The Chieftain's Choice (The Wolf Deceivers Series Book 1)

by Elaine Manders

  Did God hear the prayers being lifted up for them? Many of those people would die. Did God attend the prayers of some but not others? Why would He pay any attention to her prayers?

  But Barthram believed. That made a difference. Father God, please doona let him die. He’s the only one who wanted me here, the only one who listens to me. He’s become like a father. I need him.

  How selfish that sounded.

  If she really cared for Barthram shouldna she pray that he be released from his suffering?

  Nay, God, I doona want him to die. Selfish or not, please let him live. Gavin needs him. The whole clan needs him.

  That was true. The clans were only holding their peace out of respect for Barthram.

  Louder cries and sounds of distress flowed through the walls, and she put her hands to her ears to shut it out, her own misery deepening. Now she knew how Gavin felt when he’d said he avoided his father because he couldna bear to see the suffering. Yet Gavin had no choice. If only there was some way she could comfort her husband.

  She sat up slowly and got to her feet. She wasn’t needed and could pray as well upstairs as here. No one had ever needed her, but at least she could return to her chambers and make sure Finella didn’t wake to leave her room and wander about the castle.

  Finella still slept soundly, so Alana returned to her bedroom. She glanced to the door that communicated with Gavin’s room, the door she’d left gaping. Hoping.

  With heavy steps, she went to the door and closed it, then lay upon the bed, staring into the darkness. She tried to form the words of a new prayer, but nothing came to her. Weary as she was, she found sleep wouldn’t come either. Behind her eyelids, the tormenting picture of poor Barthy remained.

  Chapter 12

  When Gavin woke the next day, the sun was high in the sky and a crow cawed in the tree near his window. His first thoughts flew to his father, though he’d left the old laird resting comfortably early in the morning.

  He couldn’t prevent himself from opening the communicating door to check on Alana. She wasn’t there. The room was empty.

  Not bothering to call his valet, he shaved and dressed himself. He’d be in meetings all day concerning the clan’s security, so there was no need to dress according to the elements. Noting the time from the French clock on the fireplace mantle, he realized the time for breakfast had past. He’d have something sent to his study.

  He hurried downstairs and found the door to the Blue Salon open. Alana sat beside his father with a book in hand. Deciding not to disturb them, he passed by. He’d have to carve out some minutes in the day to speak to her. They’d had precious little time together since their marriage. How could he win her affection without the time to do it?

  The men were already gathered in the study waiting for him. McGuire, Ferguson, Ramsay, and Coverley looked his way. Only McGil and Frasier were missing. “We’re in for perilous times, m’lord,” McGuire said.

  With a heavy sigh, Gavin sat at the end of the table. “How does Frasier fare?”

  Ramsay spoke. “I went to the wake. There were many from Clan Gilmour with words to stir up the emotions, I fear.”

  “What words?”

  Ramsay looked from one to the other of the men. “They lay all the blame on Lady Alana.”

  Anger rose like bile in Gavin’s throat. The thought stung him that he’d put Alana in this impossible, perhaps dangerous, position.

  “Aye,” Ferguson added. “They’re convinced she brought on the plague, and while I and the gentlemen here know tis not true, these are simple people who look for a devil under every bush.”

  “Have they thought to look for the devil in Gilmour Hall?” The question called for no answer. He’d not thought Vanora capable of such malevolence, but she’d be behind the unrest. He slammed a fist down on the desk. She wouldn’t win. He’d find a way to expose Vanora and convince the people she was nothing but a charlatan.

  That would take time, and he’d have to be more vigilant in protecting Alana.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Coverley asked.

  “I want men posted on the border. Make sure Lady Vanora is turned away at every turn. I’m going to speak to Lyulf to see if there’s anything he can do to control her.” He held little hope Lyulf would do anything, and he didn’t trust the man. But if he could get Lyulf alone, away from Elspeth—

  “Perhaps we should survey to see how many men stand with us.”

  McGuire’s suggestion left Gavin cold. He already knew there weren’t many. “Are you saying we don’t know who we can depend on?”

  “Some bend whichever way the wind blows, m’lord. Those who would stand with us before your marriage may not now,” McGuire said.

  “Can they be so thick skulled as to believe Alana could bring ill fortune to the Carmichael Clan? Don’t they realize Lord Barthram sanctioned our marriage? Don’t they have any regard for the man who has led them to prosperity and now lies near death?”

  “They do, but they remember Torquil’s treachery, and they believe their prosperity is in jeopardy, considering how much thievery abounds lately.”

  “Perhaps if I take Alana around to each croft. If they see her kind demeanor, her gentile ways, they might consider that she takes after her mother more than her father.” Gavin spoke as if to himself.

  “Best wait until we see what reaction there’ll be to confronting Lady Vanora—and what Lyulf can do.” Ferguson’s beak of a nose twitched.

  Gavin slid his chair out. “Then I trust you to survey the clan and find men we can depend on to guard the boundaries.” He stood, and with a bow to the men, left them to their planning.

  He closed the door with a soft thud, and glanced up to find Alana just leaving the Blue Salon. With hurried steps, he hastened to close the space between them without having to call her attention. He needn’t have been concerned. She looked up and waited for him.

  Her wide smile relived him. “Father is doing better?”

  “He’s sleeping now. Still very weak, but yes, breathing normally and in good spirits.” A pucker of worry creased her brow. “I’m sorry I fainted last night. If I hadna been in shock, I wouldna have been such a nuisance.”

  “You were certainly not a nuisance.” He recalled catching her as she swooned and thinking she felt too light. Maybe she wasn’t eating properly, but then he’d never lifted a woman before and didn’t know how light she might feel. She’d felt good in his arms, as if she belonged.

  She smiled and they fell into step together. “What have you planned for your day?” He didn’t ask because it was expected of him. He really wanted to know.

  “Mina and I will spend some time weaving this morning. I’m working on that kilt I promised you.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have it finished in time for me to wear to the crofters’ harvest ceilidh,” he said, referring to those parties that turned into all night affairs of food, dance, and song. Would there be a ceilidh he could take her to?

  Alana seemed unconcerned. “I shall make certain of it. I like working with the Carmichael colors of blue and green.” They had reached the stairs and she stopped, laying her hand on his arm. “Might we go for another ride this afternoon?”

  He frowned, hating to disappoint her. “I must leave this afternoon, Alana. I have to visit the distant crofters, and that’ll take three, perhaps four days.”

  Her eyes clouded. “So long?” That look of regret was exactly as he expected a wife would give her beloved, and though not enough time had passed for Alana to love him, it left him with a warm glow.

  “I’ll return as soon as is possible.” He bent to kiss her check before turning to leave her. If he couldn’t forge an alliance with the other clans, the Gilmours might turn his own clan against him, if they had not done so already.

  ***

  Alana easily fell into the castle’s routine in the days ahead. She and Mina knitted and weaved and stitched while keeping a watch on Finella who tried to imitate them. While Mina took Finella
for a walk in the garden, Alana spent time with Lord Barthram.

  After discussions with the physician, she had the chieftain moved to the window and opened it a bit so he could breathe in the fresh air. He declared it helped him breathe easier, and she gently kneaded his shoulders, alarmed at how wasted the muscles were.

  “Ah, my dear lassie, how good that feels,” Barthram said after she’d resettled him against the pillows.

  “Tis glad I am, and cook is preparing a heartier broth for you today. I believe some color has returned to your face.” Alana perched on the edge of her chair waiting for him to signal that he was ready for her to read.

  “Do you know the worst part of this cursed illness is that I must stay propped up day and night.”

  “The physician says it’s necessary for you to breathe.”

  “Aye, it is, and I confess I brought on the attack the other night by disregarding the physician’s orders.”

  Alana pretended to look aghast. “You lay flat?”

  “I admit as much, and my dear, you cannot imagine how good it felt just to be able to lie down for those few minutes.” He gave her a sly look and chuckled. “Of course I paid for it, as you well know.”

  “Promise that you willna do that again, and I’ll knead those stiff muscles in your shoulders every day.”

  “That I promise.” He threaded his bony fingers together and lay them on his chest. “Do you know what I do in the time I lie here alone, that time I’m not sleeping?”

  “What are you doing, Barthy?”

  “I pray. I’ve prayed more these last two months than in all my life before then.”

  “I know you pray for Gavin. He’s told me it gives him strength.”

  “I pray for Gavin, aye, and for my wayward son, Rory. I believe even he will come around in time…and I pray for you, dear Alana.”

  “For me? Have I need of prayer? Surely I now have everything I need.”

  “But you’re still lonely. You’ve been left alone much of your life.”

  He touched a nerve. She swallowed and nodded.

  “Yet you were never alone. Our dear God was right there waiting for you to converse with Him.”

  She flushed at the gentle admonishment. “I do pray, Barthy.”

  “But do you believe He listens?”

  “I…I” Did she? “I’ll try harder.”

  “If you have trouble believing, just ask for His help. He understands.” Barthy laughed again. “Oh, I can talk now, but for years, I knew nothing about real prayer. Now that I can do nothing else, I understand.” Perhaps because he knew she felt uncomfortable, he changed the subject. “When do you expect Gavin to return?”

  “He wasna certain, but I hope by tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll be praying for that, but for now my eyelids grow heavy.”

  She got to her feet and planted a kiss on his forehead. “When you wake, I’ll bring you the broth.”

  He’d already fallen asleep.

  ***

  Alana closed the door softly and walked away with new purpose. Barthy was right. Prayer was important, but in some cases, action was needed. She gave full reign to the plan that had tumbled around her brain last night. Agatha Kilgarney knew her mother, knew the details of Alana’s birth. This woman held the key to…something, she knew not what, but Mrs. Kilgarney could give Alana an argument to answer the false rumors that lay festering in the clan.

  Before she had time to talk herself out of her bravado, she called a servant and asked that her horse be saddled.

  Not wanting to alert Mina to her plans, she dressed herself in a high-necked dress of plain black wool and tied an apron over it. The apron’s deep pockets were needed to hold the sweet meats she would take—and her dagger.

  Wide frightened blue eyes stared at her from the small looking glass, but she ignored them. She crimped and pinned her hair, and covered it with a bonnet, tying it under her chin. Russet elflocks peeped out from under the brim. She resembled a servant.

  She heard Mina and Finella coming in from the garden and darted another way. It was best Mina not see her. Gavin had told her not to venture out to the crofters’ houses, and here she was deliberately disobeying him. If Gavin returned and questioned Mina, she’d ken nothing.

  No reason to involve Mina in her subterfuge.

  The air lay heavy with hardly a breeze as she rode Orion, following the groom’s directions, toward the Frasier's cottage. Sparse trees lined the road, and the land, likely put to cultivation at one time, was now let to grazing sheep.

  She easily identified the low cottage from Mrs. Gantry’s description. It had been a blacksmith shop in earlier days and was dominated on one side with a huge fire pit. All was quiet as she lifted the iron knocker.

  The door opened to reveal a lass of perhaps twelve years of age.

  The fair-haired girl had clouded hazel eyes and a country-fresh complexion liberally dotted with freckles. She wore a plain brown dress, a starched white apron, and mop cap. “Good day to you,” Alana said. “I’m Lady Carmichael. May I come in?”

  The lass seemed thunder-struck for a moment, but pulled the door fully open, and Alana stepped inside. The inside of the two-room cottage was well furnished for a crofter’s home with table and chairs. Curtains hid the beds, and in a corner near the peat fire, a spinning wheel stood.

  “What’s your name, dear? Are you alone? Where’s Mrs. Kilgarney?”

  The girl stared down at her feet. “Lorrie’s my name. Aunt Agatha has gone to visit Mrs. McGil. I’m getting the chicken ready to stew for Father and m’brothers.” She pointed to a narrow table by the wall where potatoes spilled over the top. A pan rested beside them and contained what appeared to be a dead chicken.

  Alana looked around and noticed a kettle hooked over the fire, steam rising from it. She would stall for time in hopes Mrs. Kilgarney would return soon. “I’ll help you, Lorrie. You peel the potatoes, and I’ll pluck the chicken.” She’d never actually plucked a chicken but had seen the cook at McWayre do so many times.

  A scowl puckered her brow as she searched for a rag and finding none, remembered the linen holding the sweetmeats in her pocket. “I bought you some treats.” She retrieved the bundle and opened it on the dining table. Scraping the little pastries onto the bare boards, she took the cloth and used it to protect her hands from the hot kettle.

  Lorrie drew closer and glanced hungrily at the sweetmeats. “Go ahead and eat some.” Alana laughed. “They’re sweetened with honey.”

  That was enough invitation for Lorrie. She scooped up two of the pastries and stuffed them into her mouth, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s. “Save some for your brothers.” Alana chuckled.

  “Where din you get them?” Lorrie mumbled around the mouthful of food.

  “Stonecrest, where I live.” Alana suspected the child still didn’t understand who she was. “I’m Lord Carmichael’s wife.”

  The girl stiffened and stepped back, a frightened look coming into her eyes. “The witch?”

  “Do I look like a witch?”

  Lorrie slowly shook her head. “Nay, your hair looks much like Lady Vanora’s.”

  “She’s my cousin. Vanora’s mother, Lady Elspeth was sister to my father.”

  Lorrie’s puzzled features told her she didn’t understand the connection, so Alana dropped the subject. “Now let’s get that chicken in the pot.”

  She moved to the edge of the hearth and, holding the wadded cloth in her hand, reached out to grasp the kettle’s handle.

  “Nay, ye canna do that.” Lorrie rushed to her and held out the fireplace poker.

  “I suppose that would be easier.” Alana laughed, taking the poker. She didn’t know how the girl could lift the kettle of water. Indeed, she didn’t know if she could. Biting the edge of her lip, she fished the poker’s hook onto the kettle’s handle.

  Lorrie shook her head. “Nay, this way,” she said, grasping the poker with both hands above where Alana held it and pushed it up to gain levera
ge.

  Alana understood immediately, and the two of them lifted the kettle to the table and poured boiling water over the chicken. She wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her dress. It was a good thing she’d married a man of means. She’d never have survived as a crofter’s wife.

  Thankfully, the chicken had been dressed and beheaded. She took the thing by the legs and swished it around until she could pull the feathers out easily.

  Lorrie came up from behind and dropped a cloth bag on the table. “Am I doing it right?” Alana smiled.

  “Right enough, m’lady, thank you.” Lorrie favored her with a grin. “Put the feathers in the bag, and I’ll spread them out later to dry.”

  Alana nodded. Feathers of any kind were precious to the crofters. They were separated from the down and used in pillows and mattresses and inside the lining of clothing.

  Mrs. Kilgarney hadna returned by the time they had the chicken and vegetables boiling over the fire, so Alana decided she must interrogate the girl. “Why did you think I’m a witch, Lorrie?”

  “Father said you’d caused the plague that took Mother and wee Mary and Neil.”

  “But you know I’m not a witch. I resemble Lady Vanora. Does your father admire Lady Vanora?”

  “Oh aye. He remembers when her father, Lord Gilmour let our sheep graze in his pastures. Lady Vanora helps us as much as she can, he says. She brought us some lamb stew the day we all got sick.”

  “She did? Did she do that often? Bring you food?” So now Vanora was ingratiating herself into the Carmichael clan as well as the Gilmour.

  “Nay, but I remember her visit well, though I got sick later, and mother…mother…” Lorrie’s eyes welled with tears, and she sobbed. “Mother was so glad to have the stew because it saved her from cooking. There was such a lot of stew, she said we might have some before m’father and brothers came in from the pastures.”

  “Did you eat any of the stew?”

  “Aye, but I dinna eat much. It dinna taste good to me.”