by Madelyn Hill
“’ave ye told?”
“Nay, I promise you,” came a weak, frightened response. “Nay.”
The scrape of metal, which Aidan knew had to be a knife being removed from a scabbard, prompted a whimper from one of the men. He rushed forward to stop whatever fight was about to turn ugly.
Silence.
Then angry, guttural discussion ensued. Aidan stilled as he heard movement as a tall man passed by. The extra length of the stranger’s tartan was pulled over his head, masking his identity. Aidan cursed beneath his breath and looked to where the men held their discussion. A crumpled figure lay not ten feet from him. He rushed to the man and rolled him over. A knife protruded from the man’s chest.
A fatal blow.
Aidan removed the knife and tossed it aside before he lifted the man into his arms and carried him toward the keep and into main hall. Och, if he’d only seen the man who’d left the grisly scene or even heard what they were arguing about.
Screams garnered the laird’s attention as he stopped before the dais. “I found him near the palisade,” he told Hope.
She blanched and raced around the large table to stand before him. Brushing back the sheath of black hair from the dead man’s face, she frowned. “He isn’t a MacAlister.”
Shocked, Aidan looked at the face of a man not more than ten and five. Pity, he looked so innocent, youthful. “Where should I take him?”
“Nora,” she called to her maid, “Take MacKerry to the internment room.”
Aidan turned to move.
“What were ye doing in the bailey, MacKerry?” Duncan said as he pushed through the gathering crowd.
How quickly the Highlander had forgotten their shared drink. Aidan cocked a brow. “Just clearing my head.”
Hope rested a hand on the large man’s arm. “Enough.”
Duncan stepped forward. He frowned. “Aye, laird. But ’tis easy to see MacKerry killed the man.”
“Nay,” Aidan said as all eyes shifted to him. “There was another in the bailey.”
“Who?” Duncan crossed his arms before his chest and stared down his nose.
Before answering, he glanced around the main hall. How was he to say? He barely knew the clansmen. Not that it would help, he never saw a face, just the shadow of a man with his tartan drawn over his head walking by. “I do not know. He’d covered his head with his tartan. But he wasn’t a young man, he had a bit of a hitch to his gate.”
Duncan leaned forward, his bristly beard nearly touched Aidan’s face. “’Tis a likely story, MacKerry. You killed him.”
Hope stepped between him. She set her hand on Duncan’s arm. “I will settle this.” She tipped her chin toward the main hall entrance. “Take him down.”
Following Nora, Aidan remained stoic as they descended stone stairs and entered a cold room with a large slab table in the center. Little else adorned the room and he felt stifled in the macabre atmosphere.
The auld maid began removing the dead boy’s clothing. “Go, lad. ’Tis naught ye can do.”
Aidan took one last look before leaving the depressing room. Why would one kill such a young lad? He had to find out. Or else he’d be accused of murder. A murder he didn’t commit. He strode to the main hall, hoping to speak with his intended and perhaps the council as well. He had to share what he heard in the bailey and to claim his innocence before them all.
“MacKerry,” Hope called. “We’ll discuss this in the Laird’s chamber.”
He followed her, hating the fact she used such a condescending tone with him. No matter, time would erase all that he’d suffered at the hands of women who treated him badly.
The council awaited them. Blast Liam. He once again sat in her chair. Hope jerked her head toward him and he moved, but not before he sent a mocking glare in her direction. ’Twas always his reaction, and she knew he didn’t want her as laird. Nay, he wanted to fight and pillage. He wanted the clan’s territory to spread across Scotland. He never thought of the consequences. The same consequences she and her sisters suffered as lasses. Och, and their poor mother. She’d never recovered from the death of her father. And Hope pledged to never needlessly put men’s lives in danger. The men of the clan were fathers, husbands, brothers and sons. How could she so recklessly risk the lives of others? And while she wasn’t a fool, she knew they needed to train and be prepared, but ‘twould do the clan no good to lose more men on the whim of those bent on war.
She sat and cleared her throat in order to gain their attention. MacKerry leaned against the door jam, strong arms folded before his chest and an intent gaze narrowed his eyes.
“We need to learn the identity of the lad.”
The men looked to her, speculation raising their brows.
“Aye,” Liam replied and he fingered a deep groove in the wood table. “’Tis disturbing, to be sure.” He lifted his head and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve never had a murder.”
Murder.
The word resonated in her mind and she couldn’t help but peek beneath her lashes at MacKerry. Devil take him, he saw her and cocked an arrogant brow. Could he really kill a man in cold blood? Or did MacKerry know the lad? No one came forward to support his story. But if there was another person as he claimed, would he come forward and incriminate himself?
Connor watched her actions and his gazed landed on MacKerry as well. The man leaned back in his chair and tipped his chin at her betrothed. “Where’s yer dirk, MacKerry?”
He straightened and reached for the leather sheath belted at his waist. When his brow beetled, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Where was his dirk? She turned to him, ready to send him back to the dungeon if need be.
“’Tisn’t here.” He whipped his belt off and shook it. Still no sign of his knife.
Hope rubbed her brow as the other men shouted accusations. How ironic they now blasted MacKerry when just a few hours ago they rejoiced in her selection. She held up a hand for silence and rose. Placing her hands on the rough wood of the table, she sought the council of her father as if his presence still remained somewhere in the room. She spoke in a low, commanding tone, “He’s my intended. Cease your havering and leave us.”
The men looked to each other and when Liam rose, all but Connor followed suit. Each ignored her betrothed as they passed him, but their silence was laden with warning. ’Twas how they often reacted when she rebuffed their advice or refused to lay siege to another clan.
“Are you certain ye wish to be alone with him, m’laird?” Connor stood protectively between her and MacKerry. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. She grinned and rested her hand on his arm. “I’ll be fine.”
He relaxed his stance. “Call me if ye need me.”
“Aye.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “I appreciate your support, Connor.”
He nodded. “I’m loyal to ye, m’laird. Always ken this.”
“Thank you.”
He strode toward the door. He stopped before MacKerry. “Hurt her and ye’ll answer to me,” Connor warned as he pounded his finger against MacKerry’s chest.
“I’ve no interest in hurting m’laird.” While he spoke, his direct gaze never wavered. She shivered a bit.
She believed him.
Connor nodded toward her and left.
“Close the door.”
The muscle along Aidan’s jaw flexed, but he did as she bade. Hope sat and waved to a chair for MacKerry to do the same. So many worries came to her. Worries for the clan, the poor lad. Had she betrothed herself to a man who killed a lad?
They sat in silence as she watched him, tried to measure the type of man he was. While her instinct was telling her he was being truthful, there were too many unanswered questions.
“Did you kill him?”
He glanced up. His g
ray eyes hardened like the edge of a sword. “What would be my motive?”
She allowed a seemingly harmless shrugged, trying to gain control of her nerves and the warning blaring through her mind. Do not trust him. No matter how his kiss melted your insides with pleasure. He is a stranger. “Perhaps he has some information on you.” She waved at him. “Regardless, you didn’t answer my question.”
“Nay.”
“Nay?” Hope’s gaze lingered over the fine features of his face. Could she trust the man who was more a stranger than not? His mouth twisted into a sardonic grin as she inspected him. Tremors of foreboding raced down her spine. He’d something to hide, ’twas obvious. What were his secrets? “I need more than that, MacKerry. The council will demand more, just as I do.”
He raised his hands, his face suddenly weary. “I can’t give you more than I have. I didn’t ken the man.”
She tilted her head as she absorbed his statement. ’Twas odd how his brogue thickened. Did it indicate guilt or innocence? “’Tis late.” She rubbed her shoulder. The stitches itched and the injury was sore. She squinted at him. “Can I trust you to remain within the keep?”
He nodded solemnly. “As I pledge.”
She stilled, took a long look at the man. He seemed calm, but there was also the hum of energy which pulsed beneath his skin. “And what am I to ken of your pledge, MacKerry.”
His gaze narrowed and he stepped toward her. Braw and bravado. The room was smaller with him in it, as if he grew with that one step in her direction. Sweat began to form on her palms. His gaze softened but he was still just as fierce. “My word as a man of honor. I have honor, laird. I did not kill the lad.”
With such passion he spoke. Light glowed in his eyes, glints of gray and silver mixed together, making them the color of the sky after a quick summer storm. She cocked her head to the side, weighing his words, and the vehemence behind them. With a quick nod, she bade him to stay. “Would you care for ale or whiskey?”
“Whiskey.”
A small grin pulled at the corner of her mouth. ’Twas her father’s favored drink.
He moved to the Laird’s chair. Circled around it.
“’Twas my father’s chair,” she said as she nodded toward the ornately carved chair at the head of the table.
“Aye.” He ran his hand over the back, drew his finger along the carvings. She witnessed the look of longing on his face. He seemed almost younger for a moment. As if he were recalling memories which pleasured him.
Who was this man she was to marry?
“My father died ten years ago.” She swallowed to stop her voice from cracking. His death still lay so heavy on her heart. Would she ever stop missing him?
He nodded as need and pain coursed over his face. He quickly turned passive and settled his gaze upon her. “You have my sympathy.”
She glanced at him, watched him as he watched her. They’d have to come to an understanding, to be sure. But just what that understanding was, she didn’t ken. Despite herself, she asked him, “Tell me of your clan, MacKerry.”
He started at her question. Let his hands fall to his side. “’Tisn’t much to tell. I’m sure our clan is much like yours.”
Evasion was the game he was playing. She handed him his drink. His strong hands wrapped around the tumbler. He took a draw of whiskey. She pushed onward. “Did you have a lass back at your keep?”
He furrowed his brow. “If I had a lass, I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you, laird.”
She chuckled and lifted her tumbler toward him. “Fine answer. And one I’d expect for an honorable man.” She should put him in the dungeon. ‘Twould be safer for the clan, and for her mind and her heart.
He visibly bristled. “And you, laird. Did you have a sweetheart before you asked for my hand?”
The way he said the words grated on her nerves. Aye, ’twasn’t traditional, a lass asking for a lad’s hand, but ’twas necessary. “Nay.”
A smirk kicked up the corner of his mouth. “It appears as if we are well suited.”
His mocking tone wasn’t lost on her. If they were suited, was still to be determined. She kenned the opposite were the case. And the fact she was forced to wed in order to keep her lairdship may actually cause them to be at odds more often than not.
“That is to be seen, MacKerry.”
He tipped his tumbler toward her. “Aye.”
“You’ll remain in the keep. There will be guards at your door,” she warned.
“I expect no less of a leader such as you, laird.”
“Why I believe that was a compliment.”
A grin kicked up the corner of his mouth and a dimple winked at her. “’Twas.”
The way he watched her, like a cat after its prey, heated her middle, made her think of his kiss. She touched her mouth. His brow bolted upward.
Hope clasped her hands before her. She nearly rolled her eyes heavenward, but stopped herself. She was acting like an eejit. He was just a man. A man accused of murder. A murder she had to solve.
“Good night, MacKerry.”
He raised his tumbler toward her. “Sleep well, m’laird.” His husky tone sent shards of pleasure through her body.
Hope left the laird’s meeting chamber, trying to ignore the heat coursing through her veins and went directly to her room. Och, by Saint Valentine did she have a dilemma. Her mind urged her to be cautious yet her heart kept remembering the kiss that sent thunderous waves of panic and pleasure through her body. Aye, panic. Mostly because she didn’t quite know what to make of the physical and emotional yearnings for MacKerry. His touch made her want more and more. When he’d held her, his taut muscles brushed along her body, hugged her curves. She grimaced as she remembered her actions. She’d pulled her dirk on him. Och, threatened him if he dared kiss her again. Which was foolish considering they’d be wed. Just as foolish as her pledge they’d never share the wedding bed. She rubbed her brow. ‘Twould be impossible and she admitted, she was curious and frankly eager for more kisses and . . . and what came after.
She ordered a bath and paced the breadth of the chamber while awaiting the water. Trust was essential in order for her and MacKerry to work together. Essential, but elusive. With the evening’s events fresh and raw in her mind, Hope slipped into the tub after it was filled.
Heat seeped into her tired muscles, easing some of the pain and tension. On the morrow, she’d run through the paces with the men in order to stay limber and show her strength, despite her injury.
A knock on the door broke into her troubling thoughts. “Aye.”
“Hope? ’Tis me, Honor.”
She smiled and bade entry.
Her sister couldn’t stop staring at her wound.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
Honor scoffed and waved a hand at her. “’Tis me, Hope. You can tell me the truth of it.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “It looks like it is healing nicely.”
“It hurts a little.” She slipped into the water wetting her hair and resurfaced. “Come, lather my hair.”
“We haven’t done this in ages.”
Her sister was right. It had been awhile since they’d shared time together doing things she presumed sisters did. But Hope was busy with the clan and her sisters were busy with their own interest. “Where’s Faith?”
“Vexed at you.” When Hope cocked her brow, her sister said, “She’s in the main hall, listening to all that is being said about MacKerry.”
Hope chuckled. “Tell her she can sleep in my chamber if she wishes.”
Honor’s eyes widened. “Me too?”
“Aye. Now rinse.”
Honor rinsed her hair and then handed her a towel. “Should we be frightened, then?”
No matter how their mother had protected her sisters, Hope wished she h
adn’t. The coddling did nothing but promote fear. But a gentle soul such as Honor would be frightened. “You should be strong.”
Honor’s face twisted. “Och, Hope. ’Tis all you think of.”
She shrugged and dried off. “’Tis how I feel.” Or, she thought, ’twas the face she wore when not alone in her chamber. If others kenned of her fears, they’d scoff. But she owned them regardless—fear of losing her position, taking care of her sisters, and of her upcoming nuptials.
“I’ll go get Faith.” She raced to the door and swung it open. “Och, MacKerry.”
Hope cringed at the mention of his name. Her sister conversed with him for a few moments, thankfully allowing Hope time to dress.
Aidan stood in the doorway, watching her brush her dark hair before the fire wearing only a thin, white sleeping gown. Flickering light kissed her skin with an intimate glow and highlighted the body beneath the flimsy material. The arch of her back, the curve of her stomach, and the fleshy mounds of her breasts were all visible. Shaking the vision from his mind, he entered the room and busied himself by looking at the weapons displayed throughout the room.
Odd how the symbols of aggression mingled with tapestries, odder still how they suited the current laird who was a contradiction as well. He’d heard her talking to her sister with a soft tongue and good intentions. Yet, now Hope ignored him as she continued to brush her hair and he could sense the unspoken words thickening the air with tension.
“Did you have need of me?”
If you only knew, he thought with a smirk. The sight of her before the fire sent desire straight to his cods. But he couldn’t allow emotion to play with his quest. “I wanted to see if you were well.”
“I’m well,” she said.
Liar. Exhaustion laden her voice and her eyes looked as if they were about to close.
Aidan sat in one of the chairs by the fire. Being so close to her was dangerous, but he needed to plead his case. Yet, he was at a loss for words, the devil chase him, with her barely clothed body just a pace away.