Say Yes to the Scot

by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick

  “I’ve brought the lass a clean gown as well as food,” Janet said. “It’s not fancy, but it should do for a Sutherland.”

  “She says she’s not a Sutherland. Her name is Cait MacLeod,” Flora whispered.

  “And I’m Queen Anne,” Janet scoffed.

  Flora returned to the tapestry frame and picked up her needle. “I’m sure Alex will determine the truth,” she said lightly. “Is there—any other news?”

  Janet sent another sideways glance around the screen before she replied in a whisper Cait had to strain to hear. “If ye mean the Pea, then no. If ye mean the arrival of our guests, then yes, the Frasers are below, breaking their fast.”

  Cait listened as Flora rose with a sigh. “I shall go down at once. Is there no sign of the Pea at all? How could something as big as that simply disappear?”

  The water was beginning to cool, but Cait stayed still and listened. They were searching for a pea? Perhaps it was an odd custom unique to the Munros . . .

  “There are some suggesting it was accidentally buried with the laird’s mother,” Janet whispered. “Auld Bryn wants to dig her up and check.”

  Flora gasped. “Good heavens, no! I saw the ring with my own eyes when Hugh put it into the great chest in his chamber, and that was weeks after Eilidh died. Nay, the ring must be elsewhere. Have you checked between the floorboards in the solar?”

  “Aye, mistress, but there’s naught there but dust—though Effie found a copper coin in the lady’s chamber, and Ina found a glass bead.”

  “And have you checked the boxes and chests of hangings and banners that were packed away when Hugh died?” Flora asked.

  “Aye. We found nothing more than a dirk that had gone missing.”

  Flora’s skirts and petticoats swished as she paced the floor. “Then where could it be? There are scant weeks left.” She sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no hope for it, Janet . . .”

  “Nay, mistress, surely not yet!”

  “Aye. I’m afraid so. We cannot wait. We must search the privies and the middens.”

  Janet let out a groan and muttered a mild oath in Gaelic. “Mistress, folk are already saying the loss of the Pea has cursed us, and the ill luck isn’t waiting until midsummer. It’s upon us now—it’s the raids.”

  “Then it’s all the more important we find the ring as soon as possible. When it’s found, all will be well again,” Flora said.

  “If it’s ever found,” Janet said. “Some are saying the Sutherlands took it on one of the raids.” She raised her voice and peered through the crack to scowl at Cait. Cait kept still, her heart leaping.

  Flora stared at her as well for a moment before she shook her head. “Nay, that’s impossible. The Pea is here somewhere, and there’s not much time. Order the servants to start digging through the middens at once, and send lads down the privies . . . Oh, how could this happen? It will be found, Janet—it must be. It isn’t lost, or stolen, just misplaced somehow.”

  “But what if it’s not? What if it’s lost forever?” Janet said, her voice thin with fear. Cait’s skin prickled at the long silence that followed.

  “Then we’re all doomed to live by the Pea’s curse, instead of its blessing,” Flora said softly. “And that curse will fall upon Alex hardest of all.”

  * * *

  Once Janet had gone, Cait yawned and rose from the cooling water to wrap a sheet around her body. “I must have slept,” she said, aware that she’d been eavesdropping—or spying.

  “Do ye feel better?” Flora crossed to a small casket on her dressing table. She took out a carved wooden comb and handed it to Cait. Cait nodded her thanks.

  Flora frowned at the bruises and scratches on Cait’s arms and shoulders. “I’ll ask Janet to fetch some salve for those.” She didn’t ask how they’d happened, but Cait read the speculation in her eyes.

  “I fell from a horse. I—wouldn’t want to trouble Janet, if she’s busy.” Searching for a pea.

  Flora sighed. “Yes, we have a number of visitors coming,” she said. She moved across to the tapestry frame again and ran her fingertips over the delicate stitches. Cait followed her. “This is lovely. My sisters sew, make tapestries,” she murmured.

  Flora sighed. “This is our most valuable heirloom, the seanchas of the Munros. It tells of an old tradition, and a precious gift once given to our clan, and treasured to this day.”

  Cait looked at the figures expertly picked out in gleaming thread. The joy on their faces was obvious. Each couple stood in the same meadow, next to a river that teemed with fish, surrounded by their clansmen. The sun was setting over the mountains, and the last rays shone through a massive wedding ring on the bride’s hand, creating a rainbow of color. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  Flora smiled proudly. “Isn’t it? It’s the duty of the women of each generation of Munros to add the story of the laird and his bride.” She turned to Cait. “Do ye know the tale? Our seanchas is known among the Sutherlands—we weren’t always enemies.”

  Cait shook her head. There was no singing or storytelling or even smiling in Baird’s hall. There wasn’t even a piper.

  Flora sighed. “Well, no doubt ye’ll hear the story while you’re here at Culmore. Auld Bryn—our seanchaidh—will recite it.” She pointed to the section at the end of the tapestry, a couple standing together under the oak tree. “Alex is to wed at midsummer, ye see.” She touched the half-finished image of her nephew. His bride was a mere sketch drawn on the canvas in spare lines, waiting to be filled in. Cait looked at Alex Munro’s likeness, at the proud tilt of head, the breadth of his shoulders, the lean length of his legs . . . it was an excellent likeness. She looked at the empty space where his bride would be and wondered who she was.

  “I’ve been repairing the damaged sections as well as adding the new part of the story . . .” Flora sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Forgive me—my eyes are not as good as they once were. It’s exacting work, and it gives me a headache if I sew for too long.”

  “The stitches are very fine,” Cait said.

  Flora smiled faintly. “And there’s the problem. Some of the colors make my eyes sting, and I dare not make a mistake.” It looked to Cait like the laird’s aunt was blinking back tears.

  “I can sew,” Cait said quickly. The Munros saw her as the enemy, and Alex Munro was her captor. Still, as she looked at Flora’s tired eyes she saw a way to be useful, perhaps to make up for Baird’s cruelty. “I’d be pleased to help.”

  Flora searched her face for a moment, her brow furrowed, her eyes taking in the details of Cait’s countenance. “Thank ye, but no. It’s something I must do myself, until I know who—” She stopped speaking, and turned away to pick up the gown Janet had left. “Your own gown is ruined beyond repair, so Janet brought this one for ye to wear. I’m afraid it might be loose in the bodice, and a wee bit too short. There’s a clean shift and stockings as well.”

  Cait took it from her with a smile. “Thank you,” she said graciously, and turned away to don the shift and gown.

  “Ach, it is too big,” Flora said when she’d donned the gown. “A pity.”

  Cait bit her lip. “May l borrow a needle and some thread? I think I might be able to make it fit better.”

  “Of course.” Flora handed her a fine bone needle, a wee pair of scissors, and a skein of plain linen thread, though she looked dubious.

  “I’m afraid I have duties to see to now. I must call Coll to escort you to your, um, accommodation.” She looked apologetic. “The whole castle is full up with visitors, and there’s only a small room on the top floor of the tower for ye to sleep in.” She stopped and bit her lip. “Coll will guard your door.”

  Cait lowered her eyes. She’d almost forgotten she was a prisoner, but she was too exhausted to argue her innocence now. “Thank you,” she said graciously.

  Flora scanned her face again. “Don’t thank me yet, lass. What happens to ye will be up to Alex. He’s not a hard man, or unkind. Not like . . .”

  “Li
ke Baird Sutherland,” Cait finished for her.

  Flora nodded. “Aye.”

  Chapter Five

  Coll Munro was an ancient oak tree of a man, gray and twisted, but broadly built and tall. A terrible scar ran along one side of his lined face and through his left eye, which was covered by a leather patch. The other eye roved over her like a bright-blue bead. “This way,” he growled, scowling at her.

  He had a limp as well, she noted as she followed him. Like all old warriors, he probably had many fine stories to tell of battles and past glories, but he said nothing as he led her down hallways and up flights of winding stone steps. She might have assured him that after the first turning she was lost, and there was really no need to post a guard, for she’d never be able to find her way back to the hall or anywhere else on her own. Instead she followed him silently.

  He stopped at last and opened a narrow door. He indicated with a jerk of his gray head that Cait should step inside. “It’s used for storage,” he said unnecessarily, since boxes, crates, and bundles took up the left side of the small room. A teetering stack of mattresses, pallets, quilts, and blankets filled the right side. The remarkable pile was twice as tall as Cait. She stared up at it in wonder.

  “We’re doing some housecleaning,” Coll said gruffly, eying the tower of bedding. “But this should do for the likes of ye.”

  Cait realized she would have to climb to the top in order to sleep on it, for there was no room in the small closet to pull a mattress down to the floor. She turned to Coll to ask for a ladder, but the door was already swinging shut behind him.

  She was on her own, a prisoner in a cell.

  Cait looked around. The ceiling soared above her, and an arrow slit high up on the wall provided light and air.

  She dragged a wooden trunk over beside the stack of mattresses, but it was still not enough to get her to the top. She’d need another . . . The door opened, and Coll peered around the edge of the panel. “What’s that noise? Are ye trying to escape?”

  Cait looked pointedly up at the arrow slit, the room’s only exit besides the door. “I need a way to reach my bed.”

  Coll assessed the situation with a one-eyed glare. With a grunt of annoyance, he stacked three more crates on the one Cait had moved, creating makeshift steps.

  “There. Have ye any more demands?”

  Cait gave him a bright smile. “Nay. Thank you.”

  When he was gone again, Cait climbed up to her makeshift bed. The old mattresses were dreadfully lumpy and uncomfortable, and the straw and feathers inside them was old and matted. It took a good while to arrange enough worn eiderdowns, blankets, quilts, and coverlets to make a comfortable bed.

  Coverlets . . . Cait picked up one of the pretty bed covers. It was embroidered around the edge with heather and thistles, the stitches as neat and careful as the ones on Flora’s tapestry. Sadly, the center of the cover had a hole burnt straight through it, which likely explained why it had been discarded here. Still, it gave Cait an idea.

  She slipped out of the wide, short gown and sat atop her high bed in her shift. Then she took out the needle and thread and the wee pair of scissors that Flora had given her and began to sew.

  Chapter Six

  The potential brides—four of them—arrived in a steady stream, each with a dozen clansmen as their escorts. Two even rode up to the gate in a race that ended in a dead heat, with each lass determined to get there ahead of her rival.

  Alex watched as Culmore Castle quickly turned from the ancient iron-and-stone fortress of the Munros of Culmore to a chattering, giggling den of lasses and their boxes, bundles, and fripperies within hours. They were prickly and competitive, and they sought every possible opportunity to prove their superiority over the other candidates—and that was just the lasses. Their tails of warriors left the settling of the lasses to Flora, while they used the meadow to spar with one another and show off their clan’s prowess with sword, dirk, and axe.

  The men wanted to know when it would be possible to speak with Alex privately so they could present details about their lass’s tocher and begin the negotiations to make her the next Lady Munro.

  Alex had spent the rest of the day hiding from his guests, trusting his aunt and Janet to know which lass could be put in which room on which floor without causing a clan war over a perceived slight or a show of favoritism.

  He stayed away until evening, and faced the lasses for the first time at supper. His hall was full to bursting with homeless Munros, clansmen from four clans, and his potential brides, who grinned at him, batting their eyelashes and thrusting their bosoms forward like a flock of broody hens. He looked at each of them. One was blond, one brunette. One had curly brown locks, and the last had wiry red hair. Aside from the variation in coloring, Alex couldn’t see any difference between them, nor did he feel a rush of lust when he looked at them, or recognition, or anything at all. He met Flora’s expectant, hopeful gaze with a frown as he raised his cup and bade everyone welcome.

  As the meal was served, he scanned the women again over the rim of his cup. In five weeks—less a day—he’d claim the hand of one of these lasses, place a ring on her finger, plight his troth, and take her to bed. She’d bear his heirs and run his household. He’d see her every day for the next twenty or thirty years.

  He considered the tall Fraser lass with the long neck and dark hair. She caught his glance and sent him a simpering smile. He nodded. She looked pleasant enough . . .

  “Not that one,” Flora whispered. “She’s vain.”

  Alex took another bite of venison. She might be vain, but her father could offer a dozen strong warriors along with his daughter’s hand. That meant more to him than her vanity. He tried to recall her given name and couldn’t. He noted that several bairns were staring in amazement at the lass’s elaborate coiffure, curled and piled high with flowers, fruit, and plaid ribbons.

  The MacKay lass waved to him flirtatiously, waggling her fingers and winking, and Alex did his best to smile graciously—mindful that he was her host and quite possibly her future husband—but it felt like more of a grimace. She was pretty enough, and she came with a good dowry and six brothers who’d like nothing better than to go to war with someone, including the Sutherlands.

  “Not her,” Flora murmured. “She’s silly.”

  Over the next three courses, Flora found every lass wanting in some way. One was vain, one silly, one woefully short of wit in Flora’s opinion, and the last one was too bossy. There was only one other lass in the place, and that was his prisoner, Cait MacLeod. She wasn’t in the hall, of course. She was upstairs somewhere, under guard. Now, she had wit, and she wasn’t vain. She might be a wee bit too canny, or even outright dishonest, but she certainly stirred a measure of interest in him. He remembered how she fought him when he tried to tie her, how proud and brave she was, and how she felt in his lap, with her bottom resting on his—

  “Munro, this is my sister, Mistress Fiona McKay,” a MacKay clansman said, appearing before him. Fiona. Alex tried to fix the name in his mind. She had blue eyes and curly brown hair.

  Mistress Fiona curtsied and nearly fell backward.

  “Clumsy,” Flora whispered behind the rim of her cup. She set it down and smiled at the girl. “Welcome, Mistress Fiona. How was your journey?”

  Fiona glanced at her brother.

  “We had three days of fine travel,” MacKay said. Fiona nodded silently.

  “And how are you enjoying your supper?” Flora asked the girl.

  “She likes it fine. She eats like a bird,” her brother said on her behalf.

  “Does she speak at all?” Alex asked, a trifle sharply.

  MacKay reddened. “Aye—and she sings like a bird.” He stepped back and motioned to his sister. “Go on then, Fee. Sing.”

  The girl clasped her hands together and puffed herself like a pigeon. She stuck out her chest and chin and opened her mouth.

  The dogs by the fire fled. Flora grasped Alex’s arm in alarm. The homeles
s bairns burst into tears. Alex did his best not to wince. If there was a bird to compare to her, it was a skua gull.

  “That’ll do,” MacKay said after a few minutes, and he fixed Alex with a pointed gaze. “There now. I said she could sing—she fills my home with song all day long. Have I mentioned her very generous dowry comes with a hundred head of fine, fat cattle?”

  Alex wondered if he could endure Fiona MacKay’s singing for the sake of the much needed cows, but Callum Fraser led his blond niece Sorcha forward with her bagpipes and promised two hundred cows and fifty fine, fat sheep if Alex chose Sorcha.

  * * *

  In her wee closet, high atop her unusual bed, Cait’s stomach rumbled as the light faded and it grew too dark for her to sew.

  She carefully climbed down and dressed in her refurbished gown. She wished she had a mirror, but she knew the gown fit her now, and was more stylish than the workaday castoff she’d been given. She’d added a wide hem made from the border of the embroidered coverlet so it was long enough. She’d slashed the front of the skirt and added an underskirt and wide sleeves in the latest style made from another coverlet.

  She braided her russet hair and tied it with a scrap of fabric left from the alterations she’d made to the borrowed dress.

  She was hungry, and she really did need to speak to Alex Munro . . . Her father was going to be very worried when he found out she was lost. She wondered how long it would take her cousin to tell him, or for Baird Sutherland to figure out where she’d gone and come looking for her himself, with an army of warriors at his back.

  She crossed to the door and tried the latch, felt it open. At least they hadn’t locked her in. She collided with Coll’s broad back.

  The Munro clansman turned and glared at her. “Do ye want something?”

  Her heart quailed, but she forced her chin up. “I’d like to see the laird, if you please.”

  He took in her new appearance, her gown, her neatly braided hair. His brows rose and his good eye widened in surprise. “Ye look—ye look different from when ye went in there,” he muttered. His one-eyed gaze turned appreciative, and he abruptly looked away. “Nay. I have my orders. You’re to stay inside, and I’m to see that ye do.”