He continued his walk around the battlement and managed to make a mental list of all the repairs still to be completed. A long list, to be sure. He kept an eye on Claire all the while, but at least he wasn’t hovering over her constantly like a mooing calf for its mother.
“Riders coming in!”
Ian’s gaze shot across the bailey to the gate. Two guards headed up to the battlement and joined Ralph at his post. Ian ran toward them and caught a glimpse of the riders approaching from the west. Six riders. “Do you recognize them?” he asked.
“Not yet,” said Ralph.
As the riders drew close, Ian stiffened. “By the saints, nay,” he breathed.
“You know them?”
Ian pushed away from the parapet. “Aye. My brother and sister.” Why would Niall and Fiona come all this way? Had Niall come to inspect Ian’s work? To gloat? To laugh at him? Dread weighed him down.
“Ralph, remain at your post. Both of you, come with me.” He motioned the two guards to follow.
Ian whistled, and the guards training with Phillip on the far side of the bailey stopped and looked his way. “All of you, come! Quickly!”
Phillip took off in a run, and the others followed. They came to stand before Ian at the gate.
“My brother has come with four of his men. I know not what he wants, but be on guard at all times. He is not known for being a man of peace.”
“Will you allow him in?” Phillip’s brow furrowed.
“Aye. My sister is with him. But Niall is not to be trusted.”
Phillip sheathed his sword. He pointed to half the guards. “This group line up to the right. The others, to the left.”
The men formed queues on either side of the gate with Ian in the middle. Phillip came to stand next to him, his hand on his sword.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” said Phillip.
“As do I.” When it came to his family, he never knew what to expect, other than their normal ridicule and manipulation. He braced himself. “Open the gate!”
Two guards opened the doors wide. Niall led Fiona and his men through the barbican, his dark hair blowing behind him. Though not as broad or tall as Ian, Niall was the best looking of all the McGowans. The second son, he was the one trying to prove himself at every turn—the one who enjoyed torturing Ian for sport.
Ian squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. His fingers worked the handle of his sword, gripping and releasing the cold steel.
“Brother,” said Niall as he brought his horse to a stop several paces from Ian.
“Niall.” Ian couldn’t bring himself to ask the purpose of his visit.
Niall dismounted and drew near, extending a hand.
Ian reached out and clasped the hand of his brother, wariness threading through his veins. As the head of Whitfield, he must speak. Be lord. Be hospitable. Be in charge. Especially in front of his brother. “What brings you so far from home?”
A grin spread across Niall’s face, accentuating the white scar that ran from his left brow across the lines at the corner of his eye. He clasped Ian’s shoulder with a firm grip. “I wanted to see if I had been correct in passing on the inheritance.”
Ian wanted to shrug Niall’s hand off, but he turned toward the bailey and out of his brother’s grasp. “As you can see, ’tis a poor piece of England.” He didn’t want Niall to believe otherwise.
“I don’t know. The countryside is quite lovely.” Fiona walked forward with arms outstretched. A few dark curls spilled from the tight knot at the top of her head, framing her beautiful, heart-shaped face. Her sapphire eyes lit with pleasure as she wrapped her arms about Ian, squeezing him with a loving embrace.
He patted her back, not sure how to respond to her warm welcome. Fiona had shown some kindness toward him during his childhood—more pity than anything—whilst the rest of his family either plagued him with insults or ignored him outright. He hadna seen her since she was married off to an older laird who needed to sire an heir. He’d been eleven years of age when she’d left—eighteen years ago.
Ian pulled back and held her at arms-length. “You havna changed since wedding Laird Shaw. Still lovely.”
“’Tis only because she couldna produce any bairns for the laird that she has kept her figure,” said Niall.
Ian glanced at Fiona, ready for a retort to Niall’s barb.
With dip of her head, Fiona smiled. “’Tis true. I prefer to think ’twas Shaw’s inability to sire an heir. His previous wife never birthed a babe either.” She stepped away from Ian. “But since his passing two years past, I’ve returned home to McGowan land.”
Ian tried to hide the surprise at the news. Returned home? He would resort to almost anything before he’d live at his father’s keep.
“I confess, the estate runs much better under her administration.” Niall let his gaze travel across the bailey. “You’ve started making improvements, I see.”
“A few.”
“And you’ve a goodly number of workers. I didn’t think Whitfield boasted such a number.”
Ian refused to tell Niall the specifics regarding the number of men or how he had obtained them. No need to tempt his brother with the hint of coin.
Claire walked toward them across the yard. The breeze swirled against her gown, playing with the wayward curls about her face.
“Who is this beauty? Surely not the lass entailed in the inheritance?” Niall smiled.
“Aye, she is the one.” By the saints, she looked lovely.
“I was told she was another ugly English woman.” Niall did not take his eyes off Claire, setting Ian’s ire aflame.
Ian was not about to stand there and allow Niall to lust after his bride. He met her and offered his arm. Claire raised a brow but said nothing. Odd, that.
“May I introduce you to Maid Beaumont? My future wife. This is my brother, Sir Niall McGowan.” Ian watched Claire’s expression turn from surprise to … anger? Another Scot on her land. Just as well. He didn’t need her cozying up to someone as cruel as Niall.
Niall gave Claire a bow and held out his hand. She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. Niall lifted her fingers to his lips and smiled. “I hadn’t heard a fair beauty was part of Whitfield, otherwise I might have taken it myself.”
Claire pulled from his grasp and clasped her hands before her.
“And this is my sister, Mistress Fiona Shaw,” said Ian.
Fiona dipped her head. “We should have sent word of our visit. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Aye,” said Niall with a smile. “We only wanted to check on the younger brother and make sure he is making the McGowan name proud.”
Ian’s neck muscles tightened, and his head began to throb. He should be used to his brother’s verbal thrusts. He opened his mouth to parry the veiled insult, but Claire intervened.
“Welcome to Whitfield. How long do you stay?” she asked.
Ian nearly choked at her pointed question. He’d been wondering that very thing.
Niall’s smile faltered. “I’d thought to linger a couple days, but now I’m considering a bit longer. ’Tis quite lovely here.”
’Twas the last thing Ian desired. “I’m sure you are in need of refreshment. Follow me.” He motioned to Noah, who stood near the stables. “I’ll have your horses seen to by one of my hands.”
The company followed Ian as he led Claire to the great hall. Her hand gripped his arm and her lips thinned. He didn’t blame her for being displeased. He wasn’t pleased either. His brother must have a purpose in his visit, but Ian had no idea how to ferret the information from him. Time would tell. Unfortunately, with Niall’s declaration of his intent to stay a while, he’d have enough time to determine his motivation. Whatever his reason for being at Whitfield, it couldna be good.
Chapter 19
More Scots on Whitfield land. What had she done in life to deserve such punishment? Just hearing the loud brogue of the visitors behind her as they walked to the keep stirred memories of the b
rutal assault upon her family so long ago. ’Twas a mercy she had been pushed aside by one of the foul Scots, hitting her head against a rock, knocking her unconscious. They had left her for dead.
Whether ’twas fortunate or not, she lived, only to awaken and find her parent’s bruised and broken bodies sprawled upon the ground. She had wailed and screamed her sorrow; her body numb from the horror.
She didn’t know how long she’d sat and released her anguish, but she finally rose and stumbled toward her mother’s body. Kneeling beside her, she tugged down her mother’s skirt, smoothing it over her lifeless legs. She pulled at the tattered bodice, covering her mother as best she could. Tears flowed as she smoothed the copper hair away from her mother’s beautiful face.
A face that would never again bestow its smile—all because of Scots.
“Claire?” Ian’s questioning voice drew her from her waking nightmare.
She blinked and looked at her Scottish groom. “Aye?” she whispered.
“Are you ill? ’Tis pale, you are.”
They stood before the fire in the great hall. How she got here, she did not know. “I am fine.”
“Sit.” Ian eased her onto one of the chairs nearest the flames. Claire shivered. Coldness gripped her heart. How would she deal with all the Scots who had infiltrated her life?
Ian pulled a chair close to her and sat while Niall and Fiona settled across from them. His men occupied one of the tables in the middle of the hall. On the far side of the room, a few women mended clothing while their babies slept in their makeshift straw beds.
Leticia brought mugs of ale, and Claire scrutinized Niall as they sipped. Unlike Ian’s dark eyes, Niall’s were a light brown, almost golden. He had Ian’s same black waves, same jawline. Definitely brothers. While Fiona sported hair like her brothers, she was fair of skin with dark blue eyes. Their clothing spoke of wealth, the material dyed in rich, jewel-tone colors. They presented a different picture than Ian had when he showed up at Whitfield’s gate.
“I see I’m not the only one visiting.” Niall nodded toward the women and children.
“They are tenant families staying here while their homes are repaired.” Ian’s jaw clenched.
No brotherly love between the two, ’twould seem. Ian’s tension was evident in his rigid back and abrupt speech.
“You are having work done on the tenant houses as well? How wonderful!” said Fiona, her face alive with genuine interest.
“I wonder how you came by enough funds to do all that Whitfield requires.” Niall pursed his lips.
Ian downed his drink, gripping the mug so hard his knuckles grew white. “I had a little coin to do a few repairs.”
A few repairs? Ian had made a significant transformation at Whitfield. He should be proud of such a feat. “Sir Ian is modest. He—”
Ian placed a hand upon hers and squeezed, giving her a slight smile. “Maid Beaumont has lived in ruins for so long, any little work on the place seems a vast accomplishment. ’Tisn’t much, to be sure.” He gripped her fingers once more, his pointed gaze piercing her.
Claire offered Niall a shrug. For some reason, Ian wanted his wealth hidden. “Aye, Ian speaks the truth. Whitfield had fallen into such disrepair, I never dreamed we would have a smithy with a good roof.” Hopefully, she had recovered enough diminish Niall’s perception of Ian’s resources.
“’Tis impressed, I am, Ian,” said Fiona. “You have done well for yourself.”
Niall glanced about the great hall. “With money and time, it might turn into quite a profitable place.”
“Perhaps,” Ian said. “’Twill be many years before it makes a profit.”
“Fortunately, we are accustomed to being poor.” Claire glanced at Ian. “At least, those of us who claim Whitfield as home.” She couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut. Ian would think her daft.
Ian snorted. “After I left home, I lived in poor conditions until I happened upon Ramslea. Now that is a grand parcel of land with a castle fit for the king.”
“Having land of your own was worth leaving a place of luxury?” Niall’s brows rose.
“Since the rest of the family dinna want Whitfield, I thought I might as well claim the land.”
“And gain a beautiful woman in the bargain.” Niall graced Claire with a handsome smile.
She stiffened her spine. Being referenced as a bargaining pawn did not sit well with her.
Niall pointed at Claire’s hands knotted in her lap. “I see no ring on your finger. You are not yet wed?”
Ian cast his gaze upon her, his smile sweet. “We handfasted a week past.”
She forced the corners of her lips up, giving him what was undoubtedly a most pitiful smile.
“Have you sealed the betrothal?”
“We are awaiting a priest,” said Ian.
“So you have not …” Niall looked from Ian to Claire with a questioning gaze.
Claire sat forward in her chair, heat suffusing her neck and cheeks.
Ian placed a hand on her arm, patting it as if comforting a small child. He glared at Niall. “You would do well to hold your tongue. ’Tis none of your concern.”
“Niall,” said Fiona, her brows drawn. “You are a guest and must remain respectful.”
Niall held up his hands as if in surrender. “My apologies. I have a poor habit of speaking my mind without thought. It willna happen again. I am happy for the both of you.”
Ian slid his fingers down Claire’s arm and grasped her hand. He rubbed his thumb over her fist. Something stood between these brothers. Claire knew not what, but it obviously disturbed Ian deeply and affected how he dealt with her. While she was no saint and had a fearsome temper, she was thankful for his chivalrous attitude on her behalf.
Ian squeezed her hand and then stood, gracing her with a kind smile. “I know you’ve much to prepare since we have guests this eve.”
Claire rose and nodded to Niall and Fiona. “If you will excuse me, my lord, my lady. I must see to your supper.” She gripped Ian’s hand a little tighter, and gave him a real smile, sending him silent thanks for her escape. “Might I steal you away for a moment?”
Ian nodded and excused himself as Claire led him to the kitchen, her hand still within his warm grasp. The women paused their work when they entered.
“We will have six extra mouths for supper,” said Claire.
Alma heaved a sigh. “Leticia thought there might be.”
“Do we have enough game?” asked Ian.
“Aye, my lord. A couple of the men brought in a deer just a short while ago. They are preparing it as we speak.”
“Very good.” Ian opened the back door and pulled Claire into the warm afternoon sun. “You need to speak with me, aye?”
“I am not sure I care for your brother.”
Ian laughed. “That is what you wanted to say?”
Claire frowned. “He is much too … too …” The words wouldn’t come. Forward? Rude? Would Ian be offended by her declaration?
“I dinna care for him either.” He grimaced.
“Truly? I sensed difficulty between the two of you, even though you both were mostly cordial. Of course, there was the boorish comment regarding our handfasting.”
“I told you that my family left me to myself, blaming me for my mother’s death. Niall went further and tormented me, playing tricks, killing my dog, whatever he could do to persecute me. There is no love between us.”
She gasped. “He killed your dog? How could anyone be so cruel?”
“He was always mean—most likely still is. I haven’t seen him in thirteen years.”
“Since you were sixteen?”
“That is when I left home, traveled to England, and begged to serve at Ramslea. The lord there took me in and made me into a knight.”
Claire’s heart filled with pity for the man standing before her, so proud, yet humbly offering her a glimpse into his painful past. “You were strong to leave and find your own way in the world.”
Ian�
�s face clouded, and he shrugged. “’Tis the past.”
Claire wanted to reach out and give him comfort, yet she refrained. The last time he comforted her, they ended up in a passionate embrace. She mustn’t lose control like that again. “You sister seems of a nice sort.”
Ian gave a thoughtful nod. “Aye, surprisingly kind.”
“Surely she was not as cruel as Niall.”
“Nay, not cruel. She sometimes took pity on me, but mostly she ignored me. She was only ten when our mother died giving birth to me. She seems … more pleasant than I remember.”
“’Tis a good thing. Do you believe they will stay long?”
“I canna say. I hope not.” Ian glanced away at the surrounding bailey.
Claire hesitated before asking, “Is it possible Niall could have mellowed over the years? He was not overtly cruel today.”
Ian shot his gaze back to her. “I suppose ’tis possible, but I dinna trust him.”
Claire nodded. “He does make me uneasy.”
“Aye. I’ll give them a day or two, and then I’ll make them leave.”
“Ian, you’ve gained more guards and are training them well. Niall and his men should pose no threat to Whitfield.” She placed a hand on his arm, hoping to encourage him. Standing up to a brother who had held him beneath his thumb throughout childhood had to be difficult.
Shifting his weight, Ian took her hand in both of his and brought it to his mouth. He lightly kissed her fingers. “Thank you, Claire, for that reminder.”
The soft timbre of his voice coupled with the dark eyes fixed upon hers weakened her knees. Faith, his gaze turned her into a simpering maid. “’Tis only the truth. I’ve seen all you have accomplished in a short time. ’Tis much to be proud of.”
“By the saints, if you keep plying me with compliments, I shall keel over in shock.”
Laughter bubbled up within Claire. She gently pulled her hand from his. “I declare, I don’t know what has come over me.”
“Let it keep coming. As master of Whitfield, it is my due.” Ian grinned as he bowed before her.
Claire snorted. “I’ve created an ogre of pride, I see. I shall temper any more compliments threatening to cross my lips.”
His to Keep: A Medieval Romance Page 16