. It was up to her to lead the audience on a journey that ended in their discovery of the king’s cousin’s true nature, right before the king himself realized it. If she misspoke any more of her lines, the play itself would be ruined.

  Therefore, she tore her eyes away from Beathan.

  Focus on your role, she admonished herself. You are a performer right now, not a lover.

  Doing so was far easier said than done, however. Kirsteen felt her attention torn in two directions for the rest of the play; though she thankfully recited the rest of her lines without issue, her gaze constantly strayed back toward Beathan, who was now standing up and leaning against one of the room’s tapestry-covered walls, his posture tense.

  Therefore, it was with relief that Kirsteen leapt into her final twirl of the evening, ending with one knee on the floor, the other lunging straight out. The rest of the players ended their bits as well, and they all assumed their final poses as the room erupted into raucous applause.

  Well, at least no one else noticed I was distracted, she thought as she smiled at the crowd, who did indeed seem to have greatly enjoyed the performance and the part she had played in it.

  When the applause had died down, she took Fred’s proffered hand and climbed off the stage, pausing to stretch her legs in the velvet breeches she was wearing as part of her costume.

  “How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Fred asked, handing her a cup of water from a nearby table and urging her to drink.

  “I am fine, Fred, I promise. No harm came to me last night, other than a slight feeling of fear,” she said as she switched to stretching the other leg. The “slight” feeling had in fact been crippling, but it wouldn’t serve to tell him that. He was, after all, already looking Beathan’s way and glaring at the man.

  Apparently, Beathan had been able to dissuade Fred from taking the troupe and leaving immediately, but Blanche had told Kirsteen that the men had ended the meeting at an impasse. Fred would not accept Beathan’s apology for what had occurred the night before, nor would he listen to anything else Beathan had to say.

  Kirsteen hoped that Fred would calm down eventually and see that the attempted attacks had in fact not been Beathan’s fault, but she did not hold out much hope. Fred could be a very stubborn man when he put his mind to it.

  With the performance over, the players began to make their way to their dressing room to gather their things and return to the camp. Kirsteen was at the very back of the group, moving slowly, scanning the room for Beathan, when she stopped in her tracks.

  Beathan was now back in his seat at the head table, but he was not wearing the expression of merriment that was painting the faces of the rest of his party. Rather, his brow was furrowed, a deep frown on his face. The tension was still there in his shoulders and the way his fists were curled on top of the table.

  If Kirsteen did not know better, she would say that Beathan was preparing for a fight. And when he suddenly stood up, shoving his chair into the wall in his haste, she knew instinctively to stop moving and watch. Because whatever happened next was of vital importance.

  Beathan’s mind had been running rampant throughout most of the performance. At first, he had been content to sit back and watch the players, to affix his eyes to Kirsteen’s bonny form and watch as she moved with her signature grace and elegance. But when the subject matter of the play had become clear, a theory had begun to take shape in his mind.

  His attention had necessarily turned away from his love and her performance and back to the events of the past few days. Specifically, to the day he went to Andrew’s room, when his cousin requested a rematch of their duel. Beathan had been admiring Andrew’s new arrows, with their green and blue fletchings, when his cousin had roughly torn them from his hands and gingerly placed the quiver back on the wall.

  Andrew had been livid that Beathan had touched something of his. And while Beathan knew his cousin to be an ill-tempered man, he had never been so selfish with his possessions. In fact, normally Andrew would have shown the arrows off to Beathan and claimed something about them being the best arrows in Scotland, and how Andrew was going to use them to best Beathan the next time they practiced their archery.

  Instead, Andrew had done nothing of the sort. He had replaced the quiver in its place and then changed the subject. Beathan hadn’t thought anything of the abrupt chance in topic at the time; after all, Andrew was still obsessing over that duel, so it stood to reason that he would bring it up again.

  Now, however, Beathan wondered whether his cousin might not have been trying to distract him from the arrows. Arrows that Beathan now remembered bore the exact same blue and green fletchings as the arrow he had found after the second attempted attack on him in the woods only a day before.

  It can’t be, were Beathan’s first thoughts upon making the association. Andrew was like his brother. There was no way the man could be trying to kill him. It was preposterous! Surely it was possible that more than one quiver of arrows in the area had similar coloring.

  After all, there were only so many colors in the rainbow, only so many combinations that could be used to dye fletchings and affix them to arrows. It must be a coincidence. But then, Beathan had begun to think further back, to his very earliest memories of his cousin. And suddenly, he realized that yes, it could be. In fact, the theory his mind was beginning to form made perfect sense.

  Andrew had been du
mped on the Castle Dunn doorstep days after his father, Laird Dunn’s brother, had been killed in battle. Andrew’s mother had died in childbirth, leaving him an orphan at the age of just six. Beathan, who was eight when Andrew was dropped at the castle, remembered the look of sheer terror on his cousin’s face as he walked into the castle’s entrance, his pale blue eyes darting all around, unfocused and frightened.

  The Laird and Lady Dunn had done all they could for Andrew. They had taken him in and treated him as their own, but despite all the love, affection and attention showed to Andrew, it was never enough.

  It was understandable at first. After all, Andrew’s father had been away in battle for most of his life. He had been raised by a series of nurses who, from Beathan’s understanding, were cruel women who beat him early and often whenever he so much as stole a biscuit. He hadn’t been shown any love until he was six years old, and Beathan had no doubt about the negative impact such a childhood could have on the man that child later became. And indeed, those effects were made clear as Andrew grew up alongside Beathan.

  Andrew graduated from being a timid and fearful child to a sullen, angry one who threw tantrums at the barest provocation. He insisted on everything between him and Beathan being “fair.” If Beathan was given a dirk for Christmas, then so should he. If Beathan was taken on a walk in the woods with his mother, then so should Andrew.

  It did not matter to the lad that he was given a sword for Christmas the year that Beathan received a dirk, or that Beathan’s mother came to Andrew’s room every night to read to him, which she did not always do for Beathan, who preferred to spend the evenings in the library with his father. No, Andrew insisted on getting exactly everything that Beathan got, in addition to whatever he received himself.