by Madelyn Hill
Remember, his mind prodded, remember your father’s shame at the hand of your mother. How you lost your clan and home. How your father was thrown from his home and forced to bring his wee lad and betraying wife to another keep to beg for shelter. The image of Anne and her quest to better her station with someone other than him flashed before his mind.
His father was banished. All because of his mother’s treachery, a mother bent on gaining power. If only she’d been patient. She’d betrayed them both, especially his father, who’d gained the support of the council. A council who wanted his father to be laird. What his mother had done, his father would never tell. No matter how much Aidan cajoled. But he trusted his father. Kenned he was a fine man who pledged to be loyal.
Aidan pulled up and directed a speculative glance at Laird MacAlister. She kept her face angled toward the fire, but he read the tension that tightened the muscles of her neck and flexed jaw.
Remember, she is just like them. Hope wants to keep you from your birthright.
He steeled himself against her beauty. To him beauty held too many thorns.
“What are your plans?”
Still, she held her back to him. “We have men searching for answers.”
He sighed. More than her beauty, he worried about her intelligence. He admired the way in which she led the clan. It took strength and insurmountable patience. And if he were in her position, Aidan would do as she had.
“Is that all, MacKerry?”
“Nay.” He hesitated, not certain he could verbalize what he felt and wanted. “I want you to know I had nothing to do with the lad’s death. I want you to trust me.”
Finally, she turned toward him, a look of disbelief set a scowl on her face. “Surely, you jest?”
Anger began to pitch his stomach. “You have a choice: trust me, or trust the council.”
She appeared to contemplate his words and weigh the options. A myriad of emotions flashed in her expressive eyes and Aidan didn’t know if it ’twas a good sign or not.
“You found my sister. For that I’m grateful.” She sighed. “We are to be wed, we will have to trust each other, but you have to earn my trust. And being accused of murder doesn’t help your case.” She stood.
He swallowed. Firelight highlighted the silhouette of her body. All talk of trust fled his mind. Full breasts, a narrow waist, the curve of her hips leading to long legs. The image was stunning.
“I want to trust you. ’Tis why you aren’t in the dungeon. But I’ve a clan to think of and I believe their trust of you is not solid.” She shrugged and her thin gown moved along her curves, danced about her ankles, pulled against her full breasts. “But, I am inclined to believe you, I don’t ken why.”
He found his tongue, tore his gaze from her haloed body and said, “’Tis called trust.”
She flushed and looked down. As if it just dawned on her, she crossed her arms before her chest and moved away from the fire.
“I’ll leave you for now, but think on this Laird MacAlister.” He paused. “At any moment I could have felled any of your men or you. ’Twas I who carried you to your chamber after your injury, not one of your clansmen.”
She canted her head to the side and remained silent for a few moments. “You make a good point, MacKerry. But do not think I trust you fully.”
With a humorless chuckle, Aidan said, “’Twill be a trying time of it if we don’t trust each other, laird.” He’d talked enough for now. Laird MacAlister was not going to suddenly trust him in the next hour.
“Good night, MacKerry,” Hope called as he left the room, her tone slightly mocking.
Aidan went to the main hall and bore the weight of the clan’s curious inspection. Attempting to ignore them, he went to the dais and sat in the Laird’s chair. The position gave him full view of the hall, those who inhabited it, and the broad doors that led to the bailey. Aye, a fine choice for its placement. He rose and moved about the hall. ’Twouldn’t do for Hope to hear he was sitting in her chair.
The main hall was the largest room in the keep. Tall stone walls, a huge fireplace that could roast a large buck, and trestle tables lined the walls and filled the middle since there wasn’t dancing or singing at the moment. Clan members completed their daily task. Women laid fresh rugs, serving lasses followed behind and tossed sprigs of lavender and wild rose petals. Men swept and repaired weapons and leather goods. Contentment, nay a sense of pride, filled him even though none knew his true identity.
He sat in the Laird’s chair once again.
“Trying it on for size, are ye?”
He recognized the voice behind him and true to his suspicion, ’twas Liam who’d approached him in the dungeon. The elder man sat beside him and tugged at his chin. “Ye made a dire mistake, lad. You’ll be lucky if the council doesna throw ye out of the keep. Again.”
Aidan nearly hit the gloating man. “You forget I’m innocent and I think you ken who’s responsible.”
“Mayhap.” Liam raised a tumbler. A red-haired lass quickly filled it with ale, then she lingered and glanced at Aidan as a cat would contemplate devouring a mouse. “But ye ken we can’t be letting the laird ken.”
He didn’t like the train of Liam’s thoughts. “If you allow me to be imprisoned again, you will not obtain your goal.”
Liam shrugged and took a prolong sip of ale. “Mayhap.”
’Twas infuriating, the smug look on his face, the relaxed manner of his actions. Aidan raised a tumbler for ale. Two could play at this game, of that he was certain. And he’d bet his horse he’d outlast the old man in a contest of wills. He’d waited too long for justice.
The serving lass filled the tumbler.
“I’ll have more, lass,” Liam quipped as he winked at her.
Aidan quelled the hatred he felt for the man. A man his father had spoken of frequently and a man who’d been integral in the quest to banish the family. Liam MacAlister had agreed to rip his childhood from him, take Aidan’s home away, and made him clanless. “We’ll stay with the current plan, man. Or I’ll be forced to speak privately with Laird MacAlister,” Aidan warned quietly.
“Ah,” the man said with a genial tip of his head. “Ye want to see her dead then?”
Rage fisted his hands as his muscles longed to throttle the man. Aidan banked the fury, knowing the act would force it to fester and be called upon later. “You’d kill her to achieve your gain?” What kind of man would kill a lass?
Liam’s intent gaze bore into him, sending dread through him. “There’s more to this than ye ken.” The old man twisted in the chair to fully face Aidan. “Years and years have gone by without gain. Our clan used to be strong and cause fear from those near and far.” He pounded on the table, rattling the tumblers and gained the attention of those still in the hall. Liam waved off Connor, who was making his way toward the dais. “A woman has led our clan for the last ten years. Do ye ken what that makes us?”
Aidan leaned toward the old man. “If other clans thought you so weak because of her rule, why haven’t they attacked?”
“Diplomacy.” He spat the word as his face contorted into a look of scorn and disgust.
Diplomacy? Did Laird MacAlister talk her way out of skirmishes? ’Twas interesting, to be sure. But he knew some men of the clan would fight before they talked. “If I were laird, what would you wish me to do?”
“Ah, now ye understand. We canna be weak,” he nearly shouted. Inching closer, the old man glanced about as if checking to ensure others weren’t listening as he continued, “Mungo has taken more land than he needs. Our land.” He flashed a sinister smile. “Ye’ll be leading us when we take it back.”
Aidan highly doubted that. His goal was to be laird, but not for the sake of following the orders of the council. If they fought, ’twould be on his command, not Liam’s.
Disgusted with the entire discussion, he left the dais without another word to Liam. Damn the old man was troublesome. Even worse, Aidan now felt sympathy for Laird MacAlister. Did she have any inkling as to what the council planned? Aye, she was a smart one, but perhaps they have never let on to their ambitions.
No matter. To speak to her about it would surely lead her to harm.
As much as she was trying to keep him from his rightful position, Aidan didn’t want to see her dead.
Chapter 9
Hope stewed in her chamber. How did she expect this to ever work? MacKerry was too handsome, too arrogant, and was quickly slipping inside her thoughts unbidden and not unwelcome. When she should be incensed at his hot gaze upon her, she’d felt thrilled. It was rare that the men of the clan looked at her as a woman. As laird, their leader, ’twas even rarer in which she behaved like the typical lass seeking flattery.
Before MacKerry, she’d thought of protecting those who relied on her. Providing what they needed, and being there for her sisters. Now he played into her thoughts as if he’d been part of the clan, part of her life.
Aye, she thought of him. The strong line of his jaw, the sheer magnitude of his muscular body, and the sharp edges of his features, as if he were carved of the very rock Wild Thistle sat upon. More so, he’d carried her after she’d been injured. Stayed by her side when Honor stitched the deep cut. He’d helped find her sister. And she’d seen him. Talking with the clansmen, training with the men. Mayhap that is what angered her the most, he was becoming one of the clan.
She mindlessly brushed her hair before the fire. Flames lapped up the chimney, hues of crimson, ginger, and gold. As Hope focused on the dancing fire, scenes of the past played in her mind.
MacKerry dumped on her feet, kissing her. Och, why did the man plague her so?
There had to be a way to not think upon him, she thought as she rubbed her shoulder. The stitches itched, ’twas a good sign Honor said, but Hope loathed another annoyance. She’d be useless on the training field for quite a while and that nipped at the back of her mind as well. Would MacKerry attempt to usurp her power and influence over the men? She’d have to watch carefully and be ready to intercede should the occasion arise.
Perhaps he needed to be preoccupied with other matters besides her men. A competition? Aye, ’twould work. There was a sense of competition about the man and she had a feeling he’d jump at any and all challenges.
She watched the fire lose its luster as she planned the competition. Strategy was her edge and she believed for now, she held the upper hand in regards to MacKerry.
Hope grinned as she peeled back the counterpane and slipped between cool sheets. The bed felt massive and loneliness snuck upon her despite being surrounded by the clan and those she knew loved her. Even though she’d told Honor to fetch Faith to sleep in her chamber, her sisters hadn’t arrived to sneak in beside her. She’d try to remain awake in case they wanted to talk so she could ease any fears. Tucking the blanket beneath her chin, Hope shifted toward the now docile fire and watched. The crackling eased some of her worry with is rhythmic cadence and the loamy ash fragrance was familiar, comfortable.
She’d make him prove his worthiness through the competition. ’Twasn’t unusually for games to precede a wedding. In fact, ’twas a tradition. Her mother used to go on and on about the games in which her father proved himself worthy of her hand. The clan and the Sept clans would gather and MacKerry would prove his worth as a groom. With the speculation about his arrival, the poor dead lad, winning the competition would do well to quell any uncertainty the clan had about the man. And her. Mayhap if he proved worthy, ’twould make it easier for her to accept they’d be wed. She kenned she asked him to wed her, but ever since that moment, she regretted the rash action, her father’s stipulation be damned.
Aye, ’twas a brilliant idea altogether. With a smug smile, Hope fell into a healing slumber.
Her arm throbbed when she woke. Sometime during the night, Hope had rolled onto it and her body weight had been too much. It didn’t help her sisters took up most of the bed, their bodies at different angles and the look of peace on their slumbering faces.
At what time they’d snuck in, she wasn’t certain, but she was glad they did.
Shaking out some of the tenseness, she rose and began preparing for a meeting with her intended. Truly, ’twas taking too much of her time, this betrothal. She had important matters to attend to, a clan to protect, and a lairdship to keep.
And certainly Nora would say a wedding to plan.
By Saint Coletti she could feel her father turning over in his grave and the loss of her parents rubbed like a raw wound. She imagined his growl would rattle the rafters if he’d live to see her lose the lairdship.
Hope summoned Nora to help her flesh out her plan. Then, she summoned MacKerry.
Surprised he bowed to her wish to come to her chamber; MacKerry entered the room with impatience creasing his brow. He’d just bathed, if his glossy black hair had any say. Wet, slicked back and tied with a length of leather. He was even more formidable and handsome then she thought possible, his face seemingly cut from hard edges and smooth plains. Her breath hitched as she tried to breathe in his presence.
“You asked for me?” he asked with a low, albeit threatening voice. He strode toward her, then stopped, the muscles along his bare arms bunched and tightened.
“Quiet,” she said as she indicated toward the bed.
His gaze shifted to the bed where her sisters lay sleeping and he scowled. “You asked for me?” he repeated.
“I wanted to keep you informed,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I’ll be investigating the lad’s death today.” She shrugged, trying to temper the urge to openly stare at him. “When I’m done, you’ll hear my findings.”
His eyes narrowed and turned as stormy as a thundercloud. “You had me summoned like an errant lad to tell what I already kenned?” he said with harsh anger in his tone as he threw his hands up with exasperation.
Although she expected hostility, she was still surprised at the vehemence of his words. “You spoke of trust yesterday, did you not? I thought if I kept you informed, you’d ken I was trying to trust you.”
MacKerry frowned and Hope felt foolish. She didn’t think he knew her plan, but suspicion cocked his brow as he continued to inspect her. “I don’t think you trust me. ’Tis plain as the nose on your face. You are threatened by me, mayhap even fear me.”
The man had more than courage if he thought she’d allow him to get away with such a slight. Hope paced toward him and pounded a fist on his apparently resilient chest. “Don’t test me, MacKerry. I still hold your fate in my hands.” She eased away from him. Never had a man provoked her so. Not even Duncan with his constant childish prodding.
“Aye, I can see you trust me, laird.”
She ignored the cold, sardonic edge to his voice and strode toward the hearth. After she twisted her hair into a bun, a habit which helped her think, Hope turned toward her betrothed and offered a wager. “What say you, MacKerry, to a contest?”
He shifted his weight as suspicion lit his eyes and they narrowed forming tight lines in the corners. “What type of contest?”
Hope tipped her head to the side and pretended to contemplate the question, as uncertainty warred within her. It had to work, or else she may lose more than the lairdship. “A contest to prove your worthiness of my hand. The truth of it is, you’re not a MacAlister.” She wondered at the spike of fury which flared in his gaze before he quickly masked it. “Others have questions about your origins, and at times, I’ve wondered too.”
He held up a hand to stop her. “I’ve told you I’m a MacKerry. Mayhap you should ask Liam or Duncan where the missive went. I’m certain they ken.” After he released a heavy sigh, he continued, “But I’ll agree to your contest. That i
s after I’ve heard the details, of course.”
He’d almost come to her without argument, progress, she thought with a bit of amusement. “Sit, MacKerry.” When he folded himself into her mother’s chair, she continued, “’Tis easy enough for a bairn. Test of strength, agility, and prowess with a bow.”
A smug smile tipped his mouth. A mouth that had invaded her thoughts numerous times. How can a man so hard and unyielding have such soft, pliant lips?
“And who will I challenge in this competition?”
She shrugged and glanced to the side. “Some of the lads. I’ve watched you train. You’re more than capable.”
Aidan crossed his arms before his chest and leaned against the back of the chair. “Some of the lads? Would one of those lads be Duncan?”
Hope laughed. “’Tis a tradition in which our Sept clans join us for the merriment and games. And aye, one of the competitors will be my cousin. Duncan is a braw fighter and may be the last man standing.”
He crossed his leg over the other and cocked his brow. “Aye, I saw how well the man stood against you, laird.”
She shrugged. MacKerry hadn’t seen the hundreds of fights in which Duncan came close to besting her and then held back. She wasn’t foolish enough to think she was physically stronger than a man, just smarter.
“Did you train with the men of your clan?”
He frowned and then nodded. “At times.”
“Oh, come now, MacKerry,” she said with a exasperated sigh. “If we are to be wed, we need to know each other.”
He sighed and dragged his hand over his face. “Aye. I trained with my clansmen.” He shifted forward. “Did you think I was a coward?”
She pulled back. “Nay, of course not,” Hope said quickly. In fact, she kenned a man such as him would be willing to fight for those he wanted to protect. She couldn’t say why she believed so, ’twas just a feeling she had. And his actions when she’d been hurt and Faith was missing spoke to his character. “Never.”