by Jackie Ivie
“Aidan! We’ve but caught our breath from this torture and you want more?” Kerr complained.
“Aye. I want more. So much, I will na’ be able to stand! You ken?” Aidan snarled it and blinked more cursed moisture out of his eyes. Nobody said anything for long enough he could feel the burn of more than twelve heartbeats. Then Heck spoke up.
“Right. I go to fetch Alpin. The rest of you? Get your carcasses to Alpin’s rooms with the laird.”
They made a solemn group, following him with only their weapons and boots evidencing their passage through the halls. Aidan took in the bustle happening in the great hall before shoving his way through all the people there. He was midway before he stopped, looked about him, and glared.
“They’re preparing, Aidan,” Heck informed him. “For your fest. To celebrate. As you ordered.”
Fest. To celebrate. He’d been rash. Reckless. Again. There was nothing worth celebrating. Aidan returned his gaze to the archway at the end, where torches replaced the faded daylight that normally lit the spiral stair to Alpin’s chambers . . . the same chambers he’d claimed until winning the position of laird from the Black MacKetryck. Aidan set his features into a blank look, kept blinking away the emotion his body cursed him with, and preceded the group to the stairwell. He hadn’t made it before his way was blocked by Lachlan MacGorrick, in another effeminate robe of green samite this time, with silver embroidery encircling the hem and sleeves and even the neckline, where it managed to peek through all the ruffling the man had on his shirt.
“My laird?” Lachlan announced.
“Someone remove this buffoon from my path.” Aidan turned his head away in a dismissive gesture.
“Move, buffoon!” Kerr announced.
“Hush, cousin, I’ve come on an errand of Dugald MacKetryck.”
“I ceased being your cousin when you swore off manly attire, Lachlan MacGorrick,” Kerr replied.
Aidan sighed heavily. He hadn’t managed to evade his responsibility yet. He didn’t know why he still tried. “What is the message, Lachlan?”
“Your uncle regrets that you’ll na’ come to him. He would rather this was done in private.”
Aidan rolled his head on his shoulders, listening for the cracking sound that released pressure through his neck. He turned back to Lachlan, lowered his chin, and narrowed his eyes.
“The message, Lachlan,” he said.
“Here.”
The man pulled a piece of parchment from somewhere in the folds of his robe. At one time, it had probably been rolled and sealed with a family crest. Now, it was looking creased and worn and folded several times. Aidan regarded it with as much interest as he had everything since leaving Dame Lileth Fallaine-Dumphat’s chamber.
“What is that, Lachlan?” he asked.
“The Campbell clan’s missive. You must answer it.”
“I am na’ reading that now.” Aidan’s voice didn’t sound like him. His men must have recognized it, for he could feel them closing about him, although none made any sound.
“But you have to! They expect—”
“I am na’ answering it now!” Aidan’s voice cracked. He couldn’t help it. That was when he knew the full power of this love thing as his sense of honor and duty wavered. He wasn’t dealing with the message now, because if he did, it would all be real. He’d have to give her hand to Alpin in wedlock. He’d have to stand by and watch the woman who held his heart given to his brother. He’d have to live through the hours of their consummation. He’d have to survive the growing girth of his son within her . . . and then he’d have to survive the bairn’s birth . . . with Alpin as the sire.
Aidan looked to the ceiling of his great room, and struggled for control over the onslaught of what could only be tears. If it killed him, he was gaining control of this cursed reaction, and he was doing it now. He reached for the purple amulet tucked in his sporran and had it in his grasp while the silent prayer winged upward. That was when a red wash of color started permeating the space between the arches above him. He sucked in a huge breath with the thanks, brought his head back down, and glared at Lachlan with an expression of hatred and revulsion and anger that had the man stepping back.
“Give me the message.”
His voice matched his expression, and he watched Lachlan gulp as he heard it. The paper in the man’s outstretched hand shook.
Aidan reached to his belt and pulled out a dirk. Lachlan’s eyes went wide. He snatched his hand back at the same moment Aidan speared the paper with his blade. Then Aidan spun and flung the knife up and across the room and into one of the wooden arches supporting the floor above. They all heard the hard thud as it hit. And stayed.
“There. I answered it,” he informed the man, who was opening and closing his mouth without making any sound.
“But, my laird—”
“Now, will someone move this buffoon?” Aidan interrupted, and lowered his head and chest, preparatory to shoving past him. Lachlan must have sensed it, for he retreated. Hastily.
Chapter 20
Juliana knew she looked astonishing. Breathtaking. Wholly maidenly. And completely ethereal. Draped in mist. As if spring itself had come alive for a visit. It was impossible to believe an ensemble of this magnitude could be created and crafted in the span of an hour’s sleep, and yet it had. It was clear Lady Reina had an artist’s touch and sense of drama that made Juliana impossible to overlook. She was almost afraid to leave the chamber.
The white satin underdress hadn’t been fully complete. The sides were stitched in intervals, but that was because Lady Reina had put her expertise and quickness into the bodice and shoulders. Little puffed pleats of satin framed and supported Juliana’s breasts before sliding beneath the shoulders of her gown. Those same pleats then reappeared at the top of each arm. There hadn’t been time for sleeves. On a colder day in a different season, she’d need covering. In the steamed torch- and fire-lit warmth that would be the Castle Ketryck’s great hall, it wasn’t an issue.
The green-cast linen of her shift had darker tones running through it that refracted light whenever she moved, giving an appearance that she wasn’t wearing fabric. Instead real meadow grass of the thinnest consistency and lightest shades looked to have been plucked and gathered and woven and then sewn to her frame. The Lady Reina hadn’t compromised on that measure either. She’d fit the linen bliaut so close to Juliana’s proportions that it skimmed and molded every curve. Where the fit wasn’t close enough for Lady Reina’s eye, she’d scrambled about in one of her trunks for a girdle of small hammered silver links that seemed alive with movement. That item rested on Juliana’s hip, sparkling with light every time she moved.
Her attire was eye-catching; elegant, refined, and yet earthy . . . arousing the senses in a way difficult to define, but it was only an accompaniment to what Lady Reina had done with Juliana’s hair.
Except for a few loose spirals about her face, her wild array of curls had been pulled back and held in place by a caplet at the crown. Lady Reina had brought out a caplet made of more silver links, although these weren’t movable. Each link was joined by a drop of metal that a smithy had heated before pressing a flower emblem into it. Juliana’s mass of ringlets had been smoothed and fingered and forced into a waterfall of red that nearly reached the backs of her knees. The length was a surprise. She’d never had it straightened and held that way before. The tresses behaved because they’d been wrapped and woven through a mesh of nearly invisible silver wire that had then been fastened to her caplet. The tresses would probably start recoiling and pulling and moving once Juliana reached the moist atmosphere of the great hall below. It couldn’t be helped. There’d be too much steam from the foods and the ales and the breathing of so many bodies, and too much heat from torches and the massive fireplace that was all they had for light. It might also add to the effect Lady Reina had envisioned, making everything about Juliana look young, fresh, and alive . . . and ethereal.
And like a creature of the mist.
>
Lady Reina had stepped back and forth several times, flitting all about to add a sprig of lavender here, a bit of heather there, more of both, a thistle top, tiny, barely green leaves, and then the lady stood back, tipping her head back and forth before she’d clapped her hands and gave the laughter that was so infectious.
Then, she’d opened the door and called for Arran, but received both him and two of Aidan’s honor guard. Juliana had to stand and blush at Arran’s thunderstruck look since his mouth was open as well.
Juliana had Lady Reina to thank for her appearance. She’d had the lady’s continual discourse throughout her dressing for the full description of what the great hall would look like and what would be happening as well. It wasn’t enough preparation. She’d forgotten to add the laird, Aidan.
He’d never felt less like celebrating.
For this eve, he’d honed a skean to razor sharpness in order to scrape at the scattered beard growth, tied his hair back, donned a clean shirt, and another feile breacan, this one woven of dark-hued threads. He also wore the heavily jeweled MacKetryck clan brooch and armbands that Gregor had to fetch from the treasury, as well as the sword said to have defeated the Viking king Kenneth MacBruid so many years before.
Such a sword needed a sizable height to carry it. The tip of the scabbard occasionally scraped the floor even when strapped on Aidan. Such a weapon mutely spoke of the size of his ancestors, from whence Aidan gained his stature.
And then those in his great hall proceeded to eat and drink, taunt and laugh while Aidan watched it with a morose expression. His honor guard weren’t far behind. They sat on his dais with like expressions to their laird.
His uncle had joined the festivities sometime after Aidan’s third tankard of ale. He wasn’t counting. And he wasn’t trying for a celebratory drunk. He was trying to dull the ache that his heart wouldn’t quit sending and the crowd noise about him that just made it all worse. But the moment Dugald MacKetryck entered, a strange hum started throughout the area, alerting Aidan and making him push his chair back to stand at his full height, hand on sword, in a stance no one would question.
The table reserved for the laird and his family stood on a raised platform between the chieftain tower stairs door and the fireplace. It was a long table, fashioned of heavy oak, capable of seating Aidan, his brothers, their companions . . . and anyone else he cared to invite. Aidan’s place was at the center, in a high-backed chair specially crafted for the clan chieftain.
And only him.
There was another table of honor, set on a lower dais, farther along the wall, on the other side of the fireplace. That one was reserved for lesser members of the laird’s family, and their guests. Aidan, Alpin, and Arran had been relegated to that position the moment their father had died, in a move against all clan stricture and laws. While Dugald MacKetryck had usurped the position.
It was the same table Aidan relegated to Dugald with pleasure each time . . . except tonight.
Aidan didn’t puzzle the why of it. He was afraid to. It was enough to realize the dull ache spreading through him had the power to alter things, changing events that used to have significance into nothing more than wasted time. There wasn’t much that affected him. There wasn’t much pleasure to be gained from anything. There wasn’t anything except heart pain and endurance. And it looked to be a forevermore thing.
Aidan sighed, swallowed, and blinked to soothe the dry scratchy feeling in his eyes. Then he lowered his jaw and watched his uncle’s approach from a distance well over the man’s head.
The sconces all contained lit torches, sending flickering glow in the immediate area of each before fading. Candles burned in all four of the iron circles they’d winched back into place above their heads, and the fireplace was stocked and shedding a large volume of heat and light onto the floor in front of it. The area of the common floor was still dim, however, highlighted in pockets of glow from lit wicks in bowls of oil and stray candles. Even in the dimness it was still possible to see the richness of Uncle Dugald’s attire, including a jeweled kilt band, and flashes of metal from the many dirks he’d seen fit to tuck into his belt and kilt band.
The crowd din lowered markedly before dying off completely while everyone waited. And watched. Dugald was flanked by his steward, the gaunt, overly dressed, and effeminate Lachlan MacGorrick on one side, while Dugald’s current favorite, a young girl Aidan didn’t recognize, was on the other. Dugald didn’t have family with him, nor did he have a wife. The man had buried three of them in his search for an heir, and had no offspring to show for it.
Behind Dugald filed the eight members of his honor guard. Aidan felt his own men standing, shoving stool after stool back until they were in a solid row at both sides of him, with Alpin on Aidan’s right. It wasn’t necessary. He was willing and capable of fighting and winning over Dugald MacKetryck. He’d proved it.
“So . . . you’ve returned.”
Dugald’s voice was deep and gravelly, akin to shale rolling down a hillside. Despite being a decade and four years older than Aidan, the time hadn’t softened him or granted him wisdom. If anything, it had made him stouter, thicker with muscle, and more filled with jealousy and ambition than before.
Aidan nodded.
“Successful?”
Aidan’s upper lip lifted on one side. Dugald already knew of their failure and the loss of life that accompanied it. He raised his hand and encompassed the room.
“Uncle Dugald! Take your place. Wait with me for my guest of honor . . . Juliana!”
“Juliana? I’d na’ heard of her.”
Aidan gave a half-smile. It wasn’t amusement. Lachlan was his uncle’s spy. It had taken years before Aidan knew for certain what that meant and whom to trust. His uncle not only knew of Juliana, he probably had a good description as well.
“Juliana is the lass I rescued, Uncle. And claim.” Despite the control he’d put on his voice, Aidan heard the waver in the words. Cursed silently and waited. He didn’t want his uncle knowing what Juliana meant to him. He rephrased that to himself. He didn’t want anyone knowing.
“I . . . see,” his uncle replied.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd below him, turning the crowd’s attention from him to the aperture on his left. Aidan turned his head for the reason, and a mailed fist of reaction hit him right in the chest.
Sweet Jesu’!
His knees wobbled. He sucked to regain breath the fist had slammed out of him, and fell backward with the shock. The MacKetryck battle sword catching against the high-backed chair saved him the ignominy of falling back into that chair and then toppling right off the back of his partition.
Someone shoved a cup into his hand. Aidan tossed it back, discovered whiskey. Inhaled. Choked. Burned. Coughed. Someone else smacked him across the back of the shoulders, sending him palm-first against the top of the table, rattling tankards and bowls and making the entire length of his table tremble and groan at the attack.
It was Juliana.
She was walking slowly and hesitantly into the crowd with Arran at her side, and if Aidan didn’t do something and quickly, she was going to reach where his uncle’s entourage had all turned about to wait. Aidan wasn’t letting that happen. When she met the Black MacKetryck, it was going to be with Aidan at her side, making certain his uncle recognized not only Aidan’s claim, but his willingness to assert it.
He acted. He didn’t know how he did it or how his limbs handled the effort, but he vaulted up and over the trencher table without another thought. He landed lithely in the space beneath it, moved swiftly the eight steps toward her at a crouch, shoving through bystanders, and when he’d straightened, he was right in front of her, becoming the barrier he’d needed.
She gasped at his arrival, and moved her free hand onto her bosom, covering flesh that needed more material about it in Aidan’s opinion. A lot more. Aidan’s heart pumped unmercifully through him, heating everything, and probably turning him as red as the color coating everything
. He glared at Arran. He glared at the rest of his honor guard accompanying her. He turned to glare at her. And then Aidan was in trouble, for he couldn’t hold the look. He’d known she was beautiful . . . he just hadn’t known how beautiful. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t do much except deal with the buzzing that had replaced his heartbeat in his ears. He just stood there, breathing hard and looking at her, caught and held in place by the clear blue-green of her bottomless, wide eyes.
“My . . . laird?”
Juliana’s greeting was stammered and then she dropped her head and curtsied. Aidan had her hand and was pulling her to him. It was instinctive and it was massive. He didn’t question it. The ache was muting, getting replaced by such an urgent rush of joy, he could barely contain it.
He had her nearly crushed to his chest and his lips atop hers, revealing every bit of what she meant to him, before something smacked into his belly with such force, he bent double with it. That sent his head into the space he’d just vacated and looked like he was returning her greeting. Aidan glanced at Tavish’s grimace as the man rubbed at his fist. Of course it would be Tavish. He was the lone guardsman capable of making the same jump over the trencher table.
Aidan was paying that back. The moment he had the man on the list. With poles. In the meantime, he had an entire gathering to fool, and his uncle was first. Aidan pulled upright, pushing out a bit of air at the bruising he’d just sustained, and stood looking down at her, inhaling her particular scent. His fingers began a methodical drumming against hers and he felt her tremble. And that nearly buckled his knees with the slide of shivers. He was so grateful he hadn’t looked at the Campbell missive yet, or spoken with Alpin, or moved her to another chamber, or changed anything about anything.
He loved her and it was a massive thing, with the power to change the very elements. He blinked and gazed around the great hall, which looked sunlit and bright.
“This your . . . foundling, Aidan?”