by Jackie Ivie
His grin was heart stopping, even if it was followed by a yawn. She already knew it, but the sensation caused a stutter feeling within her that made the finger touching him shake. Juliana slowly moved her touch to his temple and pushed a lock of hair back behind his ear before he’d finished his yawn.
“You’re a blessed sight, woman,” he informed her and nuzzled his head about her outstretched arm.
“So . . . you’ve answered the why. But not the how,” she informed him.
He blew out a heavy breath, hard enough it caressed her naked loins, and he closed his eyes. “’Tis a powerful potion you wield, lass.”
“What?”
“With this frame of yours. Powerful. Draining . . . perfect . . .”
And with that one statement, he canceled her argument. Juliana closed her mouth and forgot the words. It wouldn’t have been easy to get an answer from him anyway, as quickly and deeply as he went to sleep. She still had a hand touching his ear, and used it to finger and then smooth the hair strands that had escaped from his queue back against the mass of it. Then, she was sliding the back of her finger along his cheek, giggling a bit at the twitch of reaction he gave, although it didn’t wake him.
It wasn’t a potion. It wasn’t a spell. It was an emotion. She wondered when he’d discover and realize it.
“So . . . Ewan, what will we do with the woman?”
“’Tis painfully simple, Kerr MacGorrick. The laird will turn to a poucah and wizard her back to the women croft.”
“Or . . . leave her wandering about, lost in her grief over her clan’s near demise.”
That’s an idea. Aidan twisted his lips and considered it. Aidan could get her to the clearing by the kiln and set her onto one of the benches he’d had to dodge earlier. She could have walked in her sleep. Grief sometimes did odd things to a person. It would be light soon enough, but he hadn’t wanted to move her from the curled-up sleeping goddess position she’d assumed. Not yet.
“Aye. That’s a great plan . . . but does it na’ answer the problem.”
“What problem is that, Kerr?”
“You going to make them cease that?” Tavish asked from Aidan’s side.
Aidan looked across their fire at where Kerr and Ewan were squatting, trading teasing words, before looking back to the man at his side. “Nae,” he replied.
“Why na’?”
“Listen,” he replied in a near inaudible tone.
There wasn’t much heard for a few moments. Not much was seen either . . . unless one looked into the fire, trying to decipher its secrets. Or watched the thread of smoke wending its way upward to the hang of mist that was brought into existence by the night air atop water. Aidan smirked slightly.
“The problem is the woman. You should listen without so much dirt a-tween your ears. You’d hear more.” Kerr added to it with a shove on Ewan’s shoulder.
“Oh. Aye. The woman. ’Tis always a problem, is na’ it? Especially for the laird.”
“’Tis na’ his lone fault.”
“Nae?”
“They swarm about him like bees. To a honey pot.”
“Aye. A honey pot. Our laird. That’s a good one.”
Both men guffawed loudly and smacked their knees. Aidan turned his head and sucked in on his cheeks to hide the smile.
“What are we listening for?” Tavish asked.
“My conscience,” Aidan replied. He watched Tavish puzzle it for a bit, but had his attention caught again.
“Our laird should na’ have taken it into his head to give her a title.”
“You think not?” Ewan asked.
“Makes it powerful difficult to bed her.”
“I’ll be calling you out,” Ewan replied quickly. “You even hint at an issue with that. The laird has nae issue with that. Never.”
Aidan got his glance toward them intercepted.
“You see there, Kerr? The laird heard that. I will na’ have to give your sorry arse a whipping. He won’t leave enough for me.”
“And if you’d listen instead of jawing, you’d hear it right. I would never cast aspersions on that. The MacKetryck laird is known far and wide for his manhood.”
Aidan cleared his throat. Loudly.
“Then explain. ’Tis clear we all want to ken what you’re saying. Don’t we, lads?” Ewan gestured widely to the encampment.
Aidan ignored them. Tavish didn’t.
“Doona’ look to me,” he said. “I have better things to do than decide the whys and whens of my laird’s wishes.”
“You weren’t behind the slab of wood?” Kerr asked.
“What slab?” Tavish asked.
“The one placed beside that Killoran clansman. To make him think a log fell on him and knocked a bump into his head that had him dreaming of large-bosomed lasses . . . instead of one of my laird’s skeans.”
“That was a good shot, wasn’t it, Ewan?”
Both men took turns shoving each other’s shoulder on their side of the fire.
“Aye. That it was. ’Tis a pure pleasure serving Aidan Niall. Pure pleasure.”
“Which does bring me back to the woman, Ewan,” Kerr said.
“You and that subject. I vow, Kerr—”
“The woman is a problem, Ewan. Now, more than ever. Just look at this eve.”
“What of this eve?”
“He granted her the title of lady.”
“What of it? The lass acts and behaves just like one. You’ve already noted it. Doona’ take it back now.”
Kerr sighed heavily. “It’s na’ that. She is a lady.”
Ewan shrugged. “So?” he asked.
“You’re dense, Ewan lad. One weds a lady a-fore bedding her. Unless they wish problems with her clan. Hmm. That could be the plan. If there are any MacDonals about the face of the earth still to insult. God rest their souls.”
“I am not dense,” Ewan replied to all of that.
“Then use your head for something aside of hanging your hair on! Think, man!”
“Why do you ken he kidnapped her? Practice? Jesu’ ! You need to do something with all that hot breath you fill the world with, Kerr.”
“’Twas rather well done, too . . . wasn’t it?” Kerr added.
“Aye . . . that it was.”
Both men nodded and grinned. Aidan watched them at it.
“You ken the problem yet?”
Ewan had lines across his forehead now. They probably matched Aidan’s. Kerr made a sound of frustration.
“Castle Ketryck is na’ filled with Killoran’s slack men. ’Tis teeming with menfolk. Women, too. Every nook. Every hall.”
“So?” Ewan replied.
“We’re going to need eyes in the backs of our heads, extra ears, and the luck of the saints. Think, man! Ponder it out.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . someone should have pondered it afore the doing of it. That’s what I’m saying.”
“Pondered what?” Ewan asked
“Tagging the woman a lady! Would you think, man? If she was another of his women, none would care! But . . . taking a lady? That’d be an insult.”
Aidan stiffened noticeably.
“Oh,” Ewan replied.
Oh? Aidan could think of a lot more words, curses most of them.
“Tagging the woman a lady was reckless. A man doing that dinna’ think afore he acted. He should’ve. Then there’d be nae problem at all.”
There was a general moment that could have been Ewan sucking in breath at Kerr’s daring. It would match Tavish’s reaction at Aidan’s side. Aidan didn’t react. He listened to his blood pounding through his ears, modulated his breathing, and then cocked his head to one side. Kerr was right. And Aidan had done it to himself.
“You should spend time pondering the whys of your wenches, Kerr MacGorrick. And the lack of them.”
“I had offers,” Kerr replied in a mock defensive tone. Ewan hooted.
“You had womenfolk running from you last eve. That’s what you had.�
�
“You’ll pay for that, whelp!”
A bit of good-natured slugging happened across the fire.
“I ken what you meant,” Tavish said from Aidan’s side. “About the conscience.”
“How’s Arran?” Aidan asked instead.
“Sleeping. With his arms about a smallish keg.”
“Smallish?”
“Aye. Mostly water as well.” Tavish smiled widely.
Aidan returned the gesture, and ignored the two men, who were now wrestling, from the other side of the fire. “How did he take it?” he asked.
“He drank me under the table, he did.”
“Under the table?”
“More akin to . . . under a pallet. Which is where he’s sleeping. And aye. I matched him tankard for tankard . . . even as they became nothing more than water. I let him win.”
“You did, eh?”
“Aye. Why . . . right now, I’m prostrate and stewed to my gills. I may na’ be able to sit my horse on the morrow. This is how stewed I am.”
Aidan grinned.
“I may never live this down. You ken? Your bairn brother has a large mouth.”
Aidan snorted the amusement. And then had his attention gripped by the duo on the other side of the fire. Talking loudly. Both men looked a bit disheveled, but with their arms about each other’s shoulders and a tankard in the free hands.
“We should do more than ponder the doings of the laird, Kerr.”
“True,” the other man agreed.
“He’s laird. He can do what he wishes.”
“Can he get out of the Campbell betrothal?” Kerr asked.
“Campbell . . . betrothal?”
“You dinna’ hear? Our laird sent off a missive more than three sennights past. Requesting the Campbell heiress’s hand in wedlock. Without pondering that one much either.”
Kerr was wrong on that account. It had been at the back of Aidan’s mind since Dugald MacKetryck had proposed it over a season ago. Aidan just hadn’t acted until right before leaving to reave against the MacDonal clan’s new holdings.
“Go on with you, Kerr MacGorrick! The lass is but a child.”
“She will na’ always be so. And once she reaches her woman-time and can be wed, our laird wants her hand. And the land and treasury that comes with it, of course.”
“Maybe the Campbells will na’ accept,” Ewan replied hopefully.
“It’s the laird of MacKetryck clan, Ewan,” Kerr replied.
“Oh. Aye.”
The sinking feeling in Aidan’s belly was overridden by the tight band circling his heart in his chest. He didn’t know he had the capacity for feeling each heartbeat with a painful thud.
“Which does bring me all the way back round to the problem of this particular woman, Ewan Blaine. Does na’ it?” Kerr asked, each word distinct and clear.
Aidan looked across at both of them, ignored the spurt still happening in his chest, and smiled slightly. “I still have na’ located my sporran, lads. I’m thinking a team of two might have a much better chance at finding it.”
“Right.”
Ewan was the first on his feet. Kerr put his tankard down first.
“We’ve a faile breacan to prepare, doona’ we, Ewan?” Kerr asked.
“Oh. Aye. For the laird. He canna’ arrive in less than the best.”
“You ken that, do you? Perhaps you should ken other things a lot quicker as well. Then I would na’ have to keep jawing until we reach trouble.”
“Trouble follows you everywhere, Kerr MacGorrick.”
They were still trading insults when they faded from the light.
“Aidan?”
Aidan raised his hand for Tavish’s silence. Then he stood and very carefully smoothed his kilt band across his chest, checked for his skeans, and stomped a bit to bring feeling back to his feet.
“I could see the woman back for you,” Tavish offered.
“She’s mine,” Aidan replied.
“Oh. Aye,” Tavish replied. “I’ll go back to being drunk and prostrate, then.”
Chapter 16
Arran hadn’t been telling faery tales.
Juliana had gotten glimpses of gray rock between the low-hanging mists throughout the morn. The match of sky to castle was so close, it didn’t look entirely real. Perhaps if the day had been filled with sun and blue sky, or anything other than overcast and wet, she’d have experienced the awe sooner. But by midday, there was no stopping the jaw-dropping effect every time a cloud parted enough to frame what her eyes wanted to deny but couldn’t. Castle Ketryck kept growing and spreading until it looked to span the horizon, leaving little delineation between rock and castle and water and sky.
The entourage about them had grown apace with the castle’s size, beginning with a lad from a nearly hidden croft. After that, the crowd just kept growing, as clansman after clansman walked from fields or trees and around buildings until the width and depth and noise about her threatened to overwhelm any individual thought. A lone piper joined them at the beginning of a field of heather that stretched from either side as far as the eye could see. He was soon joined by more of them. Juliana hadn’t much experience of it, but she decided MacKetryck pipers were probably known for their melodic tone and volume as the sound swelled to join all the others about her.
Juliana heard calls and greetings being flung about the men behind her, as well as questions and some heartrending cries of names that had only been shadows before. She recognized a few: Iain. Filib. Rory. Her thigh muscles twitched from atop the dead Rory’s horse as that name got called out with a question and answered with silence.
Aidan didn’t turn his head, or move from the grim stance he’d assumed that morn when she’d first seen him. He was nothing like the wild, intense man who’d kidnapped her, and sent her into the heaven of pleasure just last night. Juliana ducked her head for a moment, to gather that thought before it showed on her face, then turned again to watch Aidan’s stiff back, one horse in front of hers.
He was fully arrayed in what Arran told her was the MacKetryck black and red chieftain plaid. Aidan had his hair neatly combed and tied back, making a queue that reached midback, where it grazed the plaid band atop his sleeveless shirt. That garment had come from his trunk. She already knew how well the woven flax skimmed the skin. It had been large on her, hiding the fact that they’d been sewn exactly to his proportions, or maybe when he’d been a tad bit smaller, since the seams looked near to splitting every time he moved. He’d put on carved silver armbands, one on each upper arm. He had a long claymore with an elaborate jeweled hilt strapped to his right side, where it hung perpendicular to the horse’s side.
He looked like a laird capable of controlling and commanding a clan the size of the MacKetryck one. He projected power. Leadership. Authority. The kind of man one looked up to. She could understand Arran’s hero worship. Easily. If this presentation was the reason they’d stopped at the Killoran compound, it was effective.
The clouds decided to part just then, putting a ray of sunshine directly atop Aidan, lighting him, making him sparkle, and sending evil-looking glints from the claymore’s unsheathed blade with every move of his stallion. The sight stopped every bit of the crowd noise with the awe. Juliana had to admit it was breathtaking, because it took hers away. And then, the light spread farther, putting not only light but warmth atop her head as well as those farther down the line.
All about her she heard the reaction, with words of omens and signs, said with a dialect and thick speech that made it difficult to understand. Juliana kept her head dipped slightly and her smile hidden. The entire lot of them sounded superstitious. And foolish. It wasn’t a sign of anything more than the rain might be breaking.
The clouds lightened more the closer they got to Castle Ketryck, making it impossible to avoid the structure and what it stood for. Power. Might. Strength. Rule. Arran hadn’t told her enough . . . or he needed better words. The castle was stout, massive, impregnable, and invincible. Julian
a felt a knot of apprehension settle at the base of her spine, worrying her with every roll of her horse.
Before they reached the river-sized moat at the base of the wall, and the large swath of ledge meant to support a drawbridge, she turned her head surreptitiously from the right to the left and back again, eyeing and evaluating that mass of rock barbican, and trying to find a way to ignore the lump of worry at the same time. The curtain wall looked longer than seven hundred steps, and it appeared that Arran had misrepresented the thickness of it as well. It easily looked more than three times Aidan’s height. The wall was crenellated all about the walkway at the top of the five stories of wall, and each merlon opening had a clansman at it. Some of them appeared to have more than one. The gatehouse surpassed all of it. Juliana had to guess at a width of rock that would accommodate a group as large as the one standing at the center of the gatehouse wall, looking eight to ten heads deep.
There were also drummers somewhere inside that structure, for a thrumming of noise was accompanying pipers from inside to join the sound outside, making a swell of sound that was impossible to ignore, in the event anyone missed the laird of Clan MacKetryck’s arrival.
It was better to watch Aidan.
Juliana dropped her eyes from the massive fortress facing her to the man claiming lordship over all of it. And felt humble and small and insignificant and dowdy . . . especially in the used, cast-off shift and with her hair in an unkempt braid she wouldn’t have washed in that tub last night even if they’d begged her to. It was just as well that the braid was tucked beneath the plaid they’d given her to wear, while she sat on the end of it. Juliana had never felt so alone. Isolated. Desolate. Despondent.
What was the love of a lone woman to the man who commanded this? Especially a woman he’d tagged a lady from the MacDonal clan? He’d given her respectability with such a title . . . but the cost was more than she could absorb. She had no choice but to shove it away. Ignore it. Until later . . . much later when she was ensconced in a room in this keep. All by herself. Alone. Bereft. Cut off from any of them. She guessed a lady of the MacDonal clan wouldn’t be allowed near unaccompanied males. She might never get near him again once inside this monstrosity.