“Tales oft make more sense than the truth,” Angus said mildly. “I tell you that Edana lies. Who would know my tale better than me?”
“You argue overmuch.” Jacqueline shook her head stubbornly. “There was a truth in her tale, and I believe her, regardless of what you say. You seek compensation you deem due, but you seek it in the wrong way.”
Now his words were tight. “You know naught of compensation due.”
“I believe you know you pursue this matter wrongly,” Jacqueline insisted. “Did you not yourself vow that you would take naught that was not yours to take?”
“And what do you offer me in compensation for my losses of which you know so much?”
Jacqueline lifted her chin. “I will listen to your tale. Set the matter to rights if you are so certain that Edana told it incorrectly.”
He chuckled. “Sadly, I do not wish to tell the tale. And I shall never tell it to you, not even to satisfy your cursed curiosity. It has naught to do with you—you are but a tool for me.”
“Then the truth of your tale will haunt you forever. The only was to loose its power over you is to tell it.”
“Nay. The only way to loose its power of a ghost is to see it avenged.”
Jacqueline shook her head. “People die, Angus, ’tis part of life that cannot be denied. There is no compensation due for the loss of a loved one taken in their own time to God’s reward.”
“Nay? What of those dispatched to their own reward?”
She twisted around to study him again, uncertain of his meaning. He fairly thrummed with annoyance, his expression tellingly intent.
“My father was murdered, my brother as well.” Angus spoke dispassionately, though his eye glittered with an anger that ran deep. “There is a payment due for murder in every man’s code of law, is there not?”
“Murdered?!” Jacqueline felt her eyes widen in mingled shock and dismay. “But who killed them?”
Angus’ smile was far from reassuring. “None other than the chieftain of clan MacQuarrie.”
Chapter Nine
“Nay!” Jacqueline cried out in shock and dismay.
Angus, though, was resolute. “Aye. If not with his own hand than as surely as if ’twas.”
“But this cannot be! It makes little sense at all.”
“It makes perfect sense. Airdfinnan was the prize.” Angus breathed the name of the holding as though ’twas an incantation. He granted her a quelling look. “Do not suggest to me that that old feud is forgotten.”
“What feud?” Jacqueline knew her confusion showed, for Angus’ gaze flicked over her features and his eye narrowed.
His voice dropped low. “I have no obligation to tell you of your clan’s wicked deeds. The chieftain of clan MacQuarrie will surrender Airdfinnan to see you safely home again and that is all you need to know.” With that, he stared grimly at the road ahead and evidently thought all discussion complete.
But Jacqueline shook her head. “’Tis no lie that this makes little sense. How can Duncan surrender what he does not hold? I do not even know for certain where Airdfinnan lies! Its governance has naught to do with my family.”
Angus frowned, answering her with evident reluctance. “Aye, it does, for Cormac MacQuarrie was an old foe of my father’s.”
“That has naught to do with Duncan.”
Angus’ expression turned fierce. “Men bound together by blood or by vow do not forget each other’s pledges. Cormac swore that he would hold Airdfinnan if ’twas the last deed he did or if that could not be done, he would see it ripped from my father’s hands.”
Jacqueline blinked in astonishment. “But why?”
He watched her carefully. “Because Cormac believed the guardianship of Airdfinnan should have been entrusted to him by the King of the Isles instead of to my father.” Angus shook his head in impatience. “But why do you insist that I tell you what you must already know?”
“I do not know this tale. Cormac, after all, is long dead,” Jacqueline felt obliged to remind him.
“But an old oath does not die so readily as that. Whosoever the chieftain of clan MacQuarrie might be, that man will uphold the command of his forebear.”
“Nay, not Duncan!”
“Nay? Does he uphold no interests of the man who granted him the power he holds?”
Jacqueline could not help but think of Cormac’s son Iain, and how Duncan treated him with all the affection of a brother.
And Angus, curse him, guessed the reason for her hesitation. “Does he?” he prompted.
“He has seen Cormac’s son wed to my half-sister.”
Angus nodded. “A dynastic alliance, ’tis clear.” He frowned. “And you believe this man does not tend to old pledges? You are not so witless as that.”
“You do not know Alienor,” Jacqueline could not help but observe. “There are those who would think it a curse to be wedded to her. She has a wickedly sharp tongue.”
He chuckled suddenly, and regarded her with a warmth that surprised her. “Yours is not without its barbs, vixen.”
Jacqueline straightened. “Do you mean to silence me again so that you might be untroubled?”
“Nay. There is none who might hear you cry for aid in this remote place, and truly -” his gaze darkened as his gaze lingered upon her mouth “- there are advantages in having your lips freed.”
’Twas only too easy to discern the direction of his thoughts now. “You seek only to frighten me,” she charged breathlessly.
That dark brow arched, giving him a diabolical air. “And do I?”
“Nay.” ’Twas only half a lie, though Jacqueline did not doubt he knew the truth of it.
Angus leaned closer, his fingers splaying across her belly. “Then perhaps I should make a more diligent effort,” he whispered.
Her heart had time to skip one beat, though whether ’twas due to dread or anticipation, even Jacqueline could not say. Angus’ silhouette blocked out the pale sunlight as he leaned closer. He dropped the reins as his lips closed over hers in a resolute kiss.
Jacqueline refused to give him the satisfaction of a fearful response. Indeed, the only way to dissuade him of his conviction that she could be terrorized with his touch was to welcome it.
’Twas surprisingly simple to do. Jacqueline parted her lips, as if inviting his embrace. He gasped in surprise, and she felt as though the power had shifted in their exchange. Aye, he was not immune to her touch, either!
That realization only emboldened her further. She arched against him like a wanton and opened her mouth to him, then touched her tongue to his.
She did not win precisely the response she had expected. Angus fairly tore his lips from hers, he swore and he pushed her away from him. She felt the heat of him against her buttocks and knew not what she had done amiss.
Though ’twas more than clear that Angus was angered with her. She might have asked him what she had done awry, but he silenced her question with a glare that shook her to the core.
Clearly, her response had offended him. And truly, what madness had seized her that she invited his embrace so boldly?
“I am sorry.” She felt his gaze as surely as a touch, but she did not look over her shoulder to him. A long silence stretched between them and she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“How sorry?” Angus asked silkily.
Jacqueline’s pulse leapt and she could not keep herself from glancing at him. “What do you mean?”
His expression was impassive, but his words surprised her. “In lieu of an apology, I would hear your tale.”
“What tale? I have no tale to tell.”
“Liar,” Angus murmured, unexpected affection in his tone. His gaze was unswerving, making her feel cornered yet again. “Tell me what happened to make you fear men as you do.”
Jacqueline opened her mouth to tell him that she did not fear him any longer, but he smiled, like a cat who had cornered a mouse. ’Twas clear her kiss had made that matter clear to him already! She clos
ed her lips abruptly and his smile widened, so certain was he of the truth.
Perhaps he now thought her a harlot!
“I offered an apology,” she said stiffly, “which should suffice.”
“Aye, it should,” he said ruefully, “but I am a bandit now by your own recounting and must therefore adopt the unjust means of a lawless man.”
Jacqueline regarded him warily, not in the least bit certain that he did not mock her conclusions. Aye, there was that mischievous gleam in his eye again.
“And what if I do tell you?” she demanded, knowing that he expected just the opposite.
“Then the wager should be even. You have a tale of me and I would have a tale of you.”
“But we should be no closer to my release.”
“Of course not. Only your family holds the key to that, for only they can surrender Airdfinnan in exchange.”
Jacqueline nibbled her lip as she considered his assertion. Her family could not ensure her freedom, contrary to Angus’ expectation, for they had no claim over Airdfinnan.
She wondered what she might do to see that he won his objective—and thus ensure her own release.
“You see now what ’tis to surrender a tale of oneself to another, and how difficult the decision is made,” he said quietly, evidently misunderstanding the reason for her silence. “You have until this evening to decide your course, for this evening I would have your tale.”
“And if I choose not to tell it?”
He smiled coolly, aloof and dangerous once again. “Then we shall negotiate other compensation for the tale of me that you have already claimed,” he murmured, no small measure of threat in his tone.
* * *
They rode in silence for the remainder of that day and made a camp at dusk. Angus found a clearing sufficiently deep in the woods that his fire would not be spied easily from the road. He bound his captive’s hands and ankles, ignored her displeasure, and left her with Lucifer while he snared a rabbit for their meal.
’Twould be simple fare, with naught but meat and a thin broth of water, but ’twould be hot and naught unwelcome. The maiden averted her face as he kindled the fire and he knew that Rodney would have had some comment upon her silence.
While the meat stewed, Angus strode half a dozen paces into the forest and walked in a circle around their camp, breaking the undergrowth deliberately. He did this until he was certain his scent was well established, then urinated at intervals on his last walk around that perimeter. ’Twas not much of a defense, but the woods were bountiful this spring—perhaps ’twould be enough to deter the wolves.
Men, however, would not even see this obstacle. Angus listened, but the hills echoed with only silence. Rodney could not have arrived at Ceinn-beithe as yet. Even if they rode out on the moment of Rodney’s arrival, and even if they persuaded Rodney to aid them, they would have to retrace that man’s steps. He would take them to Edana’s hut, if he could be coerced to do so, unaware that Angus had departed. Then they would have to follow his course of this day.
On this night, Angus could sleep with certainty of not being disturbed. Indeed, it might be his last night of such conviction.
His captive wore a mutinous expression when he returned, though it did not mask her own exhaustion. “The meat burns,” she said accusingly, then lifted her bound hands. “And there was naught I could do about the matter.”
She had spirit, he would grant her that. Indeed, she had a gift for making him smile, though Angus would not admit such a weakness aloud. He stirred the meat and turned it, his dagger and spoon the only cooking utensils he had. He sat down, his back against a tree opposite the maiden, close enough to the fire that he could tend to the meat. The sky had darkened overhead and the fire snapped and crackled, casting lights on the surrounding trees.
And upon the woman’s face. He watched her as she watched him, having no doubt that he looked as wary as she. “Well?” he prompted quietly. “What of your tale? Will you tell it or nay?”
She wriggled. “Will you unbind me?”
“Nay.”
Indignation made her eyes flash. “Not even for the tale?”
“The tale is owed for your knowing my tale. What you would wager to see your bounds loosened is another matter altogether.”
She visibly gritted her teeth and glared at him. “You are a most vexing man.”
He braced one elbow on his knee and smiled. “You expect otherwise from a man who captured you to serve his own ends alone?”
She laughed, most unexpectedly to his thinking, yet the sound was a delight. “I suppose ’twould be unfitting, though I know little of brigands and their ways.”
“I know too much of villains,” Angus said grimly. “Count yourself fortunate in your ignorance.”
Her laughter stilled and her smile faded. “Have you truly been to hell?” she whispered, her gaze bright with curiosity.
He moved forward to survey the cooking meat. “’Tis you who are to tell tales this night,” he chided gently. “Not I.” He flicked a glance to her. “If indeed that is the offering you choose to make.”
She looked at the ground before herself, her words falling softly. “I would tell you the tale, if I knew whence to begin.”
“Why did you choose the cloistered life?” Angus asked, equally quietly. “And tell me no tale of your calling to serve Christ.”
Her smile was fleeting. “I believe I have such a vocation, but my mother says ’tis naught but an excuse. She speaks wrongly, for I know that the convent is the place for me.” Her brows drew together fleetingly. “If naught else, I do have a choice and I would make the most of it.”
Angus said naught.
Her lips tightened as she met his gaze. “I was born a woman. So be it. And by dint of my gender, I am compelled to select from meager range of choices. So be it, again. The fact of the matter is that there are but two courses for my life—marriage or the convent. Marriage to an earthly spouse or a divine one. So be it. I have chosen. What is so irksome about men is that not a one of them permit me to make the single choice that is mine.”
“You still have suitors,” he guessed.
“Aye, but worse than that.” She stared off into the shadows of the forest for a moment, eyes narrowed in concentration. “I was betrothed virtually upon my birth, to a man who was a comrade of my father’s. As my mother tells it, my father made this arrangement upon her father’s comment that I would one day be a beauty. Perhaps my father wished to ensure my safety, perhaps he merely wished to pay some debt owed his comrade. I do not know.”
’Twas interesting how dispassionately she recounted these facts. “Did you not ask him?”
“He died when I was too young to care for such matters. My mother wed again and was widowed again when I was fourteen summers of age. My betrothed had since made himself familiar to me and made it clear that he intended that we should wed shortly. I suppose he was of an age that made him disinclined to wait longer than necessary.”
“How old was he?”
“At that time, he was some sixty summers of age.” She laughed under her breath and her eyes sparkled with mischief, though Angus could not imagine why. “I must confess that I thought him more ancient than God himself, though ’twas an uncharitable thought, and worse, I called him ‘the old toad’. My sisters and I mimicked him most wickedly.”
Angus felt his lips quirk before he could stop them.
“’Twas not simply that he was so aged, ’twas his manner. I thought perhaps that if I talked with him, if I came to know him as man with whom one might converse, then his looks would not trouble me. ’Tis oft this way—when one cares for another, one overlooks the other’s faults.”
Her lips tightened. “But he would not talk to me. He said ’twas unfitting for women to be heard. He spoke always of possessing me, as though I were some desirable chattel that he would add to his household.” She shuddered. “And he touched me, oft in most familiar and unwelcome ways. I came very quickly to loathe him.”
Angus could readily understand this, though he said naught to interrupt her.
She shook her head in exasperation. “But if a man desires a woman to be his wife by virtue of her appearance alone, what does that say of that man? I am unimpressed by a man with a pretty bride. It says naught good of his character, in my estimation. If his wife is clever, or kind, or uncommonly pious, these traits reflect well upon the man who wedded her. But beauty?”
She shrugged before he could reply. “’Tis naught but an ornament, and one that does not endure. A sensible woman can only wonder what this ardent suitor will do when she ages, as we all must do. What merit will she hold in her spouse’s eyes when her beauty fades?”
“He might become fond of her,” Angus suggested, intrigued that her beauteous features meant so little to her.
The lady scoffed at the very idea. “I am unpersuaded that a man who weds only for appearances is capable of feeling much for another. Certainly my experience has not shown me otherwise, and truly, I would not hang my fate upon so slender a thread.”
“So you defied this betrothed?”
“Not I, I knew little of such matters then and merely disliked the man. My mother had been against the match from the first, and when my distaste became clear to her, she tried to have the contract broken. But my betrothed would not desist. So, when my mother was widowed again, she chose to flee to Scotland rather than cede me to this betrothal. She wished to grant myself and my sisters the chance to wed for love, though indeed, she herself was the first to do so.”
“To this new chieftain of clan MacQuarrie.” Angus supplied.
“Aye.” She tilted her head to regard him suddenly. “And you remind me of him, truth be told.”
The comparison startled Angus, and his response to what must have been an unfavorable comment evidently showed, for the maiden smiled. “Aye, you do. He has a fearsome temper, though it never endures, and he never would wound another willingly. He loves my mother as never a man had loved her before, as she deserves and for the woman that she is, not for her beauty or her possessions or her ability to grant him a child. They are very happy.”
The Bride Quest II Boxed Set Page 48