“Niall, I beg you,” said Fiona, “cease your derogatory remarks about Ian. He is no wastrel and has proven himself over the years.”
Niall grunted his displeasure.
Claire frowned, confused by this sudden change in Niall’s behavior. “Then why did you allow him the inheritance instead of taking it for yourself?
“We dinna think he had the wit to attempt seizing the estate.” Niall shrugged. “I had to see for myself the mess he had made.”
“And found not a mess but a fine structure in the making.” She was stating the obvious but couldn’t resist throwing the truth of Ian’s ability at his brother.
Niall pursed his lips and stuffed another piece of meat into his mouth.
“Now that you have seen Ian’s mastery,” she continued, “I believe it is an opportune time for you to return home.” Claire’s breath stuck in her throat, hopeful that he’d agree but knowing her hopes were about to be dashed.
“Aye, we have seen Ian’s good work here and should return to Scotland,” said Fiona.
Niall pierced Claire with a pointed look. “I soundly beat Ian and could easily take over Whitfield should I so desire. Nay, we shall remain. Given what Ian has accomplished. I may let him finish his work and then—”
“If you think he will allow you to take this land out of his hands, you are mistaken.” Claire’s limbs trembled, and fear crept into her heart. She could see there would be no convincing Niall, and Ian, though he would try, would not be able to overthrow his brother.
“I have no doubt he will resist, but he has demonstrated today that he has not the ability to withstand my power.” Niall wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You could ease the process by nullifying your handfast and marrying me instead.”
Claire’s face heated, frustrated with the turn of the conversation. “You know the handfast is binding if we are in agreement over our future nuptials. And we are of one accord.”
“I have a vast amount of coin and resources at my disposal and could make Whitfield great once more. Surely you want the best for Whitfield.”
“Ian has proven himself capable.” His work on Whitfield had far exceeded her expectations thus far. And Ian was kind in his dealings, something that couldn’t be said for Niall—now that she had witnessed his extreme cruelty to Ian firsthand.
Niall’s dark brows drew together. “But his funds and connections are limited. I am more powerful than he will ever be.”
“Power has no pull over me. I only want good for Whitfield and its people.” What did she care for the play of power between lords and vassals of the king? Her desire was to remain at Whitfield with her substitute family—and her family to come. Faith! ’Twas the first time she’d allowed herself to think of such a thing. Aye, a family with Ian would not be such a hardship.
Niall turned toward her fully and placed a hand over hers. “Join me, Claire. Say aye and we will find a priest to marry us in truth. As elder brother and further in line to inherit, the handfast can be broken to accommodate the rightful heir.”
Claire snatched her hand away. “You and your whole family gave up the right to the inheritance when you passed it to Ian.”
Niall reached out a finger and ran it down Claire’s cheek. “Though it may take time, the king will side with me. My family has influence in the courts of both Scotland and England. Rest assured, I will have you and Whitfield in time.”
Claire swatted his hand away, her skin crawling at his touch. “Not without a fight.”
“I’m counting on that.” Niall’s mouth lifted at the corner.
“Niall! You canna say such things!” exclaimed Fiona.
Claire shot to her feet, scraping her chair across the stone dais.
“Did I offend?” asked Niall, his brows raised as if surprised.
Claire resisted the urge to slap the man’s smirk off his face. “That you feel the need to ask shows your insufferable nature. Your very presence offends me.”
She stomped off the dais. Niall’s laughter rang out, making her blood simmer to a near boil. How could she have been fooled by the man’s false self and charming facade? She, who had always been a fair judge of character, had been deceived by a master of manipulation. Well, no more. There must be some way of throwing the beast from Whitfield.
Claire hurried up the stairs to her chamber. Hearing footsteps behind her, she glanced over her shoulder, noting Ralph’s presence. “You needn’t follow me.”
“I’m following orders, my lady.”
Claire reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the guard. “Whose orders?”
“Sir Phillip,” wheezed Ralph as he gained the top step.
“Oh.” The pang in Claire’s heart ushered her down the corridor. ’Twasn’t Ian who wanted her safe. Though not surprised, the truth of it hurt. She paused at her room, her hand on the latch. She glanced at the door across the hallway where Ian rested. Should she check on him? See if he had received his food?
“My lady, are you in need of something?” Ralph pointed to Ian’s door with his thumb. “Something from Sir Ian?”
With a shake of her head, she opened her door. “Nay,” she said. At least nothing that Ralph could give her, unless he could work a miracle and repair the tenuous relationship between Ian and herself. “Good eve, Ralph.”
Ralph stepped back against the wall. “I am to stand guard. Good eve.”
“There is no need, for I—”
“Maid Beaumont, if I may?” Lady Fiona walked down the corridor toward them, her skirt rustling in her haste. “Could I speak with you?” Fiona put a hand to her chest as she caught her breath. “It will not be overlong, I assure you.”
“Of course,” said Claire, opening the door to her chamber. Would Ian’s sister plead Niall’s case? If so, this would be a very short discourse. “Please, have a seat before the fire.”
“Shall I stoke the fire, my lady?” asked Ralph.
Claire shook her head. “Nay, I can manage. Thank you.” She stepped into the chamber and shut the door, bracing for the words Fiona would utter. The room fit her somber mood, dim with only the light from the dying fire in the grate. Raindrops pelted the wood shutters, the clatter echoing the pounding of her heavy heart. She slid into the chair beside Fiona, not having the energy to bring the paltry flames to life.
Fiona fidgeted in her chair. “’Tis sorry, I am, to intrude upon you, but I must apologize for Niall.”
Claire raised her gaze from the fire. “I assumed you would attempt to sweeten my opinion of your older brother.”
“I do not condone his behavior.” Fiona clenched her hands resting in her lap. “I have many regrets regarding our—my—past treatment of Ian. My aim in coming to Whitfield was twofold. I wanted to make amends with Ian, as well as try to keep Niall’s ambition checked. Obviously, I am failing at the latter. Truth be told, I sometimes fear Niall’s anger. ’Tis something I am praying about.”
“’Twill take more than prayer to accomplish the feat.” Claire wouldn’t expend the energy upon such a wretched soul. Niall seemed to be like a person the priest described as a whitewashed tomb—clean on the outside, but with an inside filled with rotting bones. Odd how she remembered that story. She hadn’t paid much attention to the priest’s teachings whilst he stayed at Whitfield.
“Perhaps, but I will never cease in prayer for him—for any of my brothers. They all need to know there is a better way of life than one of violence.”
“I do not know Ian well, but he does not seem the same sort of man as Niall.” In truth, Ian hadn’t lost control of his temper since he’d arrived at the castle. Aye, he had been disgruntled, but not violent.
“Of that I am thankful,” said Fiona. “Ian was always a gentle soul, not mean-spirited like his brothers. So to see him settled and unaffected by his upbringing gladdens my heart.”
“You take after Ian—your demeanor, your actions.”
“While I wasna harsh like my brothers, I dinna fight for Ian as I should h
ave. I ignored him most of the time, leaving him in the servants’ care.” Fiona stood and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “I regret my actions … my hard heart.”
“Your heart appears soft now,” said Claire, trying to ease the woman’s obvious pain. In truth, Fiona’s manner seemed genuine, and her confession confirmed it.
Fiona dropped her hands, and a faint smile graced her face. “I am a follower of Christ, and ’tis a continual plowing of my heart that keeps it soft.” She returned to her seat. “You are a believer, aye?”
Claire twisted the fold of her skirt in her hands. “I was brought up by faithful parents, and I entertain the priest when he comes to Whitfield. But as for believing—I have struggled with following a God who would allow my parents’ brutal deaths … a God who would align my destiny with that of a Scot. While I know not all Scots are murderers and I am not opposed to marrying Ian anymore, his brogue sometimes takes me back to the day of my parents’ murder. What sort of God would allow such a thing to come to pass?”
“I canna answer as to why your family had to suffer. The world is filled with such tales, and I canna understand the reason for such tragedy. Yet, I know God is a good God. He canna be anything else. Who knows but that God led you and Ian together to redeem your parent’s death?”
Claire swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat. Redeem her parent’s death? Nay!
Fiona leaned closer to Claire. “Mayhap God desires you to release your anger toward Scots, and his bringing together you and Ian is his way of showing you not all Scots are bad people.”
Fiona’s words whispered within Claire’s heart. The pull … the draw … the stirring of her soul at the thought of an all-powerful God stooping to concern Himself with her prejudice—her disdain for a group of people who included a kind-hearted knight who labored hard for the good of her people—’twas overwhelming. Claire lifted a shaking hand to her chest, struggling to breathe as her throat tightened. Tears stung her eyes. Nay! She could not fall apart. She wouldn’t. Not in front of Fiona—not in front of anyone.
Claire rose on trembling legs and lifted her chin. “Please, leave me.”
Fiona quickly came to her feet, her expression contrite. “I misspoke, Maid Beaumont. Forgive my forwardness. I only—”
“Go,” whispered Claire, her voice unsteady as she stifled a sob.
Fiona quickly left the room. Claire released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and gave in to the crashing wave of emotions Fiona’s words wrought. Had God truly sent Ian to help her through her pain? To help her forgive?
She threw herself onto the bed and released her tears. She did not want to let go of her anger. The men who killed her parents did not deserve her forgiveness. She wanted to hold her bitterness close and let it envelope her like a castle wall, protecting her heart from further hurt.
Forgiving meant opening herself up to the possibility of future pain, but it would also allow her to live in freedom—freedom from the anger stealing her joy.
Finally, Claire’s sobs quieted. She rolled onto her back and watched the soft play of light flickering on the ceiling from the low flames in the fireplace.
She missed the deep-seated sense of joy she had known before her parents’ death. Could she claim it once more if she let go of her past? Ian’s leadership and kind heart drew her like a cool drink on a hot summer day. He was irresistible, truth be told. His character taught her she should not hate all Scots. People should be judged according to their character, not their country. But she still harbored hatred for the men who murdered her parents, and that hatred had been eating up her soul for a good portion of her life.
All she had to do was let go of her hate and bitterness, and trust God to heal her heart. ’Twas a leap of faith to trust God. A leap into God’s leading. A leap into a marriage with a man she was coming to love.
The wood floor creaked. Claire’s eyes flew open. A dark mass hovered over her. She opened her mouth to scream, but a gloved hand clamped over her lips. She choked on the smell of stale ale. She thrashed under the covers until a heavy weight descended, pinning her down. She panicked and pulled at the arm silencing her.
“Feisty wench,” a voice growled.
Faith! Was it Niall? Claire beat at the person, trying to twist her head from the man’s grip.
Pain exploded on the side of her head, as he hit her with his fist. Bright spots filled her vision. She ceased her fight as she struggled against the pain.
The man pried her mouth open and she tried to scream, but foul liquid poured in between her teeth and gagged her. He forced her mouth shut, and she choked down the vile brew.
Claire pulled against the hand covering her mouth once more, the fear of her attacker renewing her strength.
“Cease, fool,” hissed the man.
Once again, a fist landed against her temple and blackness took the place of the pain. One thought ran through her mind as the inky darkness swept over her.
Would Ian even want to save her?
Chapter 25
Ian rubbed his eyes, gritty from his restless night. Though his body had lacked strength last eve, his mind had rolled like the waves of the sea, reliving every moment of his fight with Niall. Every humiliating stroke of Niall’s sword and every degrading insult. All of Whitfield had witnessed his defeat. Was this the day Niall would usurp his authority for good?
He rose from the bed and stretched in the coolness of the dark chamber. His strength had returned—a good thing, for he desperately needed to work out his frustrations in the lists. Though he doubted a round of swordplay would beat away his foul humors.
Ian made his way into the great hall. Only a few torches lit the dark room, revealing women and children stirring from their beds across the hall. The men had already left to work on the tenant homes. Neither Niall nor Claire were present.
One of the women rushed toward him. “My lord, I shall see to your food.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She gave a small curtsy and hurried toward the kitchens. Ian sat at the head table to await his meal.
Phillip came into the hall and strode toward him, a smile on his face. “A new day, my lord. I trust you are feeling stronger today?.”
Ian grunted.
“Ah, I see I have work to do to bring at least a semblance of your normal self to the forefront.”
Ian lifted a corner of his lips, if only to please his friend. “Your cheerful disposition is too much to endure this early in the day, especially in the face of my defeat last eve.”
“I might remind you that you used to be a jovial person, not riled by the change of the wind, no matter how hard it blew.” Phillip slid into the chair next to him as the tenant woman set bowls of steamy porridge before them.
Ian picked up a spoon and shoveled the hot mush between his lips. The fiery hot mixture seared the roof of his mouth. He grabbed the mug before him and downed the cool liquid. Would that it could ease the frustration Phillip’s words brought.
Though he hated to admit it, Phillip was right. Since coming to Whitfield, he’d been on edge, fraught with turmoil and opposition at every turn. In his quest to be adept at leading, worthy of his inheritance, he couldn’t relax and enjoy life as he had before. The striving to please and be successful had somehow taken over, changing him—and not for the better.
The door to the bailey burst open and James rushed into the room. “My lord!”
Ian stiffened, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
“My lord, the guard on duty last night was killed.”
Ian sprung to his feet. “Who?”
“’Twas Wade.”
“An accident?”
“Nay, his throat was slit.”
Ian’s first thought flew to Niall. ‘Twould be something he might orchestrate. “Are all the other guards accounted for?”
“Faethon is missing, but all others remain.”
Perhaps the two had quarreled, and Faethon killed Wade. He might have fl
ed to escape punishment.
Phillip rose. “I’ll question the rest of the guards and see if they might have heard or seen anything.”
“Nay, I may need you for another task.” Such as determining Niall’s involvement.
“My lord! My lord!”
Ian’s attention shot to the stairwell. Leticia ran down the last steps and into the hall, darting between the tables to get to the him.
“My lord, Lady Claire was not in her room this morn. I’ve searched everywhere for her. When I went back to her room, I noticed her clothes are gone, and I found this.” She thrust a rolled piece of parchment toward him. “This was on her bed.”
Ian took the missive, untied the string encasing it, and rolled it open.
Sir Ian McGowan,
While I am grateful for what you have done for Whitfield, Niall has promised more for my people and the land. He has been more than congenial, and we shall marry. This will negate your inheritance, yet Niall has promised a place for you here as guard. Should you choose to leave, please know I am in your debt for beginning the work to restore Whitfield. You do your family proud. We shall return within a se’ennight after we are wed.
Claire Beaumont
Ian clenched the parchment within his hands. So there ’twas. Once again, he had lost to one of his brothers. Even at his best, striving to prove he could create something of worth by his own hand, he had failed. And failed miserably. All had slipped through his grasp because he had failed to secure Claire’s regard.
“What does it say?” Phillip’s voice broke through Ian’s thoughts.
He dragged his gaze to Phillip and blinked. “The lady has made her choice. ’Twas not I.”
“You are handfasted!” Phillip scowled. “Niall has no right.”
“But we have not bedded. The handfast can be broken.”
“Why didn’t you do the deed, man?”
“We were not married.”
“But—”
“Enough!” Ian pushed his shoulders back and turned to Leticia. “See to your duties, Leticia. Now that your lady is gone for the present, please have Edith oversee the work around the keep.”
His to Keep: A Medieval Romance Page 21