A Stockingful of Joy

by Hannah Howell

  Because he wanted a marriage like his parents had, like his grandparents had, and like so many of his clan had, he realized. He wanted a marriage of choice, of passion, of a bonding that held firm for life. When it was land, coin, or alliances that tied a couple together the chances of such a good marriage were sadly dimmed. He had been offered the favors to too many unhappy wives to doubt that conclusion. If the thought of taking part in committing adultery did not trouble him so much, he would now be a very experienced lover, he mused and hastily shook aside a pinch of regret. He certainly did not want his wife to become one of those women and he did not want to be one of those men who felt so little bond with his wife that he repeatedly broke his vows. Or, worse, find himself trapped in a cold marriage and, bound tightly by his own beliefs, unable to find passion elsewhere.

  He looked at Angus who was waiting for an answer with an ill-concealed impatience. Although he could not agree to marry a woman he had never met, no matter how tempting her dowry, there was no harm in agreeing to consider it. He could go and get the woman and decide on marrying her once he saw her. As they traveled back to Glascreag together he would have ample time to decide if she was a woman he could share the rest of his life with.

  Then he recalled where she lived and how long she had lived there. “She is a Lowlander.”

  “She is a MacReith,” Angus snapped.

  Angus was looking smug again. Artan ignored it for the man was right in thinking he might get what he wanted. In many ways, it was what Artan wanted as well. It all depended upon what this woman Cecily was like.

  “Cecily,” he murmured. “Sounds like a Sassanach name.” He almost smiled when Angus glared at him, the old man’s pale cheeks now flushed with anger.

  “ ’Tis no an English name! ’Tis the name of a martyr, ye great heathen, and weel ye ken it. My sister was a pious lass. She didnae change the child’s christening name as some folk do. Kept the saint’s name. I call the lass Sile. Use the Gaelic, ye ken.”

  “Because ye think Cecily sounds English.” Artan ignored Angus’s stuttering denial. “When did ye last see this lass?”

  “Her father brought her and her wee brother here just before he and the lad died.”

  “How did they die?”

  “Killed whilst traveling back home from visiting me. Thieves. Poor wee lass saw it all. Old Meg, her maid, got her to safety, though. Some of their escort survived, chased away the thieves, and then got Cecily, Old Meg, and the dead back to their home. The moment I heard I sent for the lass, but the cousins had already taken hold of her and wouldnae let go.”

  “Was her father a mon of wealth or property?”

  “Aye, he was. He had both and the cousins now control it all. For the lass’s sake they say. And, aye, I wonder on the killing. His kinsmen could have had a hand in it.”

  “Yet they havenae rid themselves of the lass.”

  “She made it home and has ne’er left there again. They also have control of all that she has since she is a woman, aye?”

  “Aye, and it probably helps muzzle any suspicions about the other deaths.”

  Angus nodded. “ ’Tis what I think. So, will ye go to Kirkfalls and fetch my niece?”

  “Aye, I will fetch her, but I make no promises about marrying her.”

  “Not e’en to become my heir?”

  “Nay, not e’en for that, tempting as it is. I willnae tie myself to a woman for that alone. There has to be more.”

  “She is a bonnie wee lass with dark red hair and big green eyes.”

  That sounded promising, but Artan fixed a stern gaze upon the old man. “Ye havenae set eyes on her since she was a child and ye dinnae ken what sort of woman she has become. A lass can be so bonnie on the outside she makes a man’s innards clench. But then the blind lust clears away, and he finds himself with a bonnie lass who is as cold as ice, or mean of spirit, or any of a dozen things that would make living with her pure misery. Nay, I willnae promise to wed your niece now. I will only promise to consider it. There will be time to come to know the lass as we travel here from Kirkfalls.”

  “Fare enough, but ye will see. Ye will be wanting to marry her. She is a sweet, gentle, biddable lass. A true lady raised to be a mon’s comfort.”

  Artan wondered just how much of that effusive praise was true, then shrugged and began to plan his journey.

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  One

  Scotland—Spring, 1478

  The sun would set in a few hours, Jankyn thought as he crouched inside the narrow, deeply set stone arrow slot. When the sun was at this particular spot in the sky, he could safely view the gardens below. He grimaced as he thought of the teasing he would have to endure if it was discovered that he had a liking for flowers. A MacNachton liking flowers? Jankyn could almost see his kinsmen rolling on the floor, weak from hilarity.

  It was rather pathetic, he mused, even as he took a deep breath, savoring the scent of primroses, bluebells, and musk roses. A garden flourished in the sun. He lived in the shadows. Perhaps it was more envy than appreciation. There was a part of him that hungered for a chance to turn his face toward the sun, to revel in its warmth upon his skin. It would be the last pleasure he enjoyed if he was mad enough to try it, but there were times when he was sorely tempted.

  There was a soft rap upon his door and a woman called his name, but he ignored her. Something else that would both surprise and amuse his kinsmen. When he had first arrived at the king’s court, he had freely indulged his lusts with the women gathered here, but that game no longer interested him. They no longer interested him. He was weary of being the dark, mysterious lover the women could brag about to their friends. There was a danger lurking in such excess for it stirred not only curiosity, but jealousy. He was also simply tired of fleeting, empty passion, of bedding down with women who did not really care to know him well, or would run screaming from his embrace if they did.

  It was time to leave, but he could not give in to the urge to return to the comforting, shadowy depths of Cambrun. He had not yet found a suitable mate for his son David or finished his own work. Born of an Outsider, David could live a near-normal life, and Jankyn was determined to give him as rich a one as possible. There were also strong indications that it was here he would discover why he did not seem to be the pure-blooded MacNachton he had always thought he was.

  “Are ye sure she will come here?”

  Jankyn frowned down at the young man who had spoken, interrupting his peace and his thoughts. He recognized the elegantly dressed man as Sir Lachlan Armstrong, an impoverished young man with a small, poor holding. His companion was Thomas Oliphant, the youngest son of a laird with a lot of sons and little money. It was widely known that they would make any woman a poor husband. Jankyn tensed for there was something about them that made him think they were on the hunt, and he wondered which poor lass was their prey.

  “Aye, Tom, she will,” replied Lachlan. “I had Eleanor tell her the roses were in bloom. The lass loves flowers.”

  “Och, aye, she does that, but it doesnae mean she will come to have a peek at them now. Could be she willnae come until the morrow.”

  “Nay, ’twill be soon. Ere the sun sets. Eleanor told her that Old Rob, a mon weel kenned for his skill at foretelling the weather, had talked of a fierce storm coming, one that would be sure to damage the flowers. The lass willnae want to risk missing a chance to see them in full bloom.”

  “Clever.”

  It was and Jankyn had to wonder why Eleanor would help these fools. Since the two men could give her little save a rutting, he had to think Eleanor did not like the lass she was sending into this trap. There could be many reasons for that, but knowing Eleanor as he unfortunately did, Jankyn suspected the chosen victim was young and beautiful. Eleanor did not like it when some other woman drew men’s interest away from her. The intended
prey must have arrived recently, during the last two weeks in which Jankyn had cut himself off from the intrigues of the court, both political and sexual. And dear Eleanor was one of the reasons for that self-imposed exile.

  “O’er by that rowan tree would be a good place to await her,” said Lachlan even as he strode toward it.

  “There is one wee problem with this plan,” said Thomas as he joined his friend. “Which one of us gets to have her?”

  “We will both have her, but the first to draw blood will be the one to wed her.”

  “Which will still leave one of us with an empty purse, little or no land, and the need of a weel-dowered wife.”

  “Nay, nay. This lass has enough for us to share a wee bit, just enough to make it easier to get that rich bride. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Swine, Jankyn thought. The rumors that said these two hid a callous brutality beneath their fine clothes and bonnie faces were obviously true. Glancing toward the sun, Jankyn knew he would not be able to perform any daring rescue. The best he could do was call out a warning, letting the rogues know that their perfidy was not unwitnessed. There would be little glory in it, but the ones in the garden would see nothing wrong for none of them would expect a man to leap from where he now perched and live.

  It was not long before both men tensed and shifted deeper into the shadow of the tree. Jankyn knew their prey had entered the garden and he waited with them. When the woman entered his line of sight, Jankyn nearly fell from his perch. He easily recognized that lithe shape and the sensuous way the young woman moved. Her long, thick, honey gold hair swayed with each step she took, adding to her allure. Although he had seen little of her in nearly three years, he had obviously recalled Efrica Callan very well indeed. The two men lurking by the rowan tree intended to attack his laird’s sister by marriage. His shock had also stolen away the chance to warn her, and he cursed softly.

  His first inclination was to roar out his fury and attack, but he forced his rage back. Efrica was no fool, nor was she helpless. There was also the sun to consider. Fists clenched, he waited.

  “Weel met, m’lady,” said Lachlan as he moved to stand in front of Efrica, Thomas slipping around behind her.

  “Mayhap I misjudge ye, but I dinnae think ye are here to join men in admiring the flowers,” Efrica said.

  Jankyn saw her sleek body subtly move as she prepared herself for an attack.

  “We would rather show ye our admiration.”

  “Another time, if ye please.”

  Efrica felt fear chill her blood, but forced herself to ignore it. Fear stole one’s wits and she would have need of hers now. Somehow she was going to have to slip free of this trap yet not do something that might raise too many questions. She could smell the lust in the men. It sickened and terrified her. Their plot was easy to discern. Rape, then a forced marriage. It was a ploy she should have considered when she had seen their anger over her rebuffs of their attentions, polite though those had been.

  Just as she moved to leave the garden, Lachlan grabbed her by the arm. “Release me,” she hissed, and saw both men look at her curiously. “Now.”

  “So fierce,” drawled Lachlan. “Do ye bring that fire to all ye do?”

  “And do ye always bring another fool with ye to subdue a lass so much smaller than ye are?”

  Insulting the man had not been wise, Efrica decided as she watched his face redden with fury. She had sensed the brute hidden beneath the courtier’s finery shortly after meeting both men. Although it was pleasing to have her judgment proven correct, she would have preferred to savor the small pleasure within the safe confines of her chambers or safely hidden within a crowd.

  The only way to adequately protect herself now would be to toss aside the mask she wore at court. The genteel, polite lady she portrayed before others would gain her nothing now. Unfortunately, revealing too much of her true nature could rouse a curiosity that held its own dangers.

  “Ye greet a mon’s wooing with cold scorn,” said Thomas. “Tisnae wise to lash at a mon’s pride so.”

  “I doubt what ye plan now could e’er be called wooing,” Efrica said, turning slightly in the small hope that she could keep either man from getting a firm hold on her. “Best ye pause a moment to consider the consequences.”

  “The consequences will be that ye will marry one of us. There is nay more to consider.”

  “Nay? How about the anger of my kinsmen?”

  Lachlan snorted, the crude sound heavy with scorn. “The Callans? An unimportant clan who hides away upon their lands hoarding their coin. Weel, ’tis time that largesse was shared by ones who ken how to use it.”

  Efrica hastily swallowed the low, feral growl that crowded into her throat at this insult to her clan. “On useless finery and jewels for adulteresses and whores? Better it was pitched into the sea.”

  “Ye have been here for ten days searching for a husband. Weel, we have decided ’tis past time ye got one.”

  “And ye have tossed a coin to decide which of you will be that mon, have ye?”

  “Nay, lass, we mean to toss you and the prize goes to the first mon in.” Lachlan smiled coldly as he tried to pull her into his arms. “In truth, it goes to the first to draw blood, my sweet.”

  “Och, aye?” Efrica flexed her fingers. “I believe that will be me.”

  Jankyn winced as he watched her rake her nails across Lachlan’s face, for he could remember how sharp those long elegant nails of a Callan woman could be. Lachlan was lucky he still had his eyes. In fact, Jankyn suspected Efrica had tempered her blow, only lightly raking Lachlan’s skin, for there was not that much blood, nor did Jankyn think the furrows running from check to cheek were that deep. Jankyn felt an ancient hunger stir within him as the scent of fresh, warm blood mixed with the light perfume of the flowers, but he forced it aside, keeping his full attention upon the ensuing battle below.

  A part of him still wanted to bellow in rage, to put an immediate halt to this assault upon Efrica, but he continued to hold silent. It would be best if she handled the men in her own way. Efrica had agility, strength, and cunning. Perhaps even enough to get free of this trap. The last thing she needed was to draw too much attention to herself, and she had the wit to know that. If she freed herself, no one would hear of this confrontation. The two men intent upon rape would certainly not be talking. If he interfered in any way, this outrage would no longer be completely secret. There was even the chance the men might try to use his knowledge of it to force Efrica into a marriage she quite clearly did not want.

  With a sensuous agility that impressed Jankyn, Efrica managed to elude the grasp of both men. It was quickly evident, however, that she had not really escaped them. For two men who seemed to do little but indulge themselves in every available vice, Lachlan and Thomas proved to be swift and cunning. Jankyn had the uneasy feeling they had played this cruel game before.

  Even as he tried to think of a way to put an end to this without revealing too many of his secrets, or Efrica’s, Jankyn watched the tide of the battle turn against her. His anger grew each time they chased her, each time they thwarted her attempt to escape, and each time they touched her. This was no way to treat a woman. The fact that this woman was connected to his clan through her sister’s marriage made it a personal insult as well as a crime. Jankyn was not sure why, but the fact that it was Efrica seemed to make his anger all the fiercer.

  Then they threw her to the ground, Thomas pinning her hands down as he crouched by her head. Lachlan quickly got the rest of her held firmly beneath his body. Jankyn forgot all about secrets that needed to be protected, and all about the chance that Efricia might be humiliated by being seen in such a degrading position. He even forgot about the sun. A soft growl rumbled deep in his throat as he leapt from his perch.

  Efrica hissed a curse as Lachlan evaded her kicking legs and used his body to hold her down. Fear was a bitter taste in the back of her mouth, but she twisted her body, continuing to struggle. Although b
oth men had made her uneasy from the beginning, she had never suspected they could be capable of this sort of brutality. This might be a callous attempt to force her to marry one of them, but she had no doubt at all that both men intended to violate her. She suspected they had made some pact between themselves as to how to share her rich dowry once one of them got her before a priest.

  “Weel, lass, it looks as if I will win the greater prize,” said Lachlan as he began to push up her skirts.

  “If ye do this, all ye will win is a deep grave,” she snapped. “Ye will die for this.”

  “Aye, lass, they will.”

  Her attackers had just begun to tense in surprise at the sound of that deep voice when Efrica suddenly found herself free. She lifted her head to see Lachlan, then Thomas, hurled across the garden to land hard against a tree. It took her a moment to recognize the man striding toward the dazed, softly groaning pair. Jankyn MacNachton was really there, was not some dream, and he was furious. Recalling what that emotion could do to a MacNachton, Efrica leapt to her feet and ran to him just as he grasped each stunned man by the front of his doublet and lifted him up.

  “Nay,” she said, slipping beneath his arm and placing a hand upon his chest. “Ye must nay kill them.”

  Jankyn looked down at her and she inwardly shivered. His elegant features had sharpened into a look that was chillingly feral. His golden eyes were those of a predator. He held each man several inches off the ground as if they weighed nothing. Then, slowly, his fury began to fade, his features softening slightly, and the snarl that had shaped his sensuous mouth receding.

  “Best ye put them down ere someone sees. Aye, and ere they gain enough wits to open their eyes.”