When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  Fergus scowled. “Ye heard him. He doesna believe in magic. Will it matter? The Sickness took a great number of our kin. We were lucky to survive it, but we’re too old to start new families now. We need young folk, weddings, bairns, new blood. That must be our first priority. And our new laird must lead the way in that. He must marry, breed sons,” Fergus insisted.

  Dougal nodded. “Aye, but there are only a handful of lasses at Dunbronach who aren’t either too old or too young. He’s a good-looking man, young and well made, like his da. There’ll be fighting among the women.”

  William rubbed his chin. “Can he wed more than one?”

  Dougal gaped at him. “Are ye daft, man? He’s more Lowlander than anything else. Satisfying even one Highland lass is like to kill him.”

  “He said he has a fiancée—a Sassenach, the daughter of an English major,” Fergus said.

  Dougal frowned. “He can’t marry a Sassenach.”

  “No, he cannot,” Fergus agreed. “Not if he’s to be laird of Dunbronach. It would be the same mistake his father made, wedding an outsider. Och, don’t tell me ye have doubts now when we’re nearly home. I didn’t want him. You did.”

  “Archie wanted it, Fergus. We promised we’d stand by his son,” William reminded him.

  “And we will,” Dougal said. “A wee bit of educating is all he needs, time to learn the Highland ways of his ancestors, our ways.”

  Fergus glowered at Malcolm’s sleeping form, curled in the bottom of the boat, pale as a fish. “Can he learn?”

  William sighed. “He must. We need him. It will just take a wee bit of guidance.”

  “And the right lass for his wife,” Dougal added.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Marcail pasted on a grin bright enough to rival the brilliance of the sun as she boarded John MacKay’s ship. She saw the doubt in Aileen’s eyes and shock in Cait’s. They thought this was a mistake. Was it? The question had nipped her with sharpish teeth since she’d said yes. She was quick and clever—except when it came to love. She fell in love too often, gave her heart too easily. Aileen had reminded her of that, her eyes sad. Marcail had forced a smile, chattered about her fine new home and her charming husband. Her face was cramped from so many false smiles, and her stomach ached with doubt.

  Her father had assigned three of his men, including Colin, to accompany her. She imagined Colin watching as she spoke her wedding vows and went to John’s bed, and hoped he’d suffer. She’d dismiss him, send him home without a single regret. For now she ignored him completely, though she hadn’t failed to notice the strawberry love bite on his neck. She knew his eyes were on her, that he was waiting for an opportunity to speak, which she would not give him. Instead, she gazed at John and concentrated on looking completely, exuberantly, breathtakingly happy.

  Her smile slipped a little when she saw the woman who stood at the ship’s rail, watching the launch approach. She had hair the color of spring wheat, ruby lips, and a body as lush as a siren’s. She heard the indrawn breath of the men around her, felt the air thicken with lust. As John helped Marcail aboard, the beauty stood with one hand on the curve of her hip while the other toyed with a necklace that hung between the white globes of her breasts.

  John released Marcail’s elbow as soon as her feet touched the deck, and stepped back. “This is Marie de Montescue,” he told her briefly. “And this is Marcail MacLeod, my betrothed.” The beauty let her eyes slide over every inch of Marcail’s face and figure, her lips quirking.

  “Enchantée,” Marcail said in French. She noted the flicker of surprise in the Frenchwoman’s eyes. “My stepmother—the fifth one—insisted that my sisters and I speak French,” she explained. Marie’s eyes flicked to John, then back to Marcail again, but she remained silent.

  “Are you—” Marcail struggled to find a possible explanation for Marie’s presence. She had not been at the wedding. “Are you kin to the MacKays?”

  That made the beauty smile. She tilted her head, and her cheeks dimpled charmingly. “No—a friend is perhaps a better explanation.”

  “A friend of my mother’s,” John said quickly.

  Marie’s golden brow arched. “Oui. Ta maman,” she said, amused.

  “Marie has been ill, so she remained on board during the wedding,” John said, his eyes roving over the beauty’s lush figure. “Someone will show you to a cabin where you can rest,” he told Marcail. “Our journey won’t be long. We’ll sail tonight and arrive tomorrow.” Marcail couldn’t help but notice that his eyes never left Marie.

  The evening meal passed in almost complete silence. Marie de Montescue did not appear, and John told Marcail that she was still feeling ill. He looked bored by Marcail’s attempts to encourage conversation. Halfway through supper, a note arrived, delivered by a crewman, and John rose to leave. “Marie needs me,” he said without elaborating.

  “Can I help?” she asked.

  “No. Go to bed. I shall see you in the morning.” He bowed crisply and left her.

  Later, Marcail slipped up on deck to watch as the night descended over the water. Her mind buzzed, and it was too early to sleep, though others had already gone to bed, or rolled themselves in their plaids on the deck. She stood at the rail and watched the dark bulk of islands slip past, watched the clouds cast brooding purple shadows on the mainland. They would sail right past the coastline of her father’s lands. A dozen miles inland lay Glen Iolair, and home. She missed her sisters and her father.

  She gazed up at the sky and waited for the stars to appear. Her mother had taught her to wish upon the first one she saw, and so she did. “May I find true love where I am bound,” she whispered. The star blinked, twinkled, turned from gold to red, then to white. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

  A long, low moan made the hair on the back of her neck rise, and Marcail looked around her. The deck was covered with sleeping sailors, but not a one of them stirred at the sound. “Vite!” Marie de Montescue’s smoky voice was unmistakable. She must be ill again, in need of help. Marcail turned toward the stairs that led down to the cabins below.

  “Don’t,” someone said, and grasped her arm in the dark. Colin. She pulled back at once, and he let her go. “John MacKay won’t be so forgiving if ye stick a pitchfork in his arse.”

  Marcail’s mouth dried. “What do you mean?” she demanded, but she knew, and her stomach dropped to her bare feet. Still, she raised her chin and brazened it out. “She’s ill. John said she was unwell. She was so sick she missed the wedding, had to stay aboard.”

  Colin grinned, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. “She’s nothing of the kind. A man cannot take his mistress to a gathering. Not a woman like that one, anyway.”

  Marie’s next moan grated over Marcail’s nerves. Colin was right—it wasn’t the sound of pain. She shut her eyes. John was no different than Colin. She felt something wither in her breast, and her belly curled into a small, hard nut. She opened her eyes and found Colin watching her with amusement.

  Fortunately it was too dark for him to see the hot flush that bloomed over her skin from head to toe. “I tried to tell ye, but ye wouldn’t listen. A man needs his pleasures. It’s naught to do with you, Marcail. It’s none of your concern.”

  But she was going to be John’s wife, his bedmate, the mother of his children. Another moan sounded, and John grunted endearments in French.

  She looked at Colin desperately. “Take me back,” she ordered. “I want to go home.”

  He gaped at her. “Back? Are ye daft? I have no authority to stop this ship, nor have you. It’s time ye grew up, Marcail. Many men keep mistresses as well as wives. There’s no cause to fret yourself over it.”

  “Not my father,” she said, her jaw so tight the words barely slipped out between her teeth. “And not my husband.”

  He came closer, touched her arm. “Of course, what’s good for the gander is good for—”

  She pulled away from him. “No!”

  He shrugged. “Then suit yerself.” He went bac
k to his place on the deck and rolled himself in his plaid.

  She turned away, leaned on the rail, and watched the dark silk of the water slip past the hull. Was no man faithful to one woman? She wanted the man to whom she gave her heart to love her, to see only her, belong to her completely. She wanted to be more than just enough, or suitable. She wanted to be everything.

  She looked up at the stars again. So much for wishes. She scanned the coast through a sheen of angry tears.

  The moaning went on in the cabin under her feet. The gasping, grunting cries sounded more like combat than pleasure. Marcail put her hands over her ears.

  One thing for certain, she would not—could not—marry John MacKay. A lass was entitled to change her mind, wasn’t she? Determined, she dashed her tears away. The shoreline was so close, and she could easily swim the short distance. She could make her own way home.

  She climbed onto the rail and stood for a moment, her bare toes gripping the wood. She stared down at the waves frothing along the ship’s hull. The sea loved her, beckoned her.

  She took a breath and jumped. Too late she realized her shift was tangled in a rope. Instead of a graceful dive, she fell awkwardly.

  There was a bright flash of agony as her head hit the rail. She felt the water close over her, but she was too dazed to kick for the surface. Her limbs slackened, grew light and weightless, but she had no strength to move them. Her hair, her shift, and her plaid floated around her like seaweed as she sank into the dark.

  Then Marcail MacLeod felt nothing at all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was barely past dawn when Malcolm left the castle to walk along the beach. He was avoiding Dougal, who had become his constant shadow, following him everywhere in hopes of catching the new laird doing something heroic and worthy of a song or a tale.

  When Dougal wasn’t following him, it was William, Archie’s captain of the guard, who had declared himself Malcolm’s bodyguard. Not that there were any dangers at Dunbronach besides the sea. It was the only thing Malcolm feared, and since it surrounded his lands on three sides, he could not avoid it. Perhaps in time he’d grow used to it. He doubted it, since he’d nearly drowned as a child.

  Fergus watched Malcolm whenever they were in the same room as if he’d come to steal the silver. Not that there was any silver, or much of anything else. No cattle, no treasure, no coin.

  Malcolm glanced back at the castle. Dunbronach rose on its hill like a great crumbling cheese, gray even in the soft pink light of dawn. The clan was in deep mourning for those who’d perished of the dreadful winter sickness. In their eyes, he was a poor replacement for his father. His welcome had been a cautious one. He looked like his father, which was good. But he was a lawyer, and he’d been raised in the city and wore breeches instead of a kilt, which was bad. He was young and strong—also good, but he wasn’t quite one of them . . . not yet, at least, and on that they were reserving judgment.

  Malcolm had intended to use logic and science to improve things. He’d looked for lists and record books and inventories when he arrived, but like the silver, there weren’t any. There was only a box of crumpled, tattered notations carelessly scratched on scraps of paper by his father.

  There were clan traditions aplenty, accepted ways of doing things that had stood for many generations. Superstitions, mostly. The MacDonalds of Dunbronach followed the time-honored ways of the land and the sea, and held a deep belief in magic, fate, and the old ways. Common sense and reason were as foreign to the MacDonalds as magic was to Malcolm.

  He had only to look around to see how badly the MacDonalds of Dunbronach needed a leader. Malcolm just wasn’t certain he was the man they needed. Most of his clan were still hollow eyed with grief. Others were still recovering their strength after their own encounter with the Sickness. Every one of them needed hope for the future, help to rise again as a proud and prosperous clan.

  He’d come with blueprints, plans, and modern ideas, but they didn’t want change. Dunbronach was like a magical kingdom put to sleep for a hundred years. They didn’t understand that beyond this little patch of land, the world had moved forward in the past century. They believed that he had the power to make a wish that would set them free and make them happy.

  Every time Malcolm brought up the idea of improvement and modernization, the elders changed the subject to marriage. His intention of marrying Miss Nancy Martin met with crumpled brows, twisted frowns, and deep grumbles. “No MacDonald has ever wed the daughter of a Sassenach army major,” Fergus said. “And none ever will.”

  “She’s a sensible choice. Her father is well connected,” Malcolm said.

  Fergus’s scowl had deepened so much his eyes had disappeared entirely under his thorny brows. “A sensible choice never raised a man’s kilt.”

  William nodded toward Catriona MacDonald, who was making her way across the hall as they spoke. Her hips undulated with every step, and her full breasts moved of their own accord under her simple gown. He looked at Malcolm. “Now, Catriona would make a good wife. Her parents died of the Sickness. She’s alone with a young brother to raise.”

  “Or there’s Isla,” Fergus suggested. “A mature, sensible woman but still young enough to bear sons.”

  “Or Peggy, or Annie,” William added. “Or—”

  Malcolm held up a hand. “Surely if I choose one of the lasses here, the others would resent not being chosen. Perhaps by choosing a lass from further afield, we—I—could avoid that.” He meant Nancy, of course, but they misunderstood him.

  “From another clan, ye mean? That’s an idea,” William said.

  “But there’s one rule that must be observed if ye wish to marry outside this clan. No MacLeods,” Fergus said, spitting the name like a curse.

  “Why not?” Malcolm asked.

  “The Outrage,” William hissed, his lip curling. “It can never be forgotten, or forgiven.”

  “It was long ago, in our grandfathers’ time—perhaps before that, even. A MacLeod of Glen Iolair insulted a MacDonald of Dunbronach at a gathering,” Dougal said.

  “What was the insult?” Malcolm asked.

  Dougal’s brow furrowed. “What does it matter? The MacDonalds of Dunbronach took a solemn oath. Only war would exist between our two clans from that moment on. No MacDonald of Dunbronach would lift a finger to help a MacLeod of Iolair, and if a MacLeod ever dares to set foot on Dunbronach land, he can expect naught but death.”

  “Or worse,” William added, flexing his huge fist until his knuckles cracked.

  “My gran used to tell the tale of the Outrage to frighten the bairns, and she had the tale from her own gran, who was at the very gathering where it happened.”

  “And?” Malcolm asked.

  William shrugged. “Gran had very few teeth left. It made it muckle hard to understand her when she spoke.”

  Fergus thumped his fist on the table. “What does any of that matter? The point is that ye need to wed, and ye need to do it soon. That’s your first and most important duty as laird.”

  Malcolm was speechless. He wasn’t laird. He was a prize bull, brought here for stud duty and the making of wishes. He felt a moment of panic and wished he’d never left Edinburgh. Did that count?

  He’d risen from his place at the table so quickly the elders had squinted at him in surprise. “Gentlemen, I shall choose a wife in due course.”

  “What’s due course? Is it a place?” William asked.

  “It means in my own good time,” Malcolm said firmly. They looked as determined as he was. Malcolm assumed that was a MacDonald trait as well. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see about the livestock—the sheep, pigs, and cows.”

  For a moment the elders stared at him, dumbfounded.

  William finally broke the silence. “Ach, lad—find a wife instead.”

  So now, as Malcolm walked along the shore watching the sun come up over the sea, he wondered how to tell them he couldn’t stay. There were things for him to do in Edinburgh, important things that
didn’t involve siring children or making wishes. His uncle had assured him before he left the city that the Act of Union between Scotland and England would indeed be signed, for there was no other choice for the Scots. There’d be new laws to oversee, new writs and deeds to draw up. He’d be part of building the new Scotland, in Edinburgh, or possibly even in London. He’d simply hire an overseer for Dunbronach and marry Nancy. There’d be no need for him to ever return here. He looked around, felt an unexpected twinge of sadness at that idea. Dunbronach was beautiful.

  He stared at the dark band of sand, washed by the foaming edge of the waves. The boulders that hemmed the beach were glossy with wet seaweed, studded with barnacles and starfish. A pair of seals watched him, bobbing on a swell of deep water, their dark eyes wary.

  The sea was calm, and he practiced staring out across the gently moving waves. He’d have to get into a boat again to get to the island in the bay. He felt sick even now, as if the sea were already tilting and swirling beneath him.

  The seals began to bark, and he looked at them warily. Did seals bite? He had only a wee dirk to fend them off, but the creatures didn’t come any nearer than the rocks a dozen yards off the shore, just close enough that he could see their speckled gray coats in the clear water. They dove and splashed in agitation, frothed the water, and made a dreadful noise. Perhaps they knew Malcolm didn’t belong here . . .

  Then he saw the bundle in the shallows, half visible in the water, tangled in seaweed. A dead seal, he decided, and wondered if these creatures mourned their lost kin the way humans did.

  Then he saw something else—a hand, long fingered and white, floated amid the tangle of weeds. There was lace around the slender wrist.

  A woman.

  He let out an involuntary shout of surprise and rushed toward her.

  Malcolm forgot his fear of water as he waded into the surf to his ankles, then to his knees, then his waist. The seals barked and dove, surfacing anxiously to peer at him, but they kept their distance.